The Constancy of Pain (Pt 2/2, Gen, R, Pre-Series)
This one's been gnawing on me for a while, but I wasn't sure what it was actually about. It decided to tell me Friday, so here ya go. Thanks to
phantomas who is the most awesome beta on the whole planet. She is pure awesomeness made of only the finest grade of awesome. And she rocks, too.
As always, let me know what y'all think.
Title: The Constancy of Pain
Author:
dodger_winslow
Challenge: Firsts Chart: First Time Dean Went to the ER
Genre: Gen
Word Count: 18,050
Pairings: None
Rating: R for language
Disclaimer: I don't own the boys, I'm just stalking them for a while.
Summary: Sometimes it’s the constancy of pain, not the intensity of it, that’s the enemy. And in the fight to overcome such an enemy, finding even a small respite from that constancy can be the only way to make it out alive.
The Constancy of Pain (Part 2)
It was three more hours before they finally got John in to see a doctor. Dean was asleep by then, his body a knot of trust against his father’s chest. He was snoring softly, his face peaceful in sleep, his hand’s still twisted into John’s shirt, but no longer frantic so much as they were simply possessive. He didn’t wake when John stood, didn’t wake when John shifted him a little higher against his shoulder so he could carry the weight more effectively with only one arm to put to the task.
He stirred when a nurse put hands on him, offering to take him to relieve John of the burden.
"No," John said. "I’ve got him."
When the nurse removed her hands, Dean settled again, sinking back against his father’s chest, mumbling something John couldn’t understand.
"I’ve got you, bud," John said, speaking to Dean this time. "I’ve got you."
Dean slept through the examination, and the x-rays. He slept through the doctor stitching John’s cheek back together and asking questions about Dean: if he’d been there when John took the tumble down the stairs, if seeing something like that might have traumatized him enough to require counseling, or to need some kind of medication to ease any residual anxiety seeing something so frightening might leave behind. He slept through the cast they applied to John’s wrist, and through the admitting process as they transferred him from the ER to a room for overnight observation just to be safe, something John agreed was probably a good idea, head wounds being unpredictable the way they were and his son not needing the extra anxiety of having to deal with anything unexpected that might arise.
He woke briefly when John called to update Jim on what was going on, sitting up in the hospital bed beside his dad and rubbing at his eyes as he asked, "Is Sammy okay?"
"Sammy’s fine. Go back to sleep, Dean."
Dean blinked at him, eyes bleary like a puppy newly introduced to the world. "Where are we?" he asked, not looking around to see for himself, but rather looking to John to tell him the way it was.
"We’re in a hospital room. They’re keeping me overnight to keep an eye on me. Just to be safe, make sure everything’s okay before they send me back home."
"I’m staying here," Dean said. Then, almost hesitantly, he added, "Right?"
"Lie back down, Dean. Go back to sleep."
"But I’m staying here," Dean repeated. "Right?"
"Yes. You’re staying with me. Pastor Jim will come pick us up in the morning. Now go back to sleep."
"Tell Pastor Jim Sammy likes toast for breakfast, with grape jelly, not strawberry," Dean said.
"You let Jim and I worry about Sammy. You do what you’re told, and don’t make me tell you again."
Dean looked at him for a moment longer, then nodded. "Okay," he mumbled, sinking back into the bed. "Night, Dad." He was asleep again almost before his head hit the pillow.
"How’s he doing?" Jim asked from the other end of the phone line.
"Better," John said.
"Than?"
"I don’t know, Jim. Better than before, I guess. Better than a six year old who thinks it’s okay to stand in the hall in his pjs and tell his old man to piss off when he tells the little mutt he’s not going to the hospital with him."
"You scared him, John."
"I know I did."
Jim waited a beat, then asked, "Is there anything I say here that makes a difference?"
"No. Dean pretty much covered it."
"You’re all he has," Jim said gently. "The only thing he believes in any more."
"I’m not an idiot," John said.
"Not to piss in your cornflakes there, pal," Jim returned easily, "but opinions on that one vary."
John snorted. "Yeah. I suppose they do. And maybe they should. I’m just saying I know how much he needs me. More than anyone, I know it."
"You might want to try to remember it," Jim suggested.
"I’m trying."
"Are you?"
John didn’t answer for a moment, watching Dean sleep, studying the way his son’s small body was twisted into a knot of protection against the world around him. "I’m doing the best I can, Jim." he said finally.
"Doesn’t sound like that’s good enough any more."
"Gonna have to be. It’s all I’ve got to offer."
Jim snorted.
"What?" John asked.
"May sound harsh, but what you have to offer doesn’t really matter," Jim said. "What matters is what your son needs. So if you don’t have it, you’d better figure out a way to get it, and you better do it fast."
"Oh fuck you and your existential bullshit," John said.
"I’m serious."
"So am I."
Jim sighed.
"Don’t even," John warned.
"Don’t even what?"
"Don’t even tell me to pray for strength, or I swear to God, I will crawl though this phone line and kick your ass."
Jim chuckled. "Am I getting that predictable in my old age?"
"You preachers are all the same. Gets out of your range of expertise, and you pull the God card."
"Sometimes the God card works."
"The God card’s a joker."
Jim didn’t say anything for a moment. "That a play on words there, John? God’s a joke? The God card’s a joker?"
"Take it however you want."
"How ’bout I take it this way: You don’t have what your son needs, maybe you’d better take any card you can get to shore up that weak-ass hand you’re holding."
"Jokers don’t mean jack shit a real game," John said. "In a real game, they aren’t even part of the deck in play. And I’ve got what Dean needs, I just have to do a better job of not letting it get itself killed. Or thrown down the stairs by pissy spirits, for that matter."
"Do I get to vote on that one?" Jim asked.
"No."
"Okay."
Neither of them spoke for almost a minute.
"I’m not trying to get myself killed," John said finally. "Things just go wrong sometimes. Shit happens. It’s part of the job."
"They go wrong more often with you than they should," Jim returned. "And this isn’t your job, John. It’s your mission. Maybe even your cross."
"You’re not equating me to Jesus Christ are you, Pastor Jim?"
Jim snorted. "God, no. Jesus didn’t look to get himself nailed to the cross. Hell, he even asked His Old Man once or twice if it was really the only way to get it done. Compared to you, that makes Him a fucking survivalist."
John didn’t say anything for a long moment. When he did speak, it was to say, "Damn, Jim. Be a bitch about it, why don’t you?"
"Truth hurts," Jim said.
"The way you tell it, it does."
"Not trying to hurt you, John. Trying to keep you alive."
"I’m alive."
"Are you?"
John sighed. "I hate it when you do that," he noted.
"Everybody does. And yet, I still do it."
"So … what? You’re trying to say I’m not alive?"
"What do you think?"
"I think I hate it when you do that, too."
"You’re alive, John. I’m just not sure you always realize that."
"Huh," John said. "Profound."
"That’s why I prefer to let you come to answers like that on your own."
"Why?" John asked. "So you won’t get called profound?"
"So you’ll listen to them instead of making fun of them," Jim countered.
"I’m listening to you."
"Are you?"
John laughed. "Fuck you," he said. "I have a concussion, a busted wrist, three bruised ribs, a smashing new two-stitch scar on my pretty mug and one hell of a lot of stair dents in my ass, so I’m going to hang up on you and go to sleep now. I just called to say they’re going to release me around ten tomorrow. It would be nice if you showed up some time in that vicinity so we can blow this popsicle stand."
"I’ll check my calendar and get back to you. Did you say those stair dents are on your ugly mug or your pretty ass? Or I guess it doesn’t really matter does it, both of them looking pretty much the same anyway."
"Did you just tell me I have a pretty ass, Jim?" John asked. "Because you really need to buy me a drink before you start talking like that."
"No. I called you an assface, John. And I’ll consider buying you a drink when you consider not getting that assface of yours thrown down a flight of stairs just to prove me wrong when I say it can’t get any damn uglier than it already is. Go to sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow."
"Hey," John said quietly.
"What?"
"Dean talked to some woman about Mary tonight."
That stopped Jim cold. "He did?" he asked after a long beat of stunned silence. "Who?"
"Some stranger. Just walked up to her and started talking."
"Seriously? Your Dean?"
"She had blonde hair. Same length as Mary’s. Wore it the same way."
"She look like her?"
"No. Not at all. Just the hair."
Jim thought about that for a moment. "What do you make of that?" he asked finally.
"What do I make of it?" John repeated.
"Yeah. Obviously you’ve got something to say about it, or you wouldn’t have brought it up."
"I just thought you’d want to know."
"Bullshit, Assface. Tell me what you’re thinking."
"I’m thinking I’ve fucked him, Jim," John said quietly. "That I’ve really, truly fucked him."
"How so?"
"How so?" John repeated.
"Damnit, John. Don’t just parrot me. Tell me what you’re thinking."
"You want to know what I’m thinking?" John snapped. "Fine. I’ll tell you what I’m thinking. I’m thinking my son was down to his last fucking dime. I think he was so fucking scared he found someone who looked like a mommy to him so he could ask her to save me from myself. That’s what I’m thinking."
Jim didn’t say anything. John gave him several beats to respond. When he didn’t, John demanded, "What? You’ve got nothing to say to that?"
"What do you want me to say?" Jim asked.
"I don’t know. Something profound. Maybe you can tell me to pray about it or something. That would be really helpful right now. I could absolutely use some advice like that if you’ve got any laying around those holier-than-thou digs of yours."
"You’re looking for advice now?"
"Fuck no, Jim. I’m looking for answers. How in the hell did I get here? I’ve been trying to get him to talk about Mary for two years; and when he finally does, it’s to a stranger because he’s so convinced I’m going to leave him he can’t think of anything else to do? Any other way to stop it? That’s fucked. That is so totally fucked. He picked her because she looked like a mommy to him; someone who would help him. But I guaran-God-damn-tee you he also picked her because he thought if she looked enough like Mary, I might listen to her. That’s why he picked her, Jim. I know Dean. I know the way he thinks. And he picked her so I’d listen. He picked someone he thought looked like Mary so I’d fucking listen to her. Jesus Christ, Jim. How did I do that to him? And how do I undo it? How the fuck do I undo it? And don’t tell me to ask God that one. Don’t you fucking tell me that, or I will hang the fuck up."
Jim waited for several moments. John waited with him.
"You finished?" Jim asked finally.
