Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Dean knows his dad treats him differently to how he treats Sam. Doesn't know why, for sure, but he has a hunch it's because he had four normal years with Dean, but Sam was just a baby when all this started. After the fire, John left Sam with the Mayfields, close friends who he trusted to keep Sam safe, to meet the needs that were too much for him to cope with. It was only when Sam was two that he took him back, which Dean knows did a number on Sam, who had grown attached to the Mayfields. It’s not like John abandoned Sam; they still lived nearby and spent a lot of time together, and Dean knew it was more for his benefit because he begged dad to let him see Sam all the time and cried when he had to leave. 

Sam didn’t understand why the hollow-eyed man who visited was taking him from his happy home. He knew that he was his father, but that word means little when father is a quiet, haunted man who sits in the corner nursing a beer for a perpetual hangover. 

John couldn't handle a baby with everything going on, especially not on top of Dean's needs. Dean knows he was clingy after losing his mom. Hell, even before. He was always daddy's little boy. He understands why he had to let someone else take on the burden of infant care. He understands it was love that made him do it.

John was far from a perfect father. He was often negligent in his grief, barely functioning, but he tried and made sure Dean was loved, although the constant vacillation between absent and over-compensating definitely did a number on Dean.

John drank too much, passed out at the bar or in whatever shitty rental apartment or motel they were staying in. He had nightmares too, screamed himself awake from dreams about the fire or the war, and Dean would climb into bed with him and John would hold him so tight he couldn't breathe. He knew it was supposed to be the other way around, and sometimes it was. Sometimes Dean had nightmares about standing outside on the lawn holding baby Sam, watching flames engulf their house, seeing his dad stumble out without mom. They both had nightmares but they had each other. 

Dean didn't quite understand what was going on. Mom was gone and wasn't coming back. Sam was still around but he didn't get to see him much. John was around most of the time, but when he was, he was different. He wasn't the same dad. He wasn't ever a picture book father, too scarred by his time in the Marines, but he was just dad, a dad who didn't seem all that different to the other dads. He worked hard during the day and came home in the evening, kissed mom and picked up Dean and hugged him or spun him around in the air and kissed his forehead. He played with Dean. He asked him how kindergarten was going. He made the appropriate exclamations of delight and love when Dean presented him with abstract finger paintings. 

John was not that dad ever again, but he was still dad and he was all Dean had.

John treats him the same as Sam during the day. They are both expected to go to school, even if they frequently have to change schools because they're always on the go. The lessons don't end there, though, or at the rickety formica tables where they complete their homework. 

Dean takes his lessons seriously. Not in school, hell no - his real lessons. How to shoot a pistol, a shotgun, a rifle, and how to maintain those guns. How to melt down silver and cast bullets. How to track prints in different terrain. How to determine what kind of spirit is haunting a place. How to fight. 

Sam's four years younger and still just a scrawny little kid when Dean is fourteen but they have to spar together under John's watchful eye. They're not martial artists but John had boxed when he was younger and could knock a man out with one hard right hook. Sam hates fighting but he uses their practice to take out his frustration. Sometimes it helps him to win, sometimes it makes him too sloppy and he loses. He doesn't care either way. His fists say what he can't: I hate you, I hate this, I hate dad. When he wins he doesn't give a shit that John praises him (restrained, barely praise, just mild approval at best), just scoffs and goes to clean the blood away. When Dean is praised, it makes all the hardship worth it. 

So their lives aren't normal, so what? They know that monsters are real and that some thing killed their mom. What are they supposed to do? Just pretend it never happened? Pretend they don't know what's out there? 

That's what Sam wants. Dean can't imagine living that way. Not with what they know. 

And that must be part of why John treats him differently. Dean doesn't want to pull the wool over his eyes, cover his ears with his hands, and pretend they don't know better. None of them chose this life: it was forced upon them. Dean knows John didn't want his boys to be child soldiers, but that's what they need to be. They need to be strong and brave and willing to fight. 

Dean knows he is too old for it, but he still sleeps with his dad sometimes. They both sleep better that way. Even though Sam gives him shit for being fourteen and sleeping in the same bed as their dad, it doesn't matter. He doesn't understand. He doesn't remember. Dean and John remember. For so long after all they had was each other. So sometimes Dean and Sam have to share a twin bed in a shitty motel room and their dad sleeps in the other one, but more often than not Dean shares with his dad. When he is around, at least. When he is not, when he is out hunting monsters, Dean sometimes sleeps in his dad's bed, calmed by the lingering scent of him in the sheets. Gun powder, motor oil, cigarette smoke, masculine sweat, cheap soap, sometimes aftershave.

Sometimes they go to bed together after Sam is already asleep. Sometimes Dean waits until Sam is asleep and climbs into bed with dad, where sometimes he is awake and waiting and sometimes already asleep, but even asleep his arms instinctively pull Dean close. 

The long periods when John is out hunting are the worst, in so many ways. Dean and Sam are suspended in a spiderweb of fretful anxiety, both too scared to be the one to snap the tension by voicing their fears. Fears that dad is hurt, he's dead, he's never coming back. They're used to long days without him, used to weeks alone or at Bobby's or Pastor Jim's.

The one good thing to come of John’s absence is the way that it brings them closer. He loves Sam, fiercely and wholeheartedly, loves him like he’s his own kid, which is a ridiculous notion but one he holds close to his heart regardless. Sam coming home was the best day of his life. John had sat him down, crouched in front of him to be level with his eyes, and told him he needed Dean to be a good big brother and take care of Sammy. He needed Dean’s support because he couldn’t manage alone. Dean had nodded like a dashboard bobblehead, chanting I’ll do it, anything you need, anything he needs, I’ll do it, please just bring him home. 

It’s a secret pain tucked away in his heart that the best day of Dean’s life was the worst day of Sam’s. He doesn’t hold it against him. He knows a six year old brother and a ghost of a father were a piss poor substitute for the family he had grown used to. 

Dean was already accustomed to dealing with someone else’s grief and anger; John prepared him well for Sam’s homecoming. He knew to let Sam get his frustrations out through tears and tantrums and little fists, and then to hold him close when he wore himself out and tell him how much he loved him, how much he had missed him, how this was where he belonged, this was family, this was everything. 

