First puns, now pop, what's next?!
Title: Good Boys Gone Bad
Summary: John realizes that he raised his boys a little differently than he’d meant to.
Word count: 1,400
Rated: pg-13 (Language)
Notes: Set S1; Mild spoilers for “Faith,” and “In My Time of Dying,” if you squint
Genre: Gen, angst
Characters: John, Dean, mention of Sam
Beta: Graciously read over by haruslex , who improved both rough syntax and forced characterization. Many thanks!
A/N: Title adapted from the Leighton Meester song. I’m trying to have as many really awful titles in a row as possible.
Disclaimer: Still not gettin’ paid.
***
The first time John hears from Sam in about four years, he hopes irrationally that it’s going to be an apology. It’s not. Getting back into the family business hasn’t changed anything on that front, apparently, and the only thing that could bridge the distance between them is, as ever, Dean. Despite Sam’s assurances and bravado, his wavering tone and the fact of the call in the first place scream that John’s oldest is dying far louder than a second-hand diagnosis of “nothing we can do.”
John can’t quite believe it. Dean is an unwavering constant in John’s life, everything he needed in a son. Before Dean was in double digits, he was always prepared to watch Sammy, or stitch up a deep cut, or solemnly assure his old man that everything would be ok. By the time he hit puberty, he was helping with the easier salt-and-burns. What could possibly get to Dean, who’d been a hunter in his own right before other kids learned to drive?
Predictably, Sam’s kept that information to himself. Left with no clear culprit to direct his attention to, John’s thoughts turn broadly to how this happened to Dean. He tries to recall when his little boy transformed into a hunter, and finds himself thinking back to one specific day. Dean was only 17 or so and it was November, two weeks into a brutal hunt for a banshee. It wasn’t the first Dean’d been on, though at that point they were still trying to balance the job and his education.
John was waiting the last few minutes ‘till the school let out to pick his eldest up for backup on that night’s hunt, and he’d noticed some tough-guy smoking across the street. One of those disrespectful punks you just didn’t see in his day. Maybe a year or two older than Dean, the sort with nothing to lose, who stole, and got in fights, and lied to the police just because. He looked like trouble. John remembers sending a small prayer of thanks that his sons were good boys.
And then the man moved his hands away from his face and John saw that it was his son, wearing his old leather jacket no less. Not that John had really been mistaken: Dean did steal, and fight, and lie to the police- just the way his daddy taught him. Of course Dean was skipping school, of course he was, because what good was algebra to a hunter? Mary’s truant son, zero ambition beyond the family business. John waited for the illusion to pass, for the rough young man in front of him to morph back into his obedient, helpful child. It didn’t happen. This was a man confident in his own menace, dismissive of everyone who lived within the bounds of society, and proud of it. So far from normal he didn’t even miss it.
Dean glanced up suddenly, warned by an animal’s sixth sense. A smile bloomed on his face when he met John’s eyes, only a little sheepish for getting caught playing hooky. Like it didn’t matter that he looked like the type you cross a street to avoid. Was that type, maybe. Had John raised a kid like that and not known?
“Since when do you smoke,” John growled when Dean came over. His rebuke inspired little more than a nonchalant shrug. “Better be the last time, boy. Need you in shape. Think you can run with your lungs full of tar?” Which wasn’t quite what John meant to say, but it got the basic point across: you’re sill my kid, you need to take care of yourself.
“Can still outrun you, old man,” Dean said, and there was the second revelation of the day: how little separated John from the rest of the world his son spurned without a second thought. Some undeserved hero-worship was all he had to reign in Dean’s casual distain for things more gentle than burning corpses and putting bullets through monsters that would give grown men nightmares.
John slapped the cigarette out of his son’s hands and ground it into pieces with the heel of his boot. “Don’t you sass me,” he said.
“Yessir,” Dean said, wide eyes betraying confusion about what line he’d crossed to prompt his dad to anger rather than banter. There was nothing playful left in his posture or tone when he asked, deferentially, “Are we still hunting that banshee tonight?”
John swallowed hard- but the monster would kill again if he didn’t stop it, and to do that he needed backup. Sammy sure as hell wasn’t up for it. Where as Dean…
“Yeah, we’re still hunting.”
“Awesome. Can I take the .45?” Dean sounded so happy, so eager for praise and trust, that John could almost forget what he’d just seen in him. Pretended to himself that he did. But after that, John had noticed the perfect lack of remorse when they had to break into a suburban house or fib to the cops, felt a little tendril of fear at how nonchalantly Dean desecrated graves and back-talked the most horrific abominations the world had to offer. It was part of why he had been so angry with Sam leaving, John remembered. Dean’s childish belief in paternal omnipotence was so unwarranted that he always feared that this next hunt he’d make the mistake that would break it. And then, the only thing tethering his older son would be his younger. How was Sam going to save Dean if he was in California?