"Yes."
"Are you really looking for an answer, or did you just want to get that off your chest?"
"I’m looking for an answer."
"Quit trying to kill yourself," Jim said.
John didn’t respond to that.
"That’s my answer, John," Jim said quietly. "Quit trying to kill yourself. That’s what I’ve got for you. So are you going to hang the fuck up on me now?"
"No."
"You sure?"
"Don’t be an ass."
"I’m not being an ass. I’m giving you an out so you can keep not hearing something you’ve been doing everything you can not to hear for a while now."
"I don’t need an out. And I don’t need you giving me grief for not listening."
"You don’t listen, John. Not when you don’t want to hear what I’m saying."
"I listen to you, Jim," John said again.
"But?"
"But I don’t always want to hear what you’re saying. That doesn’t mean I’m not listening. It just means I don’t want to hear it."
"Because you don’t agree with it? Because you don’t believe it? What, John? Why don’t you want to hear it?"
"Because I can’t do it."
"Can’t do what?"
"Stop hunting."
"Who said anything about not hunting? I didn’t say you have to stop hunting. Were you listening to me, John? Did you hear a fucking word I said?"
"I heard what you said. You said stop hunting."
"I said stop trying to get yourself killed."
"What the difference?"
"If there’s not a difference for you between hunting and trying to get yourself killed; then you’re right, I said stop hunting."
"You want me to pretend it never happened? Just go on with life like Mary got hit by a drunk driver, or died in childbirth? Pretend whatever murdered her wasn’t after Sammy, too? Or Dean? Or all of us?"
"No, John. That isn’t what I want. And even if it was, what I want doesn’t matter. What you want matters."
"I want to hunt. I need to hunt, Jim. It’s the only thing that makes sense to me any more. The only thing that makes the world make sense."
"Then don’t quit hunting. Just do it differently."
"Differently how?"
"Differently in a way that doesn’t end up with you dead."
"Hunting’s dangerous. I can’t promise I won’t get killed if I keep doing it."
"You already did that, didn’t you?"
"Did what?"
"Promised. To Dean. He told me more than a year ago he wasn’t going to live with me no matter what, and I couldn’t make him. He said if you left him here, he was going to run away and find you again, and he’d take Sammy with him."
"He told you that?"
"Yeah. He did. He said he wanted me to know it wasn’t anything personal, he just wasn’t going to let you leave him. So if you tried, he was going to run away; and he didn’t want me to think it was anything I’d done, I should just understand that was the way it had to be; because you’re his dad, not me, although I’d probably be a good dad if I ever decided I didn’t want to be a pastor any more."
John snorted, shaking his head. He studied Dean curled up on the bed beside him, watching him sleep as he said, "Son of a bitch, that boy is my son, isn’t he?"
"Yes, John. He is."
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him that isn’t what you had in mind. That you weren’t planning to leave him. He came back a week later and told me I was right, and he was sorry if he hurt my feelings by saying what he said. When I asked him what changed his mind on the subject, he said you promised him you wouldn’t leave. That you promised him, and he believed you."
"I did."
"Then you’ve already made the promise, John. And he’s already taken you at your word. So unless you want to break that boy’s soul, you only really have one option: keep your promise. Don’t leave him."
"I’m trying, Jim."
"No you’re not. You say you’re trying, but you’re not."
"I don’t know what else I can do. Except quit hunting all together. And I don’t think I can do that. I don’t think I can. Not and still be any use to him, or to Sammy." John reached up, rubbed at his forehead, trying to find a way to say what he didn’t want to say. "I need the hunt," he admitted finally. "It’s the only thing that helps, the only thing that bleeds off enough pressure so I don’t … so I don’t turn it back on them. On you. On anybody else close enough to reach when it hits me again."
"When what hits you?" Jim asked. "The pain?"
"The anger." John’s voice broke a little on the confession. He hadn’t told anyone this, hadn’t spoken about it at all. "It’s blinding. Worse than anything I ever felt over there. Worse than anything I’ve ever felt period. I can’t control it. I’ve tried, but I can’t. I can’t even see when it hits me. I can’t think: I can’t breathe. All I can do is kill. That’s all I want to do, Jim. Just kill. Kill something. Kill anything."
His chest had gone tight. His head was pounding, his heart working harder than it had to. He’d locked this up inside for so long it was hard to get it out. Hard to actually say it, hard to admit how far he’d fallen away from the civilized man Mary’d made of him once, hard to concede that the mechanic she’d reclaimed from a Marine who spent too long killing to keep from being killed no longer existed, that it was just a charade John played in the sham of a life he tried to live between hunts.
"The hunt makes that sane for me," John said, trying to explain it to the only man he knew who might possibly understand what he was saying. "It gives me a pressure valve, a way to let it off without hurting something that doesn’t deserve hurting. And I need it, Jim. God help me, but I need it. If I didn’t have it, I’d blow and take everyone with me."
He stopped for a moment, gritting his teeth against the urge to lie, to make himself sound stronger than he was by pretending he could control this when he knew he couldn’t. "If I try to give up hunting," he said when he could go on, "I’ll have to leave them. It’s the only way to protect them from who I am without that pressure valve. And I can’t do that. I can’t do that to Dean; I don’t think I can even do it to me. I know hunting is dangerous. I know how easy it would be to screw up and get myself killed. But I can’t give it up. Not without giving them up, too. And I can’t do that. I just can’t. I’ve gotten myself boxed into a corner, and I can’t see any way out of it."
"The way out is the same as the way in, John," Jim said.
"What the hell does that mean? Don’t talk to me in riddles right now, Jim. I need help. I need help, or Dean will be the one who suffers when I screw up again."
"You’ve got to come home," Jim said.
"What?"
"Come home," Jim repeated. "You know what it means. You had it once with Mary, and you’ve got to find it again. You don’t have any choice any more. You’ve been out too long. If you don’t come home soon, there won’t be any home left to come to."
"I’m not on deployment," John argued. "This isn’t over there. The same rules don’t apply."
"Yes they do, John. Those rules always apply."
"I have a son now -" John said.
"You have two sons," Jim interrupted quietly.
"Sammy would be fine. It’s Dean I have to protect."
"You have to protect them both," Jim countered. "And the only way to do that is to protect yourself. You’ve been gone too long. You’ve got to come back home. You’ve got to get back to the world soon or you never will."
"That’s just your existential bullshit again," John said. "I’m not gone. I’m still here."
"I’ve known you for ten years, John," Jim said. "I know when you’re gone and when you’re home, the same way I know when you’re hunting and when you’re trying to die."
John closed his eyes, listened to the sound of his heartbeat. He was having trouble breathing, having trouble listening, having trouble hearing.
"Talk to me, John," Jim said when John hadn’t spoken for several minutes.
"How can I find my way home if I don’t even know when I’m gone?" John asked.
"You know," Jim returned. "You just don’t want to hear it."
"I can’t hear it any more, Jim. Maybe that’s the problem. I can’t hear anything any more except the sound of my own fucking pain. I try to be better than that, but I’m not. There are times it gets so bad I just have to let it have me for a while. It just takes over, and I let it."
"It’s the constancy of pain that’s the enemy, not the intensity of it," Jim said. "Finding refuge from that constancy is the only way to make it out alive. To make it back home. To make it back to the world."
John laughed quietly, almost bitterly. "I was thinking about that earlier," he said. "Thinking about Brody and his Philosophy of Pain."
"Brody was an idiot. You used to know that."
"He was right about giving in to it, though. Right about letting it have you for a while in order to get through it."
"Are you serious?"
"Yeah. I am."
"Wow." Jim said. Then he added, "Christo."
"Oh, fuck you."
"Just making sure. I never though I’d hear you say anything about Brody that didn’t predicate itself on the lack of branches in his family tree and the consequent degradation of his mental capacity, so when I hear you quoting him chapter and fucking verse, I’ve got to cover all the bases before I take it as something I’m actually hearing from John Winchester."
"I didn’t say he wasn’t a moron with the mental capacity of a brain-damaged cabbage," John retorted impatiently. "I said he had a point about giving in to the pain to get past it. To relieve the constancy of it. To just get a fucking break from it."
"It wasn’t Brody who said you have to take a break from it. It was Brody who said giving in to it is how you get that break. And if I recall correctly, it was you who dubbed him a categorical fucking idiot for preaching that philosophy to a new crop of FNGs before they ever even got their feet wet in actual combat."
"That was before Mary," John said. "Before I actually understood what constancy of pain meant. And what it takes to survive it because you have a child who lives and dies on your survival."
"It takes relief, John. Refuge. Not surrender."
"There is no refuge. No relief. Sometimes surrender is all you’ve got. All I’ve got, at least."
"Surrender. You’re actually saying surrender is the choice here?"
"A temporary choice, but yeah. Sometimes surrender is the only way to live to fight another day."
"Christo," Jim said again.
"I have a son," John said. "It’s different now."
"You still have two sons," Jim reminded him again. "And it isn’t different."
"How can you say that, Jim?" John was tired suddenly; so tired he could hardly keep his eyes open. "How can you say it’s not different after everything that’s happened? Everything we never believed in that turned out to be true? Do you remember Ramos and his protection rituals? Tell me that doesn’t haunt you now. Tell me us giving him so much grief over his pig-gutting, rabbit-eye hedonism that he finally quit doing it doesn’t make you feel like we’re at least partially to blame for him dying over there instead of coming back home with us?"
"As far as I know, pig intestines still aren’t capable of protecting a man from sniper fire," Jim said.
"But blessing tap water with a rosary and a few lines of Latin is?" John challenged.
"Not that I know of. Seems to work pretty well against low-level demons though."
John shook his head, didn’t answer.
"Whether it works or not, surrender isn’t something you’re good at," Jim said after a moment. "It isn’t something you’ve ever been able to do no matter what the stakes were."
"I have children to consider now."
"Your sons need who you are, not who you can’t be."
"That’s good in theory," John said quietly. "But in practice, I have to find relief from it sometimes. The hunt gives me what I need to get through the anger. But the only relief I find from the pain is giving in to it on occasion. Letting it have me. I hate who that makes of me when it happens. I hate what it requires of my six-year-old to cover for me until I’m finished. But as much as I’ve tried to fight against it, that’s the only thing that gets me through it. The only thing that lets me survive it. The only way I can stay here for Dean; the only way I can be here for him so he doesn’t fall apart the way I have to every once in a while if either one of us is going to make it through this. I wish it were different, but it isn’t. The simple truth of it is that it isn’t. There is no relief without surrender. And I have to have relief. I have to, Jim. I wish I didn’t, but I do."