Just like John slept better with Dean, Sam did too. For a while, they slept in the same bed, littlest to biggest. Sam in Dean’s arms, Dean in John’s. Three little fish in a cozy can. Sam was only two though, and two year olds don’t always sleep through the night. Sometimes he’d wet himself and John would be grumpy-tired or still drunk, and Dean would quickly take care of Sam and John would move to the dry bed, and Dean would change the soiled sheets as quietly as he could or take Sam to the couch. He learned the best routine was to get Sam to sleep in one bed and crawl out to join John in the other, and he’d face Sam all night so he could keep an eye on him, and he’d wish and wish and wish they could be three little fish again, but John needed rest and that’s just the hierarchy of things, isn’t it? He remembers that mom would always serve dad first at dinner. 

So yes, Sam is his own. At fourteen, Dean thinks of his ten year old brother as his own. He would never tell Sam that, of course, because Sam would call it messed up and weird and he’s so angry all the time now. Dean is always stuck in the middle, torn between two devotions, split between his deference to John and his duty to Sam. 

Sometimes, Dean falls asleep with Sam while John is away hunting and John comes back to him, lifting him out of the bed in his big, strong arms and carrying him to his own. He holds him so closely, kisses his forehead, his cheeks, runs his hands all over him, firm and reassuring, as if he needs the solid evidence that Dean is still there, still breathing. As if Dean was the one in harm's way. Dean holds him back just as tightly, breathes in the familiar scent of him, relishes the words his greedy heart can never get enough of. The sweet words, gentle and reverent, so at odds with how hard on him he is during the day, when he is training him to be a soldier, a survivor. 

There are two versions of his dad: in the cold light of day, he is the hunter, the drill sergeant barking commands, the one who hammers into them everything they need to survive while killing monsters; but in the hushed dark of night, he is comfort and warmth.

Dean feels bad for Sam, he really does. He doesn't remember their mom and he has not bonded with their dad. Dean's more mature than him no matter if Sam thinks otherwise; he mocks Dean for being so clingy with their dad, and they fight about it often. Dean's still a teenage boy, after all, and doesn't take kindly to being called a baby or a pussy or a wimp by a ten year old. He loves Sam, but he's still a big brother and still has to put his brat of a little brother in his place. He probably doesn't have much time left to have the upper hand. Sam has a certain gangliness that makes Dean think he will undoubtedly shoot past him one day, but tall or not he's still just a kid.

Sam doesn't get the softer side of their dad, so it is no wonder he resents him the way he does. He hates everything about their training, hates their lifestyle, hates their dad and will tell him just that, tears of frustration welling in his eyes when he's sick of practicing and just wants to be a normal kid, and their dad shakes him by the shoulders and shouts at him. Sam doesn’t crave approval like Dean does, doesn't look up to their dad, doesn't want to be anything like him. 

Dean has always wanted one thing and one thing only: his dad's approval. His pride. His love. All one and the same to him. 

It kills Dean, really, that Sam is so detached from their dad. He's just a little kid. Dean has always looked after him, doing his best to replace what is missing. He's the one who takes him to school, makes sure he brushes his teeth, makes him dinner, books his dental checkups. He doesn't ever have to force him to do his homework because he's a good kid and smart as hell. He begs Dean to take him to the library, for God's sake. Dean does everything a parent should do for Sam because John is too preoccupied with the hunt and with turning them into soldiers to give Sam anything approaching a childhood. Dean accepted that his childhood ended the night of the fire. 

They're still brothers. They still argue and fight, mostly about their dad. But Sam knows Dean is the one who looks after him and though he misdirects his anger sometimes, nothing will ever stop Dean from trying to be everything Sam needs, even if he’s a piss poor replacement for what he so desperately wants. 

***

Dean wakes up with phantom smoke suffocating him once more and climbs into dad’s bed. Sam wakes up before them because dad got home late from the bar and Dean struggles to wake up when he’s got dad’s warm body wrapped around his. Sam turns the TV on too loud and rouses them both from their sleep. He holds his breath, waiting to see if dad is going to shout at Sam for being an inconsiderate little shit, but he just goes to take a shower. Dean fixes two bowls of cereal and has to tell Sam twice to come to the table. 

"Don't you think you're too old to be sleeping with dad?" Sam asks, tone mocking and combative. He asks that question a lot. Doesn't get it. 

"Be grateful your gangly ass has a bed to itself."

"We're almost the same height, Dean."

"Exactly. Don't you think you're freakishly tall for a kid?"

"You're a kid too!" 

"Am not."

"Are too! Fourteen is still a kid."

"Shut up and eat your cereal."

"He treats you like a baby," Sam mutters with his mouth full, scowling. 

"Sammy-"

"Why do you let him? He doesn’t treat me like that."

"It's different."

"Because you're his favourite?"

"I'm not his favourite."

"Yes you are,” he says factually, emotionlessly, without any of the bitterness that used to be there, which is worse, really.

"It's just... different. We both remember mom dying. You wouldn't understand."

"She was my mom, too," Sam says quietly. 

"But you don't remember. You don't have nightmares about it."

"I get nightmares 'bout other stuff, just don't cry like a baby to dad."

Dean could point out that when Sam gets nightmares, Dean is the one who soothes him through them the way he has always done, but in Sam’s eyes Dean isn’t his parent so it’s not the same, even if in Dean’s eyes it’s the exact same. 

"I don't cry."

"Yes you do, I've heard you," Sam goads.

Dean slams his glass of juice down and the table shakes. "Sam, I swear to God I will kick your ass six ways to Sunday if you don't stop being a little shit."

"I wish I had a normal family. I wish you two would just leave and you could be weird together and I could be normal!" Sam yells, shoving his chair back and running outside, door slamming.

John comes through in a billow of steam, towel around his waist and another in his hands drying his hair. Not for the first time, Dean is taken by just how big, how strong, their dad is - tall and broad and thickly muscled. Rough and rugged like a hero in the old war and western movies they watch, his face handsome though tired and world-weary. 

He wonders if he'll ever be that big, but he knows he looks like their mom. It isn't fair that his little brother is probably going to grow taller than him, that Dean is still slight and doesn't have a whisper of the dense hair that covers his dad's face and body. Other boys mock him, calling him pretty boy, not realising that Dean may be pretty but he's also a fighter and can knock their teeth out.

"Was that Sam?" John asks, tossing the towel he was drying his hair with on the bed. 

"Yeah."

"Were you two fighting again?"