So he’d sent Dean on solo hunts to put off the time when his age finally betrayed him in front of his son, hid his surprise at how easily Dean took out things that still made him nervous. And when the demon finally showed itself, when he got a lead on that sonovabitch… he couldn’t let Dean help. It was something he needed to do alone. Two parts parental protection, one part vengeance, and a dash of possessiveness over the kill. Dean would go to Sam the second he thought John wasn’t keeping him away, and they’d make a hell of a team; Sam would keep Dean human, Dean would keep Sam safe.
It had never occurred to him that Dean might be the one needing protection. Sam’s call had blindsided him with the hard evidence of his older son’s mortality.
John gives the message another listen, while he calculates whereabouts his boys are. Sam sure doesn’t give him any helpful information, not even about what they were hunting. John did his best to keep tabs on them while he tracked the demon, though, and more often than not they were following leads he himself gave them. In the end, he gets a good bead on where his sons are. It winds up being on the other side of the country from him, of course, but if he had to, he could get to Dean. It’s only that the Demon is headed in the opposite direction.
Dean will be fine. Sam’d spent too much time out of the life, got spooked too easy. He didn’t place enough trust in how resilient his brother was. Dean would bounce back, like always. Sam was putting his head to finding a fix, and Sam not getting what he wanted? Impossible. John was sure his sons would figure it out, so there was no reason to go leaping in playing the over-concerned parent. If he made some huge effort driving cross-country to get to Dean’s bedside, he’d only get there late and embarrass them both.
“Jeeze, Dad,” Dean would say. “Sammy was just being a girl. I’m fine, you know I’m fine.” It’s a comforting scenario. John decides that it’s also the most likely one, and with only a twinge of guilt, he deletes Sam’s message.
This time, Dean does pull through. Sam finds a way to save him, even if it’s less than wholesome, and John doesn’t have to discover exactly how much he’d sacrifice to get Dean back. They don’t think of it as luck, not yet- but it is.
***
More teen!Dean, if you’re in the mood, though with a less sympathetic Sir.
Summary: John realizes that he raised his boys a little differently than he’d meant to.
Word count: 1,400
Rated: pg-13 (Language)
Notes: Set S1; Mild spoilers for “Faith,” and “In My Time of Dying,” if you squint
Genre: Gen, angst
Characters: John, Dean, mention of Sam
Beta: Graciously read over by haruslex , who improved both rough syntax and forced characterization. Many thanks!
A/N: Title adapted from the Leighton Meester song. I’m trying to have as many really awful titles in a row as possible.
Disclaimer: Still not gettin’ paid.
***
The first time John hears from Sam in about four years, he hopes irrationally that it’s going to be an apology. It’s not. Getting back into the family business hasn’t changed anything on that front, apparently, and the only thing that could bridge the distance between them is, as ever, Dean. Despite Sam’s assurances and bravado, his wavering tone and the fact of the call in the first place scream that John’s oldest is dying far louder than a second-hand diagnosis of “nothing we can do.”
John can’t quite believe it. Dean is an unwavering constant in John’s life, everything he needed in a son. Before Dean was in double digits, he was always prepared to watch Sammy, or stitch up a deep cut, or solemnly assure his old man that everything would be ok. By the time he hit puberty, he was helping with the easier salt-and-burns. What could possibly get to Dean, who’d been a hunter in his own right before other kids learned to drive?
Predictably, Sam’s kept that information to himself. Left with no clear culprit to direct his attention to, John’s thoughts turn broadly to how this happened to Dean. He tries to recall when his little boy transformed into a hunter, and finds himself thinking back to one specific day. Dean was only 17 or so and it was November, two weeks into a brutal hunt for a banshee. It wasn’t the first Dean’d been on, though at that point they were still trying to balance the job and his education.
John was waiting the last few minutes ‘till the school let out to pick his eldest up for backup on that night’s hunt, and he’d noticed some tough-guy smoking across the street. One of those disrespectful punks you just didn’t see in his day. Maybe a year or two older than Dean, the sort with nothing to lose, who stole, and got in fights, and lied to the police just because. He looked like trouble. John remembers sending a small prayer of thanks that his sons were good boys.