"I want you to listen to me, John," Jim said. "Don’t argue with me; just listen." He waited a beat and then asked, "Are you listening?"
"Yes."
"You’re right: You do have to find a way to get some relief from the constancy of this pain. But surrender is not that way. Maybe it was for Brody, but it isn’t for you. It never has been, and it never will be. You aren’t capable of it. There are only two things in this world I can tell you for absolute certain: 1) The Joker is part of the deck in play for this game and 2) John Winchester is incapable of surrender. Are you listening to me?"
"Yes."
"Good. Because I’ve been listening to you, too. And what I’m hearing makes me think the way you’re trying to find refuge from the pain of Mary’s murder may be why you can’t find your way home again. You can’t surrender your way back to the world. You have to fight. That’s who you are. That’s who you’ll always be. Your sons don’t change that. Nothing changes that. Are you still listening to me?"
"Yes."
"Then hear this: Dean. Dean is the only thing that has ever given you any refuge from the pain. I saw it in those first weeks after Mary was murdered. When you came to me after you left Mike’s, I didn’t even recognize the man you’d become. I saw you worse than dead more than once over there, but I never saw you broken the way you were then. Not once. When you first showed up at the rectory, I honestly didn’t think you’d survive. I thought you were already gone. But then I saw you with Dean. That was the only time I recognized you those first weeks, John. Only when you were with Dean. That was it. Only then. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?"
"No."
"Dean," Jim repeated. "I’m saying Dean. He’s your relief. He’s your refuge. He’s the road home for you, John; and you’d better find a way to use him to get there before it’s too later or it’s going to break you both."
John waited for him to go on, but Jim was finished. He didn’t say anything more.
"That’s what you’ve got for me?" John asked finally. "I call the smartest man I know for advice on how to keep from self-destructing at the cost of my six-year-old son, and what you’ve got for me is Dean?"
"Yeah," Jim said. "That’s what I’ve got."
"You’re over-rated, Preacher," he said.
"Pastor," Jim corrected.
"Over there you were The Preacher," John reminded him. "Over there, you put the fear of God into more men than the Inquisition and the Crusades combined."
"Over there, I was a Marine," Jim said. "But I came home, John. I found my refuge from the constancy of pain."
"Dean?" John asked dryly.
"God," Jim returned.
John didn’t say anything to that.
"Come home," Jim said. "You did it once. You can do it again."
"It was different then," John said.
"Only if you let it be," Jim returned.
John studied his son, watching him sleep. "All right," he said finally. "A lot to think about. I’m going to call it a night. Dean wanted me to tell you Sammy prefers his toast with grape jelly, not strawberry."
"Huh," Jim said. "Damn shame he’s getting Fruit Loops then, isn’t it? I’ll see you at ten. Say your prayers before you go to sleep."
"God may be your refuge," John said quietly, "but he’s not mine."
"That why you say prayers with Dean every night?" Jim asked.
"Who says I do?"
"Dean."
"Oh, you mean My Refuge?"
"Yeah."
"He lies."
"Does he?"
"Yeah. He’s six. And he’s mine."
"Of that, there is little doubt."
"The prayers are for his sake, and for Mary’s. Not for mine."
"Really."
"Yeah. Really. Me and God? Not so close. He hasn’t been a very good friend to me."
"Look at your son," Jim instructed.
"I am."
"What do you see?"
"My son."
"Exactly. Say your fucking prayers, John. You have a lot to be thankful for."
The phone clicked in John’s ear before he could answer. John snorted, then hung the receiver up and turned out the light over the bed before leaning back into the pillows and closing his eyes.
As soon as it went dark, Dean stirred. "Dad?" he called, his voice a small panic in the making as he woke.
John reached out, put his hand on Dean’s shoulder. "I’m right here, son."
The anxiety in Dean’s tone eased as he asked, "Where are we?"
"We’re in the hospital. We’re staying the night, remember?"
"Oh, yeah," Dean said, lying his ass of and trying to sound like he wasn’t.
John smiled. "Go back to sleep, Dean," he said.
"Are you going to sleep?" Dean asked.
"Yeah. Thought I would."
"Did the doctor say that was okay?"
John’s smile deepened. "You must get that from your mother," he observed dryly.
"What?"
"Being a worry wart."
"What’s a worry wart?"
"What does it sound like?"
"Um … something to do with worrying too much?"
"There you go."
"I’m not a worry wart," Dean said. "But did the doctor say it was okay for you to go to sleep?"
John chuckled. He patted Dean’s shoulder in the darkness and said, "Yes, son. He said it was fine as long as I don’t go chasing any poltergeists in my dreams."
"Is that what happened? You fell down chasing a poltergeist?"
"More or less."
"You must have been running really fast," Dean observed. That was his way of calling his old man a liar.
"There might have been some stairs involved," John allowed easily. "And I might have been doing a little more flying than running."
Dean considered that for a moment. "Oh," he said finally, pronouncing his father’s revision more believable. "Okay. Did you catch it?"
"Might be a little more accurate to say it caught me. But that was all part of my plan."
"It was?"
"Absolutely."
"Your plan was to fly down some stairs and get caught?" Dean asked doubtfully, not quite calling him a liar, but not quite believing him either.
"It was a very sneaky plan," John said.
"How did you get hurt then?" Dean asked, back to calling him a liar.
"I didn’t say it was a good plan, just a sneaky one."
"Oooooooh." Dean nodded, completely on board with that as the truth. "But you got it in the end, right?"
"Absolutely. That part of my plan worked perfectly."
"Which part?"
"The letting it catch me part."
"Is that when you got hurt? When it caught you?"
John smiled a little. His six-year-old was trying to trip him up. "What do you think?" he asked.
Dean hesitated for just a beat, then said, "I think if you got hurt when it caught you then it didn’t work all that good."
"But I said that part worked perfectly, didn’t I?"
"Yeah."
"So what does that make you think?"
Dean thought about that one for much longer. John could almost hear the wheels turning in his head. "That you got hurt in a different part?" he ventured finally.
"And which part do you think that was?" John pressed.
"Um. The part that didn’t work very good?"
"And that would be?"
"Um. The … part you didn’t tell me about?"
"I told you about it."
"You did?"
"Sure did."
Dean thought about it. John waited. His son was a bulldog when it came to puzzles. He’d keep worrying it until he shook it to death or figured it out. "Oh!" Dean said suddenly. "The flying part, right?"
John grinned. "That would be the part that didn’t work so well," he verified.
"So you’re not going to do that part again, right?"
"Well, at least not until I learn how to do the landing part of the flying part better. And now that you’ve debriefed me on my mission, what do you say we get a little shuteye?"
"Okay," Dean agreed. "Are we going to say our prayers?"
John hesitated.
"Or we don’t have to," Dean said quickly.
"No. That’s okay. We can say your prayers if you want to."
"It’s okay. We don’t have to."
"Do you want to?" John asked.
This time, it was Dean who hesitated. "I don’t know," he said after a long beat. "Do you?"
"Probably wouldn’t hurt to thank Him for looking after me tonight," John allowed.
"And for giving you a hard head," Dean added.
John huffed a little in surprise. "What?" he asked, trying to make out Dean’s expression in the dark room.
"We should thank Him for giving you a hard head," Dean repeated.
John thought about that for a second, then asked, not really sure he wanted to know the answer, "Is that a crack, son?"
"Huh?"
John chuckled. "Nothing. Never mind. Yes, maybe we should thank Him for that, too."
"I just mean for giving you a hard head so it didn’t break during the flying part of your plan," Dean clarified. "Or the landing part, either."
"Right," John agreed. "A pretty good thing to have if you’re going to do some of the things I do, huh?"
"What did you think I meant?" Dean asked after a moment of silence.
"That’s what I thought you meant," John lied.
"Then why did you ask me if it was a crack?"
"Why don’t you say your prayers, and I’ll just listen," John suggested.
"Pastor Jim says you have a harder head than anyone he’s ever met," Dean offered.
"Oh he does, does he?"
"Yeah." Dean waited a moment, then asked, "Is that a crack?"
John chuckled again. "Yes, Dean. I’m pretty sure that is a crack."
"He’s making fun of you?"
"Not really. More making an observation, I think."
"Is it a crack for him to say you have a good head, too?"
"No. That’s a compliment. Like when I tell you that you have a good head on your shoulders. That means you think things through, make the right decisions."
"Then I don’t think he meant you having a hard head as a crack," Dean said.
"Why not?"
"Because he said them at the same time."
"When?"
Dean shrugged. "I don’t remember. I just remember he said it. He and I talk sometimes. He said it then."
"What did he say?"
"That I shouldn’t worry about you so much because you have a really good head, and it’s harder than anyone else’s he’s ever met. So I don’t think he meant it as a crack."
"You’re probably right," John said.
"And he didn’t say I was a worry wart," Dean added. "He just said I shouldn’t worry. Not that I do. Or that I worry too much."
"That’s good, because I wouldn’t want Pastor Jim cracking wise about my boy," John said seriously.
"Is that a crack, too, then?" Dean asked.
"What?"
"Saying I’m a worry wart?"
"No, Dean. That’s not a crack. That’s more of an observation, too."
"Then what does cracking wise mean?"
"What else do you and Pastor Jim talk about?" John asked, more to derail his son from the train of thought on which he was riding than out of any desire to know.
"Things."
"Me?"
"Sometimes."
"Your mother?"
Dean didn’t answer for so long John didn’t think he was going to. Then finally, quietly, he said, "No. I don’t talk to him about Mom."
"Why not?"
"’Cause he doesn’t know."
"Doesn’t know what?"
"He just doesn’t know." Dean’s mood had changed. He shifted, snuggling closer to John, burrowing into his father’s side, looking for comfort. His voice was confessional in the darkness when he said, "Not like us."
John dropped his arm around Dean. He pulled Dean in, held him close. "No, he doesn’t, does he? Not like us."
"Nobody knows like us," Dean said.
John nodded. He didn’t say anything for a while, then asked, "Do you want to talk about her with me?"
Again, Dean didn’t answer for so long John wasn’t sure he was going to. And again, when he did answer, it was so quiet his words were mere whispers in the dark. "I don’t know. Do you?"