"No, sir. He just..." Dean sighs, rubs his face. John walks over and stands behind him, hands on his shoulders, and bends down to kiss the crown of his head. "He's not happy."

"He never is."

"I know. That's the problem. He says he wishes we would just leave." John's hands reflexively tighten on his shoulders. "Don't get mad at him," Dean pleads.

"He's gonna leave us one day, Dean. I know it. When he's old enough he'll hightail it outta here and try to pretend he doesn't know that monsters are real. Go to college, meet a girl, settle down, never explain why he doesn't talk about his family. Maybe you will, too."

Dean stands up so quickly blood rushes to his head and whips around on unsteady feet to face his dad. 

"I won't, not ever, I swear it, dad."

John smiles at him, cups his face in one large hand, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. 

"You promise, baby? You promise you'll never leave me?"

"I promise, dad."

John pulls him into a hug, wrapping both arms around him, and Dean clings to him. His skin is still damp from the shower. John's chest is dense with dark hair that tickles his face. It feels different, more intimate, hugging him like this. It feels right. 

He thinks about John’s words for the rest of the day. Will Sam really leave them? That’s what all children do, in the end, it’s just how life goes. He tries to imagine life without him, the empty nest of highway motels and shitty rentals, the absence of half his heart. It makes him half mad just to think of it. 

When Sam comes back, he’s too indulgent, too soft. John just huffs about him spoiling him and Sam just eats it up anyway. It’s best like this, with Sam sweet and glued to Dean’s side like he hadn’t just wished him away. He’s just at that age, his new hormones making him bratty and difficult. 

That night, Dean sleeps in the same bed as Sam and Sam whispers, “I’m sorry, Dean, I didn’t mean it.”

Dean kisses his forehead and Sam allows it with a content sigh. He’s a lot more like Dean than he realises. 

***

Dean would be humiliated if anyone other than Sam knew about how he is with their dad. Sam may not get it, but nobody else would either, and it would be worse. Dean's tough as old leather, has a reputation to uphold as a bad boy who doesn't take anyone's shit and doesn't go down without a fight. He's allowed this one thing. He's allowed one vulnerability. He's already lost so much.

"Dad?" He whispers. John makes a sleepy, rumbling sound in response. "I'm too old to be doing this, aren't I?"

John just tightens his arm around him, hand coming up to the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair to push his head down against his chest. Dean can hear his heart beating, slow and even, loud and reassuring. 

"Never too old, baby," he murmurs.

That's the other thing. The nicknames. John never calls him them when Sam can hear, but Dean loves them, and every time John calls him baby or sweetheart it makes him feel as warm as he does in his arms.

"Sam makes fun of me for it."

"Sam doesn't understand. You're my number one, baby boy."

He melts inside and closes his eyes again, listening to the reassuring thud of his dad's heart. Steady and stable. 

***

Sam has his end of elementary exams coming up later that year and demands that John doesn't move them yet again so he can just get through it without the burden of a new school. John agrees and rents them an apartment. It's tiny and dingy but they have their own room, and Dean hates it. Even when they slept in separate beds, dad was only a few feet away in the same room. He waits for Sam to fall asleep and sneaks out, finds his dad waiting for him, sitting up and reading. He smiles when Dean appears at the door.

"You don't like your new room?" he asks as Dean climbs into the bed.

"It's fine," Dean replies.

John raises his arm and Dean slots into place like a puzzle piece. He's still so much smaller than him, can easily curl up into his side and tuck in under his chin, head on his chest. It's a sweltering hot night and John is not wearing a shirt, so Dean's cheek is tickled by his chest hair and he laughs. John makes a questioning sound. 

"Tickles," he tells him.

"Sorry, baby, it's too hot." He looks at Dean's arm, covered in a long sleeve t-shirt. "Aren't you too hot in that?"

"Kinda."

"So take it off."

Dean shifts away to tug his shirt off and John pulls him back close, and Dean's breath catches in his throat. 

It feels different. Skin to skin, nothing between them, it feels like they're even closer. It's nice. Makes his brain quiet.

John rubs his hand up and down Dean's back, soothing, gentle.

"You're still so soft," he murmurs into his hair. "I don't think you're gonna take after me much."

Dean's heart stutters. He wants to be just like his dad. 

"I wish I was more like you," he admits. It's easier to admit such sensitive things like this, in the night. 

"You take after your mother. Got her features - eyes, nose, colour. Lips." Dean makes a disgruntled sound. "It's a good thing, sweetheart. You're beautiful. My beautiful boy."

Dean wants to whine about being called beautiful - boys aren't beautiful, men aren't beautiful, and he wants to be a man, a real man, just like John. He's been called pretty boy mockingly by other boys who he shuts up with his fists. But when his dad calls him beautiful it feels different. It feels good.

Dean is a tough kid. He gets into fights. He causes trouble. He runs his mouth. He's a good little soldier, though, always obedient and listening and yes sir, no sir, but at night he can let his tough facade go and just be... soft. Just be daddy's boy. 

John sighs and his hand moves up to Dean's jaw, tilting his head back so they look eye to eye.

"I love you so much, baby. You have no idea."

"I love you too, daddy - uh, dad. I love you, dad."

John smiles and it lights up his eyes. "You haven't called me daddy in years."

"I didn't mean to."

"I've missed it."

Dean's heart aches at the idea of his dad feeling the loss of anything more than he has already suffered. The switch from daddy to dad was just natural as he grew up, not anything conscious. And both he and Sam called him sir most of the time, especially during training; it was drilled into them from a young age, to show respect. But he can give him that. It's a small thing. An easy thing. It slipped out naturally: he feels so small, so loved, so protected like this. 

John switches off the lamp and Dean falls asleep listening to his heartbeat.

Dean wakes up with an erection. 

He's a teenager, it happens, but it's embarrassing all the same. He usually slips out of bed and deals with it in the bathroom and slips back into bed without John being any wiser. 

But today, he is practically pinned down - John has both arms around him and one of Dean's legs trapped under his. He's heavy as shit. Dean wriggles his arm out to try and extricate himself from his hold but at his movement, John just pulls him closer. His erection presses against John's stomach and Dean shudders at the pressure. He has to get out before John wakes up and notices, but before he can try to escape again, John makes a noise in his chest and his breathing changes. 