And then the man moved his hands away from his face and John saw that it was his son, wearing his old leather jacket no less. Not that John had really been mistaken: Dean did steal, and fight, and lie to the police- just the way his daddy taught him. Of course Dean was skipping school, of course he was, because what good was algebra to a hunter? Mary’s truant son, zero ambition beyond the family business. John waited for the illusion to pass, for the rough young man in front of him to morph back into his obedient, helpful child. It didn’t happen. This was a man confident in his own menace, dismissive of everyone who lived within the bounds of society, and proud of it. So far from normal he didn’t even miss it.
Dean glanced up suddenly, warned by an animal’s sixth sense. A smile bloomed on his face when he met John’s eyes, only a little sheepish for getting caught playing hooky. Like it didn’t matter that he looked like the type you cross a street to avoid. Was that type, maybe. Had John raised a kid like that and not known?
“Since when do you smoke,” John growled when Dean came over. His rebuke inspired little more than a nonchalant shrug. “Better be the last time, boy. Need you in shape. Think you can run with your lungs full of tar?” Which wasn’t quite what John meant to say, but it got the basic point across: you’re sill my kid, you need to take care of yourself.
“Can still outrun you, old man,” Dean said, and there was the second revelation of the day: how little separated John from the rest of the world his son spurned without a second thought. Some undeserved hero-worship was all he had to reign in Dean’s casual distain for things more gentle than burning corpses and putting bullets through monsters that would give grown men nightmares.
John slapped the cigarette out of his son’s hands and ground it into pieces with the heel of his boot. “Don’t you sass me,” he said.
“Yessir,” Dean said, wide eyes betraying confusion about what line he’d crossed to prompt his dad to anger rather than banter. There was nothing playful left in his posture or tone when he asked, deferentially, “Are we still hunting that banshee tonight?”
John swallowed hard- but the monster would kill again if he didn’t stop it, and to do that he needed backup. Sammy sure as hell wasn’t up for it. Where as Dean…
“Yeah, we’re still hunting.”
“Awesome. Can I take the .45?” Dean sounded so happy, so eager for praise and trust, that John could almost forget what he’d just seen in him. Pretended to himself that he did. But after that, John had noticed the perfect lack of remorse when they had to break into a suburban house or fib to the cops, felt a little tendril of fear at how nonchalantly Dean desecrated graves and back-talked the most horrific abominations the world had to offer. It was part of why he had been so angry with Sam leaving, John remembered. Dean’s childish belief in paternal omnipotence was so unwarranted that he always feared that this next hunt he’d make the mistake that would break it. And then, the only thing tethering his older son would be his younger. How was Sam going to save Dean if he was in California?
So he’d sent Dean on solo hunts to put off the time when his age finally betrayed him in front of his son, hid his surprise at how easily Dean took out things that still made him nervous. And when the demon finally showed itself, when he got a lead on that sonovabitch… he couldn’t let Dean help. It was something he needed to do alone. Two parts parental protection, one part vengeance, and a dash of possessiveness over the kill. Dean would go to Sam the second he thought John wasn’t keeping him away, and they’d make a hell of a team; Sam would keep Dean human, Dean would keep Sam safe.
It had never occurred to him that Dean might be the one needing protection. Sam’s call had blindsided him with the hard evidence of his older son’s mortality.
John gives the message another listen, while he calculates whereabouts his boys are. Sam sure doesn’t give him any helpful information, not even about what they were hunting. John did his best to keep tabs on them while he tracked the demon, though, and more often than not they were following leads he himself gave them. In the end, he gets a good bead on where his sons are. It winds up being on the other side of the country from him, of course, but if he had to, he could get to Dean. It’s only that the Demon is headed in the opposite direction.
Dean will be fine. Sam’d spent too much time out of the life, got spooked too easy. He didn’t place enough trust in how resilient his brother was. Dean would bounce back, like always. Sam was putting his head to finding a fix, and Sam not getting what he wanted? Impossible. John was sure his sons would figure it out, so there was no reason to go leaping in playing the over-concerned parent. If he made some huge effort driving cross-country to get to Dean’s bedside, he’d only get there late and embarrass them both.
“Jeeze, Dad,” Dean would say. “Sammy was just being a girl. I’m fine, you know I’m fine.” It’s a comforting scenario. John decides that it’s also the most likely one, and with only a twinge of guilt, he deletes Sam’s message.
This time, Dean does pull through. Sam finds a way to save him, even if it’s less than wholesome, and John doesn’t have to discover exactly how much he’d sacrifice to get Dean back. They don’t think of it as luck, not yet- but it is.
***
More teen!Dean, if you’re in the mood, though with a less sympathetic Sir.