"Sometimes I think it would help," John said. "You?"
"Maybe."
"We should do that then," John said quietly. "Sometime. When you want to."
"You don’t want to then?"
"I didn’t say that."
"Yes, you did."
John frowned, looked down at Dean in the darkness. His son was watching him, his eyes glistening in what little light filtered in through the closed blinds from the well-lit parking lot outside. "When did I say that, Dean?"
"You say it all the time."
John’s frown deepened. "No, I don’t. I’ve never said that to you, have I?"
"Yes, you do. Maybe not in words, but you say it."
"How do I say it?"
Dean shrugged then, looked away. "You just do," he muttered.
John sighed. He closed his eyes, let the sedation in his system work on the tension that was tying knots into his neck and shoulders. The conversation with Jim had drained him. The one starting up with Dean looked like it might be headed the same direction.
"But it’s okay, because I don’t want to talk about her either," Dean said quietly.
"You don’t?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I don’t know. Just ’cause I don’t, I guess."
"Maybe we should talk about her anyway," John suggested.
"Why?"
"I don’t know. Just ’cause we should, I guess."
"But you don’t want to," Dean said. Then, almost like it was an afterthought, he added, "but that’s okay, because I don’t either."
"Did that woman remind you of her earlier?" John asked after a moment.
"No."
"She had the same color hair," John noted. "And your mother used to wear her hair that way. I remember it used to smell like strawberries. I loved the way her hair smelled like strawberries. I remember that about her all the time. Sometimes I even smell strawberries in the grocery store, and it makes me think of her."
"It does?" Dean asked quietly.
"Yeah. It does."
"It smelled like flowers sometimes, too," Dean ventured after several seconds.
"What kind of flowers? Do you remember?"
"Purple ones," Dean said.
"That’s right. I remember now. She liked purple flowers. They were her favorite kind."
"There were purple flowers on the bottle of her hair soap," Dean offered. "She washed my hair with it once when we were out of boy hair soap. She said it wouldn’t make any difference, but I smelled like a girl for a week."
John smiled. "I think it might have been a little longer than a week, son."
"You made fun of me," Dean reminded him. "Every time I walked by your chair, you said it made you hope the baby turned out to be a girl instead of a boy when it was born. Him, I mean. Sammy. But before he was born. Do you remember that? Mom thought it was pretty funny, but I didn’t."
John chuckled. "Sorry about that."
"No you’re not."
"Yeah. You’re right. I’m not."
"Is that cracking wise?" Dean asked.
"What?" John teased. "Me not being sorry?"
"No. You saying me smelling like a girl made you hope Sammy turned out to be a girl."
"Yes, Dean. That is very much cracking wise."
"I thought so."
"You did, huh?"
"Uh huh. So it’s like teasing then."
"Right."
"So why don’t you just say teasing?"
"Because cracking wise sounds much cooler, doesn’t it?"
Dean thought about that for a moment. "Yeah," he said finally. "I guess."
"So that’s why I say it that way."
"And a crack is what you do when you’re cracking wise?" Dean pursued, back on the track and running for the station.
"Exactly."
"So you thought I was teasing you about having a hard head?"
"I thought you might be cracking wise about it, yes."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why would I crack about you having a hard head?"
"Crack wise," John corrected.
"Why would I crack wise about you having a hard head?" Dean revised.
"I have no idea, Dean."
"Then why did you ask me if it was a crack?"
John laughed. "You do have a one-track mind, don’t you, son," he observed dryly.
"I do?"
"Yes, you do."
"Do I get that from Mom, too?"
The question jarred John. He was so used to Dean avoiding the topic of his mother it threw him for a moment to have him ask something about her so directly.
"What does one-track mean?" Dean asked, trying to cover for John’s fumble.
"Yes, Dean. You get that from your mother, too."
"Oh. What does one-track mean?"
"Just like being a worry wart," John added.
"It’s okay, Dad. What does one-track mean?"
"It means once you get on a subject it’s very hard to distract you from it. Your mother was like that, too."
"Why is it called one-track?" Dean asked.
"Dean."
"Yeah?"
John didn’t say anything.
"What?" Dean asked again.
John still didn’t say anything.
"It’s okay, Dad," Dean said.
"What’s okay?"
"You know."
"Do I?"
"Pastor Jim does that all the time."
John chuckled. "Yes, he does, doesn’t he?"
"It kind of makes me crazy when he does," Dean added.
"You’re not alone in that, son."
"We talk about trains sometimes," Dean offered. "Is that the kind of track you mean?"
"Dean."
"What?"
John sighed. "Weren’t we talking about your mother?"
"That’s okay. I’d rather talk about trains."
"No you wouldn’t."
Dean hesitated. "It’s okay, Dad," he said for the third time.
"No, it isn’t."
"Yes, it is. It’s okay. Really. It is."
"Who’s the dad here?" John asked.
"You are."
"Then how about you letting me decide what’s okay and what isn’t?"
Dean didn’t answer that.
"Okay?" John pressed.
"I guess," Dean said.
"You guess? Is that what Marines do? Guess?"
"I guess, sir?" Dean suggested. And then he snickered.
"Now that is cracking wise," John said.
"Did I do it right?"
"Yes, you did."
"Because of the ‘sir,’ right?"
"If you have to explain a joke, it isn’t a very good joke," John told him.
"Is a joke the same thing as cracking wise?"
"Do you not want to talk about your mom?" John asked.
This time it was Dean who got thrown. He hesitated so long John pressed him, saying, "Well?"
"I don’t know. Do you?"
"Yes."
"You do?"
"Yes."
"No you don’t."
"Yes I do, Dean."
"You do?"
"How many times do I have to answer that one before you believe me?" John asked.
"I don’t know."
"How ’bout once more. Does that sound good to you?"
"I guess."
"Good. Then here we go: Yes, Dean, I do want to talk about your mother."
"Okay," Dean said quietly. But he didn’t say anything else.
"It’s your turn," John said after several moments.
"Huh?"
"I told you about the strawberries," John clarified. "So it’s your turn to tell me something about her."
"I told you about the purple flowers," Dean said, his voice little more than a whisper.
"I told you she had a one-track mind and that she was a worry wart."
"I told you … um … okay, so it’s my turn then?"
John smiled. "Sounds like."
"Okay." Dean thought about it for a long moment, then said, "She liked chocolate. I remember that."
"Oh no she didn’t," John said. Then before Dean had a chance to protest, he clarified, "She loved chocolate. She loved chocolate more than anything. Sometimes I think she loved it more than you and me and purple flowers all put together."
"Uh uh," Dean said.
"Yeah, okay, maybe not that much. But she sure loved it, didn’t she?"
"She made the best chocolate chip cookies ever," Dean said.
"What? You don’t like mine?"
"Yours suck, Dad."
"They do?"
"Yeah. Big time."
"Well you sure pack them away for them sucking," John noted. "You and Sammy both."
"They still suck."
"Sammy doesn’t like them either?"
"He loves them. But he eats crayons, too."
John laughed. "There you go, cracking wise again."
"I’m practicing."
"For what?"
"To use it on Pastor Jim."
"I like that idea."
"He started it by cracking wise about your head," Dean pointed out.
"Yes, he did. But we were talking about your mother’s chocolate chip cookies, weren’t we?"
"They were awesome," Dean said. Then he added, "But we were talking about how much your chocolate chip cookies suck."
"Well, I guess I’m just not all that good at the girl stuff, huh?"
"That’s okay. You’re good at other stuff."
"Why didn’t you ever tell me they sucked?"
"Because if I told you they sucked, you wouldn’t make them any more," Dean said reasonably.
"And that would be a bad thing how?"
"Yeah."
"I mean why, Dean. If they really suck so bad and all, how would it be a bad thing for me to stop making them?"
Dean didn’t answer.
"Dean?" John prompted after a beat.
"Because they remind me of her," Dean said quietly. "Is that okay to say?"
"You can say anything you want to about your mother, son. You can talk about anything you remember about her or ask me anything you want to know."
"Without making you sad, I mean."
"Talking about your mother doesn’t make me sad."
"Yes it does."
"What about my cookies reminded you of her?" John asked.
"Not very much. Is that a good one?"
"I’m being serious, Dean," John said gently.
"Oh. Okay. Sorry."
"You didn’t do anything to apologize for. I’d just like to know what it is that reminds you of her. Do you mind telling me?"
John could see his son struggling in the darkness, trying to figure out a way to answer the question without saying something he thought might hurt his old man.
"I don’t know," Dean said finally. "I guess when you make them, it makes the whole house smell that way, so it doesn’t really matter what they taste like. Just the smell reminds me of her. And you let me lick the bowl. Mom always let me lick the bowl, so that reminds me of her, too. Only hers tasted better."
John nodded. "Yeah. That’s kind of why I started making them … the whole smell thing."
"To remind me of her?" Dean asked.
"No, son. To remind me of her."
"Oh." Dean didn’t say anything for some time, then he ventured, "I thought you didn’t want to be reminded of her."
"What made you think that?"
"Because you never talk about her."
"Yeah," John said quietly. "I guess I don’t, do I?"
"That’s okay, Dad," Dean said almost automatically.
"No it isn’t, son. It isn’t at all."
Dean hesitated, then asked, "Because of you or because of me?"
"It’s not okay for either one of us. We loved her. We should talk about her."
Neither of them spoke for several minutes. Lying side by side in the hospital bed, Dean tucked up under John’s arm, pressed in close to his side, his head on John’s chest now rather than the pillow he’d pushed away, they just listened to the quiet and remembered a woman neither of them had spoken about since the night she died.
Not really spoken about. Not about who she was, instead of how she died.
"What else reminds you of her?" Dean asked finally.
"Pink bikinis," John said. Dean snickered in a way that sounded ten instead of six. "No, really. Your mom looked like dynamite in a pink bikini. Not that I should probably be telling you that; but she did, and I remember that about her. I remember it every day."
"I remember those stupid slippers she used to wear," Dean offered.
"The fuzzy ones?"
"Yeah. They were pink, too, weren’t they?"
"Yellow, I think," John said.
"She liked yellow."
"Yes she did. Reminded her of sunshine, she said."
Dean snorted. "Girls," he said, his tone clear with his opinion of that.
"Give it a few years, bud. You’ll think girls are the best thing since sliced bread."