Dean can't deal with this. He closes his eyes, forces his body to go limp, and pretends to still be asleep. No harm, no foul, it's just biology and he's totally unaware and everything is fine.

John is awake, he can tell. He always draws Dean in closer when he wakes up, kisses the top of his head or his temple, often breathes in the scent of him. He does just that, inhaling the scent of his hair, kissing his forehead. Then he stills, and Dean knows he can feel it.

Why won't it go away? The pure mortification of the situation should be killing it. 

He expects John to move away, maybe carefully roll Dean over to the other side of the bed. 

He doesn't. 

He doesn't move. Dean's ear is pressed against his chest and he can hear his heartbeat pick up. 

"Dean," he murmurs, his voice morning rough. Dean doesn't say anything. He doesn't move. "Dean, I know you're awake."

His face flushes red hot. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

"It's okay, baby, it's natural."

"It's humiliating," Dean whines and tries to pull back, but strong arms stop him. To add to his embarrassment, John pulls back a little and tilts Dean's face up by his chin. Dean steadfastly refuses to make eye contact.

"Dean, look at me," he commands sternly. Obeying orders isn't even second nature to Dean now, it's just his nature. He looks up at his dad, expects disgust or anger, finds only understanding and affection. "There's nothing to be ashamed of. Guess we're kinda overdue the talk."

"Please don't. We did that in school already."

John kisses him on the forehead and untangles from Dean, as good as permission. Dean bolts for the bathroom. His erection has not flagged at all even during that uncomfortable conversation and he wonders what the fuck is wrong with him. He wonders again when he comes in thirty seconds with nothing in his mind but the safe feeling of being wrapped up in his father's arms in his mind. Not girls, not boobs or long legs in miniskirts, not glossy lips and flirty eyes. He steadfastly doesn't think about what he didn't think about. 

Dean makes pancakes from a box and a whole pack of bacon. He burns half of the pancakes but it's better than cereal or just black coffee, which John drinks in lieu of a real breakfast most days. Sam is already eagerly shoveling food into his mouth by the time John walks into the room. He comes up behind Dean, pressed all up against him, sturdy and warm. 

"Looks good," he murmurs, leaning down to kiss his temple, Dean craning his head back for him. 

"Make sure you actually eat something. I made plenty," Dean says. 

John squeezes him before taking his place at the table and putting food onto his plate. Dean pours coffee into a mug and places it by him before taking his own seat. 

Sam watches him, a calculating look in his clever eyes. After John is finished eating he retreats to sort through a pile of newspapers for leads. Dean takes Sam to school, just a ten minute drive away. His fake driver’s licence was the best thing dad got him for his last birthday. 

"You're not mom," Sam says, apropos of nothing.

"No shit, Sammy."

"You keep acting like you are. Playing homemaker, making pancakes. He treats you like her."

Dean's gut twists with some unexplainable shame.

"Y'know, a little appreciation for everything I do for you would be nice."

Sam sighs, knocks his elbow into Dean's arm.

"I do appreciate it. I just worry about you, is all."

"Why? There's nothing to worry about."

"You don't get sick of the way he treats you?"

"We do what we have to do. Training's not so bad."

"I don't mean that. I mean the way you have to look after me 'cause he's always gone, and the way you have to look after him 'cause he's always coming back hurt. And the fact you have to sleep with him because of his nightmares."

"Jesus, Sammy, would you just let that go? And I'm supposed to look after you, you're my little brother."

"No, he's supposed to look after me. After both of us."

"He does."

"No, he doesn't. He just trains us and uses you to replace mom."

Dean is too taken aback to respond. Sure, he looks after them, he cooks and cleans and takes care of Sam and stitches dad together when he's injured, pulls him off sticky tables in dive bars when he's passed out from drinking to numb the pain, but he's supposed to. Somebody has to keep this family together as a family. Dean refuses to lose what's left of his family. Family looks after each other. Sam may not realise that what their dad does is important, is necessary, but he will one day. His revenge for their mom is as much for them as it is for himself. Sam doesn't know how much John hurts inside for everything they lost. He doesn't know how much he would give to be able to give them what Sam wants: a normal, happy childhood where the only monsters are imagined under beds. 

It's not like Dean hates having to be a piss poor replacement for their mom. He enjoys it. It's the best he can do for the only two people he loves. He's still too young to go with their dad on anything but the tamest hunts, so the least he can do is relieve him of household burdens. Sam is a hell of a smart kid who is going places, and he needs to focus on school, unlike Dean who knows a report card means sweet fuck all when his future is in silver, blood, and salt. John has the burden of revenge, and he's a God damn hero whether or not Sam realises it. He's saved so many lives by going out there and killing monsters. One day, Dean will stand beside him as equals, but for now he's behind him. God knows John needs somebody to have his back. 

***

John leaves for eight days and Dean does what he always does: he keeps the family together. He waits up every night until he falls asleep on the couch, eyes on the door, waiting, hoping for John to return. 

When he does come back it's two in the morning and he looks like hell. 

Dean wakes up on the couch to the feeling of his rough hand in his hair and his lips on his forehead. He blinks awake, bleary-eyed and relieved, so fucking relieved. 

"Daddy," he mumbles, sleep still gripping him. 

"Hi, baby," John says, kissing his cheek, coarse beard hair rubbing his smooth skin. "Were you waiting up for me?"

"Mmhmm." 

Dean yawns and sits up, cataloguing John with sleepy eyes. One of his arms is hanging limp, and blood is dripping down his fingers. The shock of it wakes him up like an ice water plunge.

"You're hurt."

"Just a scratch."

Wordlessly, Dean gets up and grabs his hand and pulls him into the bathroom. John leans against the counter while Dean grabs the med kit. He removes his jacket and Dean's eyes widen at how much blood there is; it's soaked through the ragged remains of his shirt sleeve.

"You'll need to take that off," he tells him, and John removes the shirt, stiffness the only hint that he's in pain. 

Dean cleans the three ragged, deep gashes in his arm as gently as he can. John never indicates that he's in any pain, too used to it, too strong. Still, Dean is careful, knows it must hurt like a sonuvabitch. 

"You need stitches," Dean says, and threads the needle. "It's gonna hurt."

"You're so good to me, baby boy," John says, voice tender but exhausted. 

"Course I am."

He stitches the deepest parts on the wounds together, slim fingers nimble and practiced. John doesn't so much as twitch or make a sound except to drink whiskey from his flask. 

"You shouldn't drink when you're dealing with blood loss," Dean chides, and John huffs an amused sound.

"Taught you a little too well, I think."

Dean bandages him up, making sure it's not too tight or too loose. 

"There. All better. Do you want some aspirin?"

John shakes his head and screws the cap back onto his flask. 

"Just need some sleep."

"Okay. Good night, dad."

"Where do you think you're going?" 

Dean looks up into his eyes. Normally, John wants to sleep off a long hunt when he's this injured, alone and dead to the world while Dean carries on with life, with Sam. 

John puts an arm around his shoulder and guides him into his bedroom. They get into the bed, John keep his injured arm away, unable to wrap it around Dean like he usually does, but his other is cradled beneath him and pulls him in close.

"God, I missed you." He breathes in deeply, nose in his hair. 

"I missed you too, dad."

"Don't know what I'd do without you."

"You don't need to worry 'bout that, I'm not going anywhere, I told you."

"I can't lose you. I can't lose you too."

Dean shifts up on his elbow, looking down at John, who gazes up at him with misty eyes.

"What's wrong, dad? You're worrying me."

John lifts his hand - his injured arm - up to Dean's face and cradles his cheek. Dean leans into it, instinct and nature. 

"I put too much on you. You're just a kid. My baby boy."

"I'm not a baby," he whines, nose wrinkled in distaste. 

"You'll always be my baby. Won't you?"

"Of course," he agrees, because what else can he do when his dad is looking at him like that, eyes full of love and remorse? Something in his eyes shifts, and they dart across Dean's face. Fervent. Desperate. 

"You're so beautiful. How'd I ever make something so beautiful?"

Dean blushes fiercely and looks away. "I'm not."

The hand on his face shifts and his jaw is gripped suddenly, face tilted to make eye contact. His breath catches.

"You're beautiful, sweetheart. This world is filthy and ugly but you're beautiful."

He can't say anything, just swallows around the lump in his throat. John pulls him back down and falls asleep soon after, while Dean lies awake. 

Maybe Sam is right. Maybe the way things are between him and their dad is too intense. It makes something crawl around in his stomach, up his throat. 

Dad needs him. He needs him. 

Dean wakes up first, back to John's front where they're snug together. Despite John's best efforts, his injured arm has naturally come to its place around Dean's waist, hand pressed to his chest, keeping him pinned against him. 

Dean cracks an eye open and checks the clock. It's barely seven and a Saturday. No need to get up and get Sam ready for school. He closes his eyes again, shuffles to get more comfortable, and that's when he feels it. 

A role reversal of the other week. John is hard and it's pressing a firm, hot line against Dean's ass. His eyes snap open and he stops breathing for a moment. 

It's not a big deal. It's normal, natural. John was full of adrenaline from the hunt, and he’s a man, just a man. 

He doesn’t want to get up yet, still tired, but more so worried about waking John when he needs sleep. He figures it will just go away eventually, and he can handle awkward. He'll just pretend it's not there.

He closes his eyes.

Not a chance. It's impossible to ignore. 

John shifts in his sleep, a rumbling sound deep in his chest, his hips rolling against Dean's ass. Jesus, it feels huge. Sweat prickles on Dean's skin, his heart racing. The arm underneath his body moves, and John's hand flattens against his lower stomach, beneath his shirt, rough skin on smooth skin. It presses him back, into the sleepy roll of his hips. Dean bites his lip. His own cock swells in his pyjamas.

Oh God, no. Why? Why is his body doing this? He shouldn't be responding like this. It's wrong, it's sick - it's his dad.

He's probably dreaming of his mom. 

He treats you like her.

John treats him like his son, that's all, Sam was wrong. He just didn't understand. So John was more affectionate with him - Dean was just more receptive than Sam. It was normal. Everything was normal. 

Sometimes, though, Dean had intrusive thoughts that were stamped out before they could form. Thoughts about how his dad really was crazy handsome, how strong he was, how tough, yet how gentle he was with Dean sometimes, a soft contrast to a man that was all rough, hard edges.

It was just love, normal, familial love. Hero worship. Admiration. 

John's hand slides lower, covering Dean's hardening cock, so huge it spans over half the width of his slim hips. A gasp escapes his lips, and he bites back another sound, something that is horribly close to a moan, when John's hips push forward and cause Dean's cock to rub against his hand. 

He has to get away. John doesn't know what he is doing. He’s asleep. He'd be mortified if he realised what was happening. Dean is mortified. 

He doesn't try to be subtle about it, just shoves John's arm from him and throws himself from the bed, practically running to the bathroom, followed by John's tired, confused voice calling his name. 

***

Sam asked to stay the weekend at his friend's house and John said yes. So, it’s just the two of them. They watched movies and Dean changed his bandages. No training, no newspapers, no hunting for leads. 

John has been drinking but he hasn't fallen into oblivion like he often does. Enough whiskey to keep the demons at bay, to keep him relaxed and loose. They’re sitting on the sofa together and John pulls him close, Dean's head on his chest, knees tucked up. John keeps playing with his hair - it needed a cut months ago.

It feels good. It feels normal. Just him and his dad watching movies and eating pizza. Normal family shit. 

John is in a good mood, probably half of which is from the whiskey. He mocks the portrayal of marines in the movie, points out all the mistakes, everything from the way the soldiers carry themselves to the way they hold their guns. Sometimes Dean almost forgets that before his dad was a hunter, he was a marine. He's been fighting for most of his life. He doesn't ever talk about the horrors of Vietnam, but Dean knows they haunt his dreams as often as Mary does. He's seen enough movies and learned about it in school to know it was a special kind of hell. 

Maybe that's why John is such a good hunter. He knew hell up close and personal when he was barely a man. He enlisted for a war most men were desperate to avoid. 

There was so much under the surface, so much Dean didn't know about his dad. He didn't talk about the war and he didn't talk about his life with his mom. On screen, a soldier is reunited with his wife in a passionately romantic scene.

"Hey dad," he says quietly. John grunts in response. "How did you know you were in love with mom?"John goes stiff, his hand clenching Dean's hair hard enough to make him wince. "Sorry, never mind."

John's hand relaxes and he heaves out a sigh.

"Y'know, it was the damndest thing. We couldn't stand each other, then suddenly it was like cupid just shot us through with an arrow and I couldn't bear the thought of not putting a ring on her finger."