"She liked purple, too," Dean said. "What did that remind her of?"
They talked until Dean dozed off again, revisiting a hundred memories, John telling Dean stories he’d never heard, telling him some he probably shouldn’t have heard until he was much older; and even then, ones he probably shouldn’t have heard about his mother.
But it wasn’t just about Dean. It was about him, too. About what he remembered. About what he wanted to remember.
Lying in the dark, the warmth of his son against his side, the smell of hospital antiseptic strong and biting in his nose and the memory of Mary fresh in his mind like strawberries and sex and chocolate chip cookies baking on a Saturday afternoon, John listened to the quiet and found himself coming home.
finis
phantomas who is the most awesome beta on the whole planet. She is pure awesomeness made of only the finest grade of awesome. And she rocks, too.
As always, let me know what y'all think.
Title: The Constancy of Pain
Author:
dodger_winslow
Challenge: Firsts Chart: First Time Dean Went to the ER
Genre: Gen
Word Count: 18,050
Pairings: None
Rating: R for language
Disclaimer: I don't own the boys, I'm just stalking them for a while.
Summary: Sometimes it’s the constancy of pain, not the intensity of it, that’s the enemy. And in the fight to overcome such an enemy, finding even a small respite from that constancy can be the only way to make it out alive.
The Constancy of Pain (Part 2)
It was three more hours before they finally got John in to see a doctor. Dean was asleep by then, his body a knot of trust against his father’s chest. He was snoring softly, his face peaceful in sleep, his hand’s still twisted into John’s shirt, but no longer frantic so much as they were simply possessive. He didn’t wake when John stood, didn’t wake when John shifted him a little higher against his shoulder so he could carry the weight more effectively with only one arm to put to the task.
He stirred when a nurse put hands on him, offering to take him to relieve John of the burden.
"No," John said. "I’ve got him."
When the nurse removed her hands, Dean settled again, sinking back against his father’s chest, mumbling something John couldn’t understand.
"I’ve got you, bud," John said, speaking to Dean this time. "I’ve got you."
Dean slept through the examination, and the x-rays. He slept through the doctor stitching John’s cheek back together and asking questions about Dean: if he’d been there when John took the tumble down the stairs, if seeing something like that might have traumatized him enough to require counseling, or to need some kind of medication to ease any residual anxiety seeing something so frightening might leave behind. He slept through the cast they applied to John’s wrist, and through the admitting process as they transferred him from the ER to a room for overnight observation just to be safe, something John agreed was probably a good idea, head wounds being unpredictable the way they were and his son not needing the extra anxiety of having to deal with anything unexpected that might arise.
He woke briefly when John called to update Jim on what was going on, sitting up in the hospital bed beside his dad and rubbing at his eyes as he asked, "Is Sammy okay?"
"Sammy’s fine. Go back to sleep, Dean."
Dean blinked at him, eyes bleary like a puppy newly introduced to the world. "Where are we?" he asked, not looking around to see for himself, but rather looking to John to tell him the way it was.
"We’re in a hospital room. They’re keeping me overnight to keep an eye on me. Just to be safe, make sure everything’s okay before they send me back home."
"I’m staying here," Dean said. Then, almost hesitantly, he added, "Right?"
"Lie back down, Dean. Go back to sleep."
"But I’m staying here," Dean repeated. "Right?"
"Yes. You’re staying with me. Pastor Jim will come pick us up in the morning. Now go back to sleep."
"Tell Pastor Jim Sammy likes toast for breakfast, with grape jelly, not strawberry," Dean said.
"You let Jim and I worry about Sammy. You do what you’re told, and don’t make me tell you again."
Dean looked at him for a moment longer, then nodded. "Okay," he mumbled, sinking back into the bed. "Night, Dad." He was asleep again almost before his head hit the pillow.
"How’s he doing?" Jim asked from the other end of the phone line.
"Better," John said.
"Than?"
"I don’t know, Jim. Better than before, I guess. Better than a six year old who thinks it’s okay to stand in the hall in his pjs and tell his old man to piss off when he tells the little mutt he’s not going to the hospital with him."
"You scared him, John."
"I know I did."
Jim waited a beat, then asked, "Is there anything I say here that makes a difference?"
"No. Dean pretty much covered it."
"You’re all he has," Jim said gently. "The only thing he believes in any more."
"I’m not an idiot," John said.
"Not to piss in your cornflakes there, pal," Jim returned easily, "but opinions on that one vary."
John snorted. "Yeah. I suppose they do. And maybe they should. I’m just saying I know how much he needs me. More than anyone, I know it."
"You might want to try to remember it," Jim suggested.
"I’m trying."
"Are you?"
John didn’t answer for a moment, watching Dean sleep, studying the way his son’s small body was twisted into a knot of protection against the world around him. "I’m doing the best I can, Jim." he said finally.
"Doesn’t sound like that’s good enough any more."
"Gonna have to be. It’s all I’ve got to offer."
Jim snorted.
"What?" John asked.
"May sound harsh, but what you have to offer doesn’t really matter," Jim said. "What matters is what your son needs. So if you don’t have it, you’d better figure out a way to get it, and you better do it fast."
"Oh fuck you and your existential bullshit," John said.
"I’m serious."
"So am I."
Jim sighed.
"Don’t even," John warned.
"Don’t even what?"
"Don’t even tell me to pray for strength, or I swear to God, I will crawl though this phone line and kick your ass."
Jim chuckled. "Am I getting that predictable in my old age?"
"You preachers are all the same. Gets out of your range of expertise, and you pull the God card."
"Sometimes the God card works."
"The God card’s a joker."
Jim didn’t say anything for a moment. "That a play on words there, John? God’s a joke? The God card’s a joker?"
"Take it however you want."
"How ’bout I take it this way: You don’t have what your son needs, maybe you’d better take any card you can get to shore up that weak-ass hand you’re holding."
"Jokers don’t mean jack shit a real game," John said. "In a real game, they aren’t even part of the deck in play. And I’ve got what Dean needs, I just have to do a better job of not letting it get itself killed. Or thrown down the stairs by pissy spirits, for that matter."
"Do I get to vote on that one?" Jim asked.
"No."
"Okay."
Neither of them spoke for almost a minute.
"I’m not trying to get myself killed," John said finally. "Things just go wrong sometimes. Shit happens. It’s part of the job."
"They go wrong more often with you than they should," Jim returned. "And this isn’t your job, John. It’s your mission. Maybe even your cross."
"You’re not equating me to Jesus Christ are you, Pastor Jim?"
Jim snorted. "God, no. Jesus didn’t look to get himself nailed to the cross. Hell, he even asked His Old Man once or twice if it was really the only way to get it done. Compared to you, that makes Him a fucking survivalist."
John didn’t say anything for a long moment. When he did speak, it was to say, "Damn, Jim. Be a bitch about it, why don’t you?"
"Truth hurts," Jim said.
"The way you tell it, it does."
"Not trying to hurt you, John. Trying to keep you alive."
"I’m alive."
"Are you?"
John sighed. "I hate it when you do that," he noted.
"Everybody does. And yet, I still do it."
"So … what? You’re trying to say I’m not alive?"
"What do you think?"
"I think I hate it when you do that, too."
"You’re alive, John. I’m just not sure you always realize that."
"Huh," John said. "Profound."
"That’s why I prefer to let you come to answers like that on your own."
"Why?" John asked. "So you won’t get called profound?"
"So you’ll listen to them instead of making fun of them," Jim countered.
"I’m listening to you."
"Are you?"
John laughed. "Fuck you," he said. "I have a concussion, a busted wrist, three bruised ribs, a smashing new two-stitch scar on my pretty mug and one hell of a lot of stair dents in my ass, so I’m going to hang up on you and go to sleep now. I just called to say they’re going to release me around ten tomorrow. It would be nice if you showed up some time in that vicinity so we can blow this popsicle stand."
"I’ll check my calendar and get back to you. Did you say those stair dents are on your ugly mug or your pretty ass? Or I guess it doesn’t really matter does it, both of them looking pretty much the same anyway."
"Did you just tell me I have a pretty ass, Jim?" John asked. "Because you really need to buy me a drink before you start talking like that."
"No. I called you an assface, John. And I’ll consider buying you a drink when you consider not getting that assface of yours thrown down a flight of stairs just to prove me wrong when I say it can’t get any damn uglier than it already is. Go to sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow."
"Hey," John said quietly.
"What?"
"Dean talked to some woman about Mary tonight."
That stopped Jim cold. "He did?" he asked after a long beat of stunned silence. "Who?"
"Some stranger. Just walked up to her and started talking."
"Seriously? Your Dean?"
"She had blonde hair. Same length as Mary’s. Wore it the same way."
"She look like her?"
"No. Not at all. Just the hair."
Jim thought about that for a moment. "What do you make of that?" he asked finally.
"What do I make of it?" John repeated.
"Yeah. Obviously you’ve got something to say about it, or you wouldn’t have brought it up."
"I just thought you’d want to know."
"Bullshit, Assface. Tell me what you’re thinking."
"I’m thinking I’ve fucked him, Jim," John said quietly. "That I’ve really, truly fucked him."
"How so?"
"How so?" John repeated.
"Damnit, John. Don’t just parrot me. Tell me what you’re thinking."
"You want to know what I’m thinking?" John snapped. "Fine. I’ll tell you what I’m thinking. I’m thinking my son was down to his last fucking dime. I think he was so fucking scared he found someone who looked like a mommy to him so he could ask her to save me from myself. That’s what I’m thinking."
Jim didn’t say anything. John gave him several beats to respond. When he didn’t, John demanded, "What? You’ve got nothing to say to that?"
"What do you want me to say?" Jim asked.
"I don’t know. Something profound. Maybe you can tell me to pray about it or something. That would be really helpful right now. I could absolutely use some advice like that if you’ve got any laying around those holier-than-thou digs of yours."
"You’re looking for advice now?"
"Fuck no, Jim. I’m looking for answers. How in the hell did I get here? I’ve been trying to get him to talk about Mary for two years; and when he finally does, it’s to a stranger because he’s so convinced I’m going to leave him he can’t think of anything else to do? Any other way to stop it? That’s fucked. That is so totally fucked. He picked her because she looked like a mommy to him; someone who would help him. But I guaran-God-damn-tee you he also picked her because he thought if she looked enough like Mary, I might listen to her. That’s why he picked her, Jim. I know Dean. I know the way he thinks. And he picked her so I’d listen. He picked someone he thought looked like Mary so I’d fucking listen to her. Jesus Christ, Jim. How did I do that to him? And how do I undo it? How the fuck do I undo it? And don’t tell me to ask God that one. Don’t you fucking tell me that, or I will hang the fuck up."