"Huh," Dean says. Not the romantic story he expected. "You couldn't stand each other?"

"Not back then, but people change."

"But you loved her?"

"Of course I loved her. Wouldn't be doing this shit if I didn't."

"Think you'll ever get married again?" he asks, uncertain why his stomach drops the moment he voices the question. 

"No," John replies curtly. 

"You don't miss like, having a wife?"

John makes a sound something like a chuckle but wry and humourless. 

"Don't need to miss it. You do everything I need," he says, matter of fact, and drinks the last of the whiskey in his glass. 

He treats you like her.

"Yeah, but... what about, y'know, romance and all that corny shit?"

"Language, son."

"Sorry, sir."

John moves and Dean is worried he's pissed him off, but he just grabs the bottle from the table and rather than pouring a glass, drinks directly from it. He keeps ahold of it and turns to face Dean, eyes narrowed, gears moving behind them.

"You mean, don't I miss fucking?" His voice is slurred, tone edged with something like cruelty.

Dean's face flares red and he has to look away, clearing his throat. Sure, he wondered sometimes if his dad ever met women when he was out, apparently on a hunt. He is handsome and in his prime. Women make eyes at him wherever they go, taken by his rugged good looks and rough charm.

"You think I'm some kind of saint? That Mary was my one and only?" Dean bites his lip and shakes his head. He didn't, but part of him almost hoped. "Answer me, son."

"No, sir."

"It piss you off?"

"No, sir."

It had been such a nice night before Dean ruined it. Now he couldn't stop thinking about it. His dad with some pretty woman in some motel or her bed or, fuck, the car. It makes him sick. He tells himself it‘s because it feels like a betrayal - to his mom, obviously. 

"You had a girlfriend yet?" John asks, watching him closely. Dean can't meet his eyes.

Dean's never been in one place long enough for a girlfriend. He's fooled around with girls, plenty of making out, some handjobs, a bad blowjob, some under skirt stuff, but nothing serious. 

"No, sir," he says again. All he can say, apparently. 

"You can tell me. I won't be mad," John adds and Dean wonders what he could possibly be mad about even if it were true. John’s always encouraged him to go after girls. The first time he caught Dean making out with one, he just laughed and ruffled his hair, all fatherly pride, and said you take after your old man, kid. 

"I haven't."

"What about a boyfriend?"

Dean feels his breath leave him and he startles, reflexively meeting John's eyes, his own no doubt showing his panic.

Dean isn't gay. He likes girls plenty. But he's suddenly reminded of the way his body reacted to John's this morning, the way he felt so small against him, the way John felt so big. 

Dean isn't gay, but he's starting to worry that he might be seriously fucked up.

"No," he replies after a beat too long, a pregnant pause that apparently told John something more than there was to know.

His hand touches his face, surprisingly soft for the edge in his words, his posture, and he traces his thumb over Dean's cheekbone and then drops it to his lower lip, passing over it once and then just resting against it. Dean's heart rate ratchets up fast as a hurricane.

"You haven't noticed the way men look at you, have you?" John murmurs. 

"W-what?" he stutters. Men? Looking at him? 

"You're still so innocent. Everything you know, everything you've been through, and you have no idea what you do to people. Too pretty for your own damn good. There's a lot of bad men in this world, son, and a lot of them would sell their soul for a boy like you." His thumb finally moves from his lips and Dean lets go of a breath he didn't realise he was holding. "God fucking knows, I have."

Before he can ask what he means, John kisses him. 

Dean has kissed girls, but it was nothing like this. John's hand cups the back of his skull to angle him. His lips move with the experience of age and the urgency of pent-up desire finally overflowing. His beard scratches Dean's skin. Dean can't help but gasp in shock and John's tongue slips into his mouth, and it's, it's- 

It's good. It feels good.

All of his other kisses had been fumbling teenage mimicries of this. This steals his breath and lights up every nerve in his body. This makes panic uncurl within him, his heart racing, his brain screaming this is so so wrong what the fuck dad is kissing me dad is kissing me what the fuck whatthefuckwhatthefuck.

His dad kisses him. Dean kisses him back. He can't even blame it on instinct: it takes his brain a few seconds to process that it's even happening. Dean isn't drunk so he can't blame it on that. Dean willingly kisses his own dad even though his brain is screaming at him to stop, for the love of God, stop. It's so different to anything he has experienced before: the bristle of beard, the fact John is the one leading it and not him, the taste of whiskey and cigarettes. 

John's other hand pulls him closer, their chests pressed together, each point of contact electrifying. Dean feels less like he is being kissed and more like he is being devoured. 

It seems to last forever, but it's over almost as soon as it began.

John pushes him away and Dean falls back on the other side of the sofa and John shoves himself to his feet, head turning away from Dean, a hand scraping over his mouth, his beard. His eyes are wild, like a trapped animal.

"Fuck," he hisses. 

"Dad-"

"Go to bed." 

There is no room for argument.

"Yes, sir," he replies, and runs to the room he shares with Sam.

He doesn't even bother undressing or getting under the covers. He just lies there touching his lips. Dad kissed him. Dean kissed him back. It was wrong. It was good. His brain is just a nonstop litany of dad kissed me dad kissed me dad kissed me for ages until it changes to how long has he wanted to kiss me for? and then how long have I wanted to kiss him for?

They don't talk about it. Dean doesn't go to his dad's bed for days and they don't talk about that either. John doesn't hold him or kiss him (normally, the normal kind, on his forehead) and he doesn't call him baby or sweetheart and he barely looks at him and Dean is dying inside. 

He misses him. 

He misses him but he is also so confused and alright, fine, he's scared. Not of John, of himself. Of the idea that he has ruined everything. 

There's no training. There's no nothing. John is barely at home. The car disappears in the morning and he returns at night drunk. Sam doesn't question his absence but he does ask why Dean is acting so cagey and Dean snaps at him, tells him to shut up and mind his own business. Sam asks if he and dad got into a fight and Dean can't help the burble of hysterical laughter at that. 

He barely sees John, and he’s almost never awake when he does. They run into each other at the front door when Dean brings Sam back from school and John is leaving, probably to go to the bar. They both freeze and there is a moment of anxious eye contact and Dean has never seen John look like that. Panic isn't in John's wheelhouse. Sam looks between them with shrewd eyes. John moves first, gets into the car, slams the door, and peels away.

"Seriously, what's going on with you two?" Sam asks, sounding exasperated. 

"Nothing," Dean replies and pushes him through the door.

There is money on the kitchen counter, probably not enough unless Dean does some very creative budgeting, or unless John comes back soon. 

Dean knows he isn't coming back soon.

Dean careens between panicking and moping. Sam notices. Sam worries. If Dean is too worried to hide it, then of course Sam is worried. 

A week goes by.

Two weeks.

John doesn't answer his phone.

Dean crawls into his bed sometimes and it's not comforting any more. He cries silently. 

He goes through the motions: look after Sam, feed Sam, take Sam to school. When his brain isn't full of his dad, it's Sam. Dean has always been an empty vessel to accommodate the needs of his family. He just doesn't know what he's supposed to do now.

A boy with forty pounds on Dean and a trailer trash drawl calls Dean a faggot and asks if he sucks dick in gas station bathrooms and Dean loses it. He beats the hell out of him and gets a black eye, busted lip, and bloody nose in return. He still wins. 

He's almost expelled. Gets two weeks detention instead. Stops going to school. Pretends he does so Sam doesn't worry. Screws up and picks Sam up too early and just pretends he skipped his last class.

Three weeks. Dean overhears an older kid talking about the half ounce of weed he has in his glovebox and the part he’s throwing that weekend, so Dean breaks into his car and steals it, and sells it to kids he knows aren’t in the same social circle as the guy he stole it from.

He cooks a hot dinner for Sam after almost a week of bologna sandwiches and cereal. He doesn't eat.

After twenty-three days, John comes home. 

He isn't hurt. He is, however, extremely drunk. Not for the first time, Dean wants to shout at him but he can't wake up Sam. He'll deal with him in the morning. 

John stumbles into their bedroom and Dean pretends he's sleeping and hopes Sam is still asleep. John crouches by his bed and lays a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"Dean," he says, too loud for a whisper.

Dean ignores him.

John fumbles to grab him, trying to get his arms underneath to bridal carry him to his room, no doubt. Dean grabs his wrist.

"Stop it, you'll wake Sammy," he hisses quietly.

"Dean," John says again, the name thick in his mouth. "C'mon. Let's go."

"Go to sleep, dad."

"I missed you."

He's being too loud. Dean gets up and gently pushes John out of the room. Gently, because if he shoved him like he wants to, he would fall over and then Sam would definitely wake up. He closes the door softly behind them and suddenly John's hands are on him, clumsily holding his face. He stares at Dean as intensely as he can manage when he's bleary-eyed drunk. Dean's heart sinks. He thinks he's going to kiss him again. Last time he was pretty drunk and he has the same whiskey sour breath now.

Dean tries to push his hands away, grabbing his wrists, but even drunk John is far stronger than him and doesn't budge.

"Dad, go sleep it off," Dean says quietly, mustering as much sternness in his voice as he can when he's a) being quiet and b) can feel his heart trying to escape his chest. 

"I missed you," John says again, and he pulls Dean into a hug that's too tight. 

He needs to keep his calm. He tries to. He fails.

"Yeah? Well you left us for twenty-three days. No calls, nothing. Didn't even know where you were or what you were hunting."

"Wasn't hunting," John mumbles, and Dean is officially pissed. He shoves him back, suddenly enough that it works and John stumbles back into the wall.

"Twenty-three days and you weren't even hunting? What, you were just drinking the whole time? You left us for twenty-three days to drink?"

John shakes his head, scrubbing a hand over his face, holding it over his mouth. He's too drunk and too something to get angry at Dean talking to him like this. That more than anything scares Dean. John doesn't abide backchat or pissy voices. 

"I fucked up," he says, shaking his head at nothing. Himself, or his thoughts.

"Yeah, you did. Go sleep it off. We'll talk in the morning."

"I shouldn't've done it."

"No shit."

"Dean. Baby. I'm - fuck, I'm sorry."

John never apologises. Dean doesn't remember the last time he did. 

"Dad..."

"I scared you. Fuck. I shouldn't've done it."

Dean realises he doesn't mean leaving. He means the kiss. The reason he left in the first place.

"Just come sleep with me, okay? It's been so long. I miss you, baby."

He reaches for Dean and Dean lets him be pulled into John's bedroom. John sits heavily on the bed and Dean automatically drops to his knees to remove his boots because he's too drunk to do it himself. John sits quietly and watches Dean do it, his gaze heavy despite his intoxication. Dean's hands tremble a little and it makes undoing the laces tricky. He is struck by his current position, the devotional kneeling and service, the submission of it all. He has never considered it before; it has always been as natural as breathing. Dad needs him to take care of him, so he does. When Dean was small, John tied his shoelaces for him. 

"You're such a good boy," John rumbles, sounding pleased. He reaches out and his hand falls heavily onto Dean's head, fingers carding through his hair. 

John's boots are off. Dean is still kneeling. 

He's tired. Exhausted. He's barely slept for weeks. Despite everything, he really, really wants to climb into bed with John and be held and fall asleep in his arms. 

John grabs his shoulder and hauls him up. Dean trips into him, landing awkwardly in his lap, one knee between his thighs. John wraps his arms around his waist, holds him by the back of his neck. Dean has to tuck his face into the crook of John's neck. He keeps his hands on his shoulders, his arms pinned between them. 

John manoeuvres them to lie on the bed, pulling Dean close, front to front. It's uncomfortable - Dean's arm is pinned awkwardly. Despite it, Dean feels relieved. He has missed this so much it made him hate himself. What kind of guy his age mopes over not getting cuddles from his dad? He's almost fifteen. 

John falls asleep quickly, dragged under by the tide of whiskey. Dean knows he will wake up in a couple of hours, might be unable to get back to sleep for a while, and then he will sleep for too long and wake up with a raging hangover and a terrible mood. 

Dean falls asleep. When he wakes up, John is already awake. He's stroking Dean's hair, watching him sleep. He's too hot. 

"Twenty-three days," Dean says, sounding less pissed off than he wants to, sounding petulant. Neither one is a good attitude to take with John.

"I know," John replies, and it's felt more than heard, a rumble in his chest where Dean's head is lying. 

"You can't do that. We didn't know where you were. We didn't have enough money."