Jim waited for several moments. John waited with him.
"You finished?" Jim asked finally.
"Yes."
"Are you really looking for an answer, or did you just want to get that off your chest?"
"I’m looking for an answer."
"Quit trying to kill yourself," Jim said.
John didn’t respond to that.
"That’s my answer, John," Jim said quietly. "Quit trying to kill yourself. That’s what I’ve got for you. So are you going to hang the fuck up on me now?"
"No."
"You sure?"
"Don’t be an ass."
"I’m not being an ass. I’m giving you an out so you can keep not hearing something you’ve been doing everything you can not to hear for a while now."
"I don’t need an out. And I don’t need you giving me grief for not listening."
"You don’t listen, John. Not when you don’t want to hear what I’m saying."
"I listen to you, Jim," John said again.
"But?"
"But I don’t always want to hear what you’re saying. That doesn’t mean I’m not listening. It just means I don’t want to hear it."
"Because you don’t agree with it? Because you don’t believe it? What, John? Why don’t you want to hear it?"
"Because I can’t do it."
"Can’t do what?"
"Stop hunting."
"Who said anything about not hunting? I didn’t say you have to stop hunting. Were you listening to me, John? Did you hear a fucking word I said?"
"I heard what you said. You said stop hunting."
"I said stop trying to get yourself killed."
"What the difference?"
"If there’s not a difference for you between hunting and trying to get yourself killed; then you’re right, I said stop hunting."
"You want me to pretend it never happened? Just go on with life like Mary got hit by a drunk driver, or died in childbirth? Pretend whatever murdered her wasn’t after Sammy, too? Or Dean? Or all of us?"
"No, John. That isn’t what I want. And even if it was, what I want doesn’t matter. What you want matters."
"I want to hunt. I need to hunt, Jim. It’s the only thing that makes sense to me any more. The only thing that makes the world make sense."
"Then don’t quit hunting. Just do it differently."
"Differently how?"
"Differently in a way that doesn’t end up with you dead."
"Hunting’s dangerous. I can’t promise I won’t get killed if I keep doing it."
"You already did that, didn’t you?"
"Did what?"
"Promised. To Dean. He told me more than a year ago he wasn’t going to live with me no matter what, and I couldn’t make him. He said if you left him here, he was going to run away and find you again, and he’d take Sammy with him."
"He told you that?"
"Yeah. He did. He said he wanted me to know it wasn’t anything personal, he just wasn’t going to let you leave him. So if you tried, he was going to run away; and he didn’t want me to think it was anything I’d done, I should just understand that was the way it had to be; because you’re his dad, not me, although I’d probably be a good dad if I ever decided I didn’t want to be a pastor any more."
John snorted, shaking his head. He studied Dean curled up on the bed beside him, watching him sleep as he said, "Son of a bitch, that boy is my son, isn’t he?"
"Yes, John. He is."
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him that isn’t what you had in mind. That you weren’t planning to leave him. He came back a week later and told me I was right, and he was sorry if he hurt my feelings by saying what he said. When I asked him what changed his mind on the subject, he said you promised him you wouldn’t leave. That you promised him, and he believed you."
"I did."
"Then you’ve already made the promise, John. And he’s already taken you at your word. So unless you want to break that boy’s soul, you only really have one option: keep your promise. Don’t leave him."
"I’m trying, Jim."
"No you’re not. You say you’re trying, but you’re not."
"I don’t know what else I can do. Except quit hunting all together. And I don’t think I can do that. I don’t think I can. Not and still be any use to him, or to Sammy." John reached up, rubbed at his forehead, trying to find a way to say what he didn’t want to say. "I need the hunt," he admitted finally. "It’s the only thing that helps, the only thing that bleeds off enough pressure so I don’t … so I don’t turn it back on them. On you. On anybody else close enough to reach when it hits me again."
"When what hits you?" Jim asked. "The pain?"
"The anger." John’s voice broke a little on the confession. He hadn’t told anyone this, hadn’t spoken about it at all. "It’s blinding. Worse than anything I ever felt over there. Worse than anything I’ve ever felt period. I can’t control it. I’ve tried, but I can’t. I can’t even see when it hits me. I can’t think: I can’t breathe. All I can do is kill. That’s all I want to do, Jim. Just kill. Kill something. Kill anything."
His chest had gone tight. His head was pounding, his heart working harder than it had to. He’d locked this up inside for so long it was hard to get it out. Hard to actually say it, hard to admit how far he’d fallen away from the civilized man Mary’d made of him once, hard to concede that the mechanic she’d reclaimed from a Marine who spent too long killing to keep from being killed no longer existed, that it was just a charade John played in the sham of a life he tried to live between hunts.
"The hunt makes that sane for me," John said, trying to explain it to the only man he knew who might possibly understand what he was saying. "It gives me a pressure valve, a way to let it off without hurting something that doesn’t deserve hurting. And I need it, Jim. God help me, but I need it. If I didn’t have it, I’d blow and take everyone with me."
He stopped for a moment, gritting his teeth against the urge to lie, to make himself sound stronger than he was by pretending he could control this when he knew he couldn’t. "If I try to give up hunting," he said when he could go on, "I’ll have to leave them. It’s the only way to protect them from who I am without that pressure valve. And I can’t do that. I can’t do that to Dean; I don’t think I can even do it to me. I know hunting is dangerous. I know how easy it would be to screw up and get myself killed. But I can’t give it up. Not without giving them up, too. And I can’t do that. I just can’t. I’ve gotten myself boxed into a corner, and I can’t see any way out of it."
"The way out is the same as the way in, John," Jim said.
"What the hell does that mean? Don’t talk to me in riddles right now, Jim. I need help. I need help, or Dean will be the one who suffers when I screw up again."
"You’ve got to come home," Jim said.
"What?"
"Come home," Jim repeated. "You know what it means. You had it once with Mary, and you’ve got to find it again. You don’t have any choice any more. You’ve been out too long. If you don’t come home soon, there won’t be any home left to come to."
"I’m not on deployment," John argued. "This isn’t over there. The same rules don’t apply."
"Yes they do, John. Those rules always apply."
"I have a son now -" John said.
"You have two sons," Jim interrupted quietly.
"Sammy would be fine. It’s Dean I have to protect."
"You have to protect them both," Jim countered. "And the only way to do that is to protect yourself. You’ve been gone too long. You’ve got to come back home. You’ve got to get back to the world soon or you never will."
"That’s just your existential bullshit again," John said. "I’m not gone. I’m still here."
"I’ve known you for ten years, John," Jim said. "I know when you’re gone and when you’re home, the same way I know when you’re hunting and when you’re trying to die."
John closed his eyes, listened to the sound of his heartbeat. He was having trouble breathing, having trouble listening, having trouble hearing.
"Talk to me, John," Jim said when John hadn’t spoken for several minutes.
"How can I find my way home if I don’t even know when I’m gone?" John asked.
"You know," Jim returned. "You just don’t want to hear it."
"I can’t hear it any more, Jim. Maybe that’s the problem. I can’t hear anything any more except the sound of my own fucking pain. I try to be better than that, but I’m not. There are times it gets so bad I just have to let it have me for a while. It just takes over, and I let it."
"It’s the constancy of pain that’s the enemy, not the intensity of it," Jim said. "Finding refuge from that constancy is the only way to make it out alive. To make it back home. To make it back to the world."
John laughed quietly, almost bitterly. "I was thinking about that earlier," he said. "Thinking about Brody and his Philosophy of Pain."
"Brody was an idiot. You used to know that."
"He was right about giving in to it, though. Right about letting it have you for a while in order to get through it."
"Are you serious?"
"Yeah. I am."
"Wow." Jim said. Then he added, "Christo."
"Oh, fuck you."
"Just making sure. I never though I’d hear you say anything about Brody that didn’t predicate itself on the lack of branches in his family tree and the consequent degradation of his mental capacity, so when I hear you quoting him chapter and fucking verse, I’ve got to cover all the bases before I take it as something I’m actually hearing from John Winchester."
"I didn’t say he wasn’t a moron with the mental capacity of a brain-damaged cabbage," John retorted impatiently. "I said he had a point about giving in to the pain to get past it. To relieve the constancy of it. To just get a fucking break from it."
"It wasn’t Brody who said you have to take a break from it. It was Brody who said giving in to it is how you get that break. And if I recall correctly, it was you who dubbed him a categorical fucking idiot for preaching that philosophy to a new crop of FNGs before they ever even got their feet wet in actual combat."
"That was before Mary," John said. "Before I actually understood what constancy of pain meant. And what it takes to survive it because you have a child who lives and dies on your survival."
"It takes relief, John. Refuge. Not surrender."
"There is no refuge. No relief. Sometimes surrender is all you’ve got. All I’ve got, at least."
"Surrender. You’re actually saying surrender is the choice here?"
"A temporary choice, but yeah. Sometimes surrender is the only way to live to fight another day."
"Christo," Jim said again.
"I have a son," John said. "It’s different now."
"You still have two sons," Jim reminded him again. "And it isn’t different."
"How can you say that, Jim?" John was tired suddenly; so tired he could hardly keep his eyes open. "How can you say it’s not different after everything that’s happened? Everything we never believed in that turned out to be true? Do you remember Ramos and his protection rituals? Tell me that doesn’t haunt you now. Tell me us giving him so much grief over his pig-gutting, rabbit-eye hedonism that he finally quit doing it doesn’t make you feel like we’re at least partially to blame for him dying over there instead of coming back home with us?"
"As far as I know, pig intestines still aren’t capable of protecting a man from sniper fire," Jim said.
"But blessing tap water with a rosary and a few lines of Latin is?" John challenged.
"Not that I know of. Seems to work pretty well against low-level demons though."
John shook his head, didn’t answer.
"Whether it works or not, surrender isn’t something you’re good at," Jim said after a moment. "It isn’t something you’ve ever been able to do no matter what the stakes were."
"I have children to consider now."
"Your sons need who you are, not who you can’t be."