John doesn't say sorry now that he's sober. He doesn't say anything. Dean dozes off again despite his frustration. John's hand keeps stroking through his hair. 

The next time Dean wakes up, John isn't in the bed and Dean immediately panics. Has he left them again? How long for this time? He gets up and passes his and Sam's room but it's empty and he realises he slept in too late to get Sam to school. He hears the shower running and walks in, thinking it's Sam, but it's not. It's John. 

John standing under the spray with a hand braced against the wall, water sluicing over his back, his other hand-

"Oh, shit!" Dean yelps and slams the door shut. 

He stubbornly does not think about the fact he just saw John jerking off. He definitely does not think about how big his dick is. He definitely does not wonder if that's normal or if Dean's small because that would be humiliating. 

It's almost ten in the morning. Sam isn't anywhere to be seen, so he must be at school. Dean doesn't want to go to school and get dragged into a lecture about skipping school and detention, but he needs to get away from the house. He needs to get away from John, or he'll say something stupid, goad him into a fight about his deadbeat absence. 

They don't talk about it. 

Dean doesn't go to John's bed but John doesn't come to get him either, and Dean doesn't know if he's relieved or not. John goes to the bar and comes back late and Dean only falls asleep when he hears John go to bed. Sometimes he hears his footsteps stop outside his door, thinks he hears his hand on the door handle, but then he goes to his own room and shuts the door. 

A week later, John takes Dean on a hunt. It's just a spirit, the ghost of a woman who died during a home birth and is permanently stuck looking for the baby that died too. It's tragic and fucked up and it rattles Dean. She still looked pregnant. Her nightgown and legs were covered in blood. There was a pregnant woman living in the house, and Dean is just relieved they managed to get rid of the ghost before it did anything to her or the baby. 

Dean got thrown into a cabinet during the fight and there are small shards of glass embedded into his back. He leans forward to keep it off the back of his seat. John drives too fast. He doesn't need to, Dean is fine, it's barely anything worth worrying about. 

"Sloppy work. Shouldn't've turned your back to the room," John admonishes. 

"I know, sir."

"So why'd you do it? You know better than that. I taught you better."

"I know."

"Damn it, Dean!" he yells, and Dean flinches. "You could've gotten yourself hurt even worse."

Dean sighs. Feels the blood trickling down his back. It tickles and itches and stings and aches all at once. 

"When are we gonna talk about it?" he asks quietly, a non-sequitur, but not really. It's why he'd been distracted, why he hasn't been able to think straight for over a month. 

John is silent. He stares down the road. His hands are clenched so hard his knuckles are stark underneath scar tissue. 

"Need to get you fixed up," is all he says. 

Back in the apartment, they're quiet on their way inside, but Sam's awake, his hair sticking up on one side. He sleeps lightly if he sleeps at all when Dean's on a hunt. He doesn't even look at John until he's taken stock of Dean, the blood soaking his ragged shirt, and then he does look at John with burning hatred and anger, the kind of expression a kid shouldn't even be able to make let alone have reason to.

"He's hurt again," he snaps. "What happened?"

"Go to bed, Sam," John barks, striding into the bathroom with Dean in tow.

"Jesus, your back is a mess," he gasps, running up to Dean.

Dean pats him on the head a few times. "It's fine. Looks worse than it is. Just go to bed, you've got school tomorrow."

"So do you," he points out.

"Sammy. Bed. Now."

Sam huffs but does as he is told, slamming the bedroom door behind him. Dean joins John in the bathroom where he is standing holding their dwindling medical supplies, staring at the bag in his hands, stiff with tension. Dean pulls his shirt off and grits his teeth against the pain as it moves the glass in his back. He stands in front of the sink, holding onto it. He doesn't look at himself in the mirror inches away from his face. 

"Dad?" he prompts when John doesn't move. 

John stands behind him and starts pulling out glass with the tweezers. It hurts but it's not that bad. None of it got too deep. The glass plinks into the grimey porcelain sink one by one, smearing blood on the accumulated soap and toothpaste scum. He needs to clean. Dean stares at the sink, hears the shards clattering, hears John's breathing, hears his own blood roaring in his ears. They're not gonna talk about it. Maybe they never will. Maybe Dean just has to live with the secret forever. There's no question as to whether it is a secret, of course it is. Who would he tell? Not Sam, God, of course not Sam. There's nobody else in the world he tells anything except the two people in these four walls, and one of them won't talk about it, so Dean can't talk about it. He's never been a talker, just like John in that way. Winchesters don't talk it out. They shout at each other and sometimes they trade blows but they don't talk.

John soaks a wad of cotton with rubbing alcohol and Dean braces for the burn. He braces, and it doesn't come.

"Dad?" he prompts again.

John leans down and kisses his shoulder. His lips linger, warm and familiar. Dean's breath catches. He looks up into the mirror. John's eyes are closed. He kisses him again higher up his trapezius, higher again, then kisses his neck. It makes Dean shiver. He's always been sensitive there, but this isn't like a girl kissing him, mimicking things they've seen in movies or read in romance novels. The press of John's lips is dry and firm and contrasted by the wiry scratch of his beard. Seeing it makes him feel all muddled up. It's wrong, it's dad, it's hot, dad's hot, they look good together, it looks so wrong, everything is confusing. 

John lingers with his lips pressed to Dean's neck, stuttering breaths through his nose. One of his hands is on Dean's waist, stroking gently, reassuring. 

Finally, he pulls away, looks at Dean in the mirror. He looks sombre. Dean looks flustered, cheeks almost as red as his blood, eyes too wide, lips parted. 

"This'll hurt," he says, and presses the rag to Dean's back. 

Dean barely feels it. He just feels his skin tingling where John kissed him. John gently cleans all of the cuts and abrasions, and once he's done and the skin is dry, he sticks a couple of adhesive gauze pads to the worst of them. The whole thing is done with a sort of reverent solemnity that makes Dean feel weirdly distant, almost like he's floating above his body, watching the whole thing.

Tense silence stretches in the moments after John's finished. He's looking at Dean's back, hand absently running down his arm. 

"Dad," Dean says and John's eyes snap to his in the mirror. "Please."

Please can we talk about it. Please can you make it make sense. Please tell me why you kissed me. Please tell if you're gonna do it again. Please don't do it again. Please do it again. Please please please. 

"Get some rest," John says. He walks away. 

Please please please please please.