"That’s good in theory," John said quietly. "But in practice, I have to find relief from it sometimes. The hunt gives me what I need to get through the anger. But the only relief I find from the pain is giving in to it on occasion. Letting it have me. I hate who that makes of me when it happens. I hate what it requires of my six-year-old to cover for me until I’m finished. But as much as I’ve tried to fight against it, that’s the only thing that gets me through it. The only thing that lets me survive it. The only way I can stay here for Dean; the only way I can be here for him so he doesn’t fall apart the way I have to every once in a while if either one of us is going to make it through this. I wish it were different, but it isn’t. The simple truth of it is that it isn’t. There is no relief without surrender. And I have to have relief. I have to, Jim. I wish I didn’t, but I do."
"I want you to listen to me, John," Jim said. "Don’t argue with me; just listen." He waited a beat and then asked, "Are you listening?"
"Yes."
"You’re right: You do have to find a way to get some relief from the constancy of this pain. But surrender is not that way. Maybe it was for Brody, but it isn’t for you. It never has been, and it never will be. You aren’t capable of it. There are only two things in this world I can tell you for absolute certain: 1) The Joker is part of the deck in play for this game and 2) John Winchester is incapable of surrender. Are you listening to me?"
"Yes."
"Good. Because I’ve been listening to you, too. And what I’m hearing makes me think the way you’re trying to find refuge from the pain of Mary’s murder may be why you can’t find your way home again. You can’t surrender your way back to the world. You have to fight. That’s who you are. That’s who you’ll always be. Your sons don’t change that. Nothing changes that. Are you still listening to me?"
"Yes."
"Then hear this: Dean. Dean is the only thing that has ever given you any refuge from the pain. I saw it in those first weeks after Mary was murdered. When you came to me after you left Mike’s, I didn’t even recognize the man you’d become. I saw you worse than dead more than once over there, but I never saw you broken the way you were then. Not once. When you first showed up at the rectory, I honestly didn’t think you’d survive. I thought you were already gone. But then I saw you with Dean. That was the only time I recognized you those first weeks, John. Only when you were with Dean. That was it. Only then. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?"
"No."
"Dean," Jim repeated. "I’m saying Dean. He’s your relief. He’s your refuge. He’s the road home for you, John; and you’d better find a way to use him to get there before it’s too later or it’s going to break you both."
John waited for him to go on, but Jim was finished. He didn’t say anything more.
"That’s what you’ve got for me?" John asked finally. "I call the smartest man I know for advice on how to keep from self-destructing at the cost of my six-year-old son, and what you’ve got for me is Dean?"
"Yeah," Jim said. "That’s what I’ve got."
"You’re over-rated, Preacher," he said.
"Pastor," Jim corrected.
"Over there you were The Preacher," John reminded him. "Over there, you put the fear of God into more men than the Inquisition and the Crusades combined."
"Over there, I was a Marine," Jim said. "But I came home, John. I found my refuge from the constancy of pain."
"Dean?" John asked dryly.
"God," Jim returned.
John didn’t say anything to that.
"Come home," Jim said. "You did it once. You can do it again."
"It was different then," John said.
"Only if you let it be," Jim returned.
John studied his son, watching him sleep. "All right," he said finally. "A lot to think about. I’m going to call it a night. Dean wanted me to tell you Sammy prefers his toast with grape jelly, not strawberry."
"Huh," Jim said. "Damn shame he’s getting Fruit Loops then, isn’t it? I’ll see you at ten. Say your prayers before you go to sleep."
"God may be your refuge," John said quietly, "but he’s not mine."
"That why you say prayers with Dean every night?" Jim asked.
"Who says I do?"
"Dean."
"Oh, you mean My Refuge?"
"Yeah."
"He lies."
"Does he?"
"Yeah. He’s six. And he’s mine."
"Of that, there is little doubt."
"The prayers are for his sake, and for Mary’s. Not for mine."
"Really."
"Yeah. Really. Me and God? Not so close. He hasn’t been a very good friend to me."
"Look at your son," Jim instructed.
"I am."
"What do you see?"
"My son."
"Exactly. Say your fucking prayers, John. You have a lot to be thankful for."
The phone clicked in John’s ear before he could answer. John snorted, then hung the receiver up and turned out the light over the bed before leaning back into the pillows and closing his eyes.
As soon as it went dark, Dean stirred. "Dad?" he called, his voice a small panic in the making as he woke.
John reached out, put his hand on Dean’s shoulder. "I’m right here, son."
The anxiety in Dean’s tone eased as he asked, "Where are we?"
"We’re in the hospital. We’re staying the night, remember?"
"Oh, yeah," Dean said, lying his ass of and trying to sound like he wasn’t.
John smiled. "Go back to sleep, Dean," he said.
"Are you going to sleep?" Dean asked.
"Yeah. Thought I would."
"Did the doctor say that was okay?"
John’s smile deepened. "You must get that from your mother," he observed dryly.
"What?"
"Being a worry wart."
"What’s a worry wart?"
"What does it sound like?"
"Um … something to do with worrying too much?"
"There you go."
"I’m not a worry wart," Dean said. "But did the doctor say it was okay for you to go to sleep?"
John chuckled. He patted Dean’s shoulder in the darkness and said, "Yes, son. He said it was fine as long as I don’t go chasing any poltergeists in my dreams."
"Is that what happened? You fell down chasing a poltergeist?"
"More or less."
"You must have been running really fast," Dean observed. That was his way of calling his old man a liar.
"There might have been some stairs involved," John allowed easily. "And I might have been doing a little more flying than running."
Dean considered that for a moment. "Oh," he said finally, pronouncing his father’s revision more believable. "Okay. Did you catch it?"
"Might be a little more accurate to say it caught me. But that was all part of my plan."
"It was?"
"Absolutely."
"Your plan was to fly down some stairs and get caught?" Dean asked doubtfully, not quite calling him a liar, but not quite believing him either.
"It was a very sneaky plan," John said.
"How did you get hurt then?" Dean asked, back to calling him a liar.
"I didn’t say it was a good plan, just a sneaky one."
"Oooooooh." Dean nodded, completely on board with that as the truth. "But you got it in the end, right?"
"Absolutely. That part of my plan worked perfectly."
"Which part?"
"The letting it catch me part."
"Is that when you got hurt? When it caught you?"
John smiled a little. His six-year-old was trying to trip him up. "What do you think?" he asked.
Dean hesitated for just a beat, then said, "I think if you got hurt when it caught you then it didn’t work all that good."
"But I said that part worked perfectly, didn’t I?"
"Yeah."
"So what does that make you think?"
Dean thought about that one for much longer. John could almost hear the wheels turning in his head. "That you got hurt in a different part?" he ventured finally.
"And which part do you think that was?" John pressed.
"Um. The part that didn’t work very good?"
"And that would be?"
"Um. The … part you didn’t tell me about?"
"I told you about it."
"You did?"
"Sure did."
Dean thought about it. John waited. His son was a bulldog when it came to puzzles. He’d keep worrying it until he shook it to death or figured it out. "Oh!" Dean said suddenly. "The flying part, right?"
John grinned. "That would be the part that didn’t work so well," he verified.
"So you’re not going to do that part again, right?"
"Well, at least not until I learn how to do the landing part of the flying part better. And now that you’ve debriefed me on my mission, what do you say we get a little shuteye?"
"Okay," Dean agreed. "Are we going to say our prayers?"
John hesitated.
"Or we don’t have to," Dean said quickly.
"No. That’s okay. We can say your prayers if you want to."
"It’s okay. We don’t have to."
"Do you want to?" John asked.
This time, it was Dean who hesitated. "I don’t know," he said after a long beat. "Do you?"
"Probably wouldn’t hurt to thank Him for looking after me tonight," John allowed.
"And for giving you a hard head," Dean added.
John huffed a little in surprise. "What?" he asked, trying to make out Dean’s expression in the dark room.
"We should thank Him for giving you a hard head," Dean repeated.
John thought about that for a second, then asked, not really sure he wanted to know the answer, "Is that a crack, son?"
"Huh?"
John chuckled. "Nothing. Never mind. Yes, maybe we should thank Him for that, too."
"I just mean for giving you a hard head so it didn’t break during the flying part of your plan," Dean clarified. "Or the landing part, either."
"Right," John agreed. "A pretty good thing to have if you’re going to do some of the things I do, huh?"
"What did you think I meant?" Dean asked after a moment of silence.
"That’s what I thought you meant," John lied.
"Then why did you ask me if it was a crack?"
"Why don’t you say your prayers, and I’ll just listen," John suggested.
"Pastor Jim says you have a harder head than anyone he’s ever met," Dean offered.
"Oh he does, does he?"
"Yeah." Dean waited a moment, then asked, "Is that a crack?"
John chuckled again. "Yes, Dean. I’m pretty sure that is a crack."
"He’s making fun of you?"
"Not really. More making an observation, I think."
"Is it a crack for him to say you have a good head, too?"
"No. That’s a compliment. Like when I tell you that you have a good head on your shoulders. That means you think things through, make the right decisions."
"Then I don’t think he meant you having a hard head as a crack," Dean said.
"Why not?"
"Because he said them at the same time."
"When?"
Dean shrugged. "I don’t remember. I just remember he said it. He and I talk sometimes. He said it then."
"What did he say?"
"That I shouldn’t worry about you so much because you have a really good head, and it’s harder than anyone else’s he’s ever met. So I don’t think he meant it as a crack."
"You’re probably right," John said.
"And he didn’t say I was a worry wart," Dean added. "He just said I shouldn’t worry. Not that I do. Or that I worry too much."
"That’s good, because I wouldn’t want Pastor Jim cracking wise about my boy," John said seriously.
"Is that a crack, too, then?" Dean asked.
"What?"
"Saying I’m a worry wart?"
"No, Dean. That’s not a crack. That’s more of an observation, too."
"Then what does cracking wise mean?"
"What else do you and Pastor Jim talk about?" John asked, more to derail his son from the train of thought on which he was riding than out of any desire to know.
"Things."
"Me?"
"Sometimes."
"Your mother?"
Dean didn’t answer for so long John didn’t think he was going to. Then finally, quietly, he said, "No. I don’t talk to him about Mom."
"Why not?"
"’Cause he doesn’t know."
"Doesn’t know what?"
"He just doesn’t know." Dean’s mood had changed. He shifted, snuggling closer to John, burrowing into his father’s side, looking for comfort. His voice was confessional in the darkness when he said, "Not like us."
John dropped his arm around Dean. He pulled Dean in, held him close. "No, he doesn’t, does he? Not like us."
"Nobody knows like us," Dean said.
John nodded. He didn’t say anything for a while, then asked, "Do you want to talk about her with me?"
Again, Dean didn’t answer for so long John wasn’t sure he was going to. And again, when he did answer, it was so quiet his words were mere whispers in the dark. "I don’t know. Do you?"
"Sometimes I think it would help," John said. "You?"
"Maybe."
"We should do that then," John said quietly. "Sometime. When you want to."
"You don’t want to then?"
"I didn’t say that."
"Yes, you did."
John frowned, looked down at Dean in the darkness. His son was watching him, his eyes glistening in what little light filtered in through the closed blinds from the well-lit parking lot outside. "When did I say that, Dean?"
"You say it all the time."
John’s frown deepened. "No, I don’t. I’ve never said that to you, have I?"
"Yes, you do. Maybe not in words, but you say it."
"How do I say it?"
Dean shrugged then, looked away. "You just do," he muttered.
John sighed. He closed his eyes, let the sedation in his system work on the tension that was tying knots into his neck and shoulders. The conversation with Jim had drained him. The one starting up with Dean looked like it might be headed the same direction.
"But it’s okay, because I don’t want to talk about her either," Dean said quietly.
"You don’t?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I don’t know. Just ’cause I don’t, I guess."
"Maybe we should talk about her anyway," John suggested.
"Why?"
"I don’t know. Just ’cause we should, I guess."
"But you don’t want to," Dean said. Then, almost like it was an afterthought, he added, "but that’s okay, because I don’t either."
"Did that woman remind you of her earlier?" John asked after a moment.
"No."
"She had the same color hair," John noted. "And your mother used to wear her hair that way. I remember it used to smell like strawberries. I loved the way her hair smelled like strawberries. I remember that about her all the time. Sometimes I even smell strawberries in the grocery store, and it makes me think of her."
"It does?" Dean asked quietly.
"Yeah. It does."
"It smelled like flowers sometimes, too," Dean ventured after several seconds.
"What kind of flowers? Do you remember?"
"Purple ones," Dean said.
"That’s right. I remember now. She liked purple flowers. They were her favorite kind."
"There were purple flowers on the bottle of her hair soap," Dean offered. "She washed my hair with it once when we were out of boy hair soap. She said it wouldn’t make any difference, but I smelled like a girl for a week."
John smiled. "I think it might have been a little longer than a week, son."
"You made fun of me," Dean reminded him. "Every time I walked by your chair, you said it made you hope the baby turned out to be a girl instead of a boy when it was born. Him, I mean. Sammy. But before he was born. Do you remember that? Mom thought it was pretty funny, but I didn’t."
John chuckled. "Sorry about that."
"No you’re not."
"Yeah. You’re right. I’m not."
"Is that cracking wise?" Dean asked.
"What?" John teased. "Me not being sorry?"
"No. You saying me smelling like a girl made you hope Sammy turned out to be a girl."
"Yes, Dean. That is very much cracking wise."
"I thought so."
"You did, huh?"
"Uh huh. So it’s like teasing then."
"Right."
"So why don’t you just say teasing?"
"Because cracking wise sounds much cooler, doesn’t it?"
Dean thought about that for a moment. "Yeah," he said finally. "I guess."
"So that’s why I say it that way."
"And a crack is what you do when you’re cracking wise?" Dean pursued, back on the track and running for the station.
"Exactly."
"So you thought I was teasing you about having a hard head?"
"I thought you might be cracking wise about it, yes."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why would I crack about you having a hard head?"
"Crack wise," John corrected.
"Why would I crack wise about you having a hard head?" Dean revised.
"I have no idea, Dean."
"Then why did you ask me if it was a crack?"
John laughed. "You do have a one-track mind, don’t you, son," he observed dryly.
"I do?"
"Yes, you do."
"Do I get that from Mom, too?"
The question jarred John. He was so used to Dean avoiding the topic of his mother it threw him for a moment to have him ask something about her so directly.
"What does one-track mean?" Dean asked, trying to cover for John’s fumble.
"Yes, Dean. You get that from your mother, too."
"Oh. What does one-track mean?"
"Just like being a worry wart," John added.
"It’s okay, Dad. What does one-track mean?"
"It means once you get on a subject it’s very hard to distract you from it. Your mother was like that, too."
"Why is it called one-track?" Dean asked.
"Dean."
"Yeah?"
John didn’t say anything.
"What?" Dean asked again.
John still didn’t say anything.
"It’s okay, Dad," Dean said.
"What’s okay?"
"You know."
"Do I?"
"Pastor Jim does that all the time."
John chuckled. "Yes, he does, doesn’t he?"
"It kind of makes me crazy when he does," Dean added.
"You’re not alone in that, son."
"We talk about trains sometimes," Dean offered. "Is that the kind of track you mean?"
"Dean."
"What?"
John sighed. "Weren’t we talking about your mother?"
"That’s okay. I’d rather talk about trains."
"No you wouldn’t."
Dean hesitated. "It’s okay, Dad," he said for the third time.
"No, it isn’t."
"Yes, it is. It’s okay. Really. It is."
"Who’s the dad here?" John asked.
"You are."
"Then how about you letting me decide what’s okay and what isn’t?"
Dean didn’t answer that.
"Okay?" John pressed.
"I guess," Dean said.
"You guess? Is that what Marines do? Guess?"
"I guess, sir?" Dean suggested. And then he snickered.
"Now that is cracking wise," John said.
"Did I do it right?"
"Yes, you did."
"Because of the ‘sir,’ right?"
"If you have to explain a joke, it isn’t a very good joke," John told him.
"Is a joke the same thing as cracking wise?"
"Do you not want to talk about your mom?" John asked.
This time it was Dean who got thrown. He hesitated so long John pressed him, saying, "Well?"
"I don’t know. Do you?"
"Yes."
"You do?"
"Yes."
"No you don’t."
"Yes I do, Dean."
"You do?"
"How many times do I have to answer that one before you believe me?" John asked.
"I don’t know."
"How ’bout once more. Does that sound good to you?"
"I guess."
"Good. Then here we go: Yes, Dean, I do want to talk about your mother."
"Okay," Dean said quietly. But he didn’t say anything else.
"It’s your turn," John said after several moments.
"Huh?"
"I told you about the strawberries," John clarified. "So it’s your turn to tell me something about her."
"I told you about the purple flowers," Dean said, his voice little more than a whisper.
"I told you she had a one-track mind and that she was a worry wart."
"I told you … um … okay, so it’s my turn then?"
John smiled. "Sounds like."
"Okay." Dean thought about it for a long moment, then said, "She liked chocolate. I remember that."
"Oh no she didn’t," John said. Then before Dean had a chance to protest, he clarified, "She loved chocolate. She loved chocolate more than anything. Sometimes I think she loved it more than you and me and purple flowers all put together."
"Uh uh," Dean said.
"Yeah, okay, maybe not that much. But she sure loved it, didn’t she?"
"She made the best chocolate chip cookies ever," Dean said.
"What? You don’t like mine?"
"Yours suck, Dad."
"They do?"
"Yeah. Big time."
"Well you sure pack them away for them sucking," John noted. "You and Sammy both."
"They still suck."
"Sammy doesn’t like them either?"
"He loves them. But he eats crayons, too."
John laughed. "There you go, cracking wise again."
"I’m practicing."
"For what?"
"To use it on Pastor Jim."
"I like that idea."
"He started it by cracking wise about your head," Dean pointed out.
"Yes, he did. But we were talking about your mother’s chocolate chip cookies, weren’t we?"
"They were awesome," Dean said. Then he added, "But we were talking about how much your chocolate chip cookies suck."
"Well, I guess I’m just not all that good at the girl stuff, huh?"
"That’s okay. You’re good at other stuff."
"Why didn’t you ever tell me they sucked?"
"Because if I told you they sucked, you wouldn’t make them any more," Dean said reasonably.
"And that would be a bad thing how?"
"Yeah."
"I mean why, Dean. If they really suck so bad and all, how would it be a bad thing for me to stop making them?"
Dean didn’t answer.
"Dean?" John prompted after a beat.
"Because they remind me of her," Dean said quietly. "Is that okay to say?"
"You can say anything you want to about your mother, son. You can talk about anything you remember about her or ask me anything you want to know."
"Without making you sad, I mean."
"Talking about your mother doesn’t make me sad."
"Yes it does."
"What about my cookies reminded you of her?" John asked.
"Not very much. Is that a good one?"
"I’m being serious, Dean," John said gently.
"Oh. Okay. Sorry."
"You didn’t do anything to apologize for. I’d just like to know what it is that reminds you of her. Do you mind telling me?"
John could see his son struggling in the darkness, trying to figure out a way to answer the question without saying something he thought might hurt his old man.
"I don’t know," Dean said finally. "I guess when you make them, it makes the whole house smell that way, so it doesn’t really matter what they taste like. Just the smell reminds me of her. And you let me lick the bowl. Mom always let me lick the bowl, so that reminds me of her, too. Only hers tasted better."
John nodded. "Yeah. That’s kind of why I started making them … the whole smell thing."
"To remind me of her?" Dean asked.
"No, son. To remind me of her."
"Oh." Dean didn’t say anything for some time, then he ventured, "I thought you didn’t want to be reminded of her."
"What made you think that?"
"Because you never talk about her."
"Yeah," John said quietly. "I guess I don’t, do I?"
"That’s okay, Dad," Dean said almost automatically.
"No it isn’t, son. It isn’t at all."
Dean hesitated, then asked, "Because of you or because of me?"
"It’s not okay for either one of us. We loved her. We should talk about her."
Neither of them spoke for several minutes. Lying side by side in the hospital bed, Dean tucked up under John’s arm, pressed in close to his side, his head on John’s chest now rather than the pillow he’d pushed away, they just listened to the quiet and remembered a woman neither of them had spoken about since the night she died.
Not really spoken about. Not about who she was, instead of how she died.
"What else reminds you of her?" Dean asked finally.
"Pink bikinis," John said. Dean snickered in a way that sounded ten instead of six. "No, really. Your mom looked like dynamite in a pink bikini. Not that I should probably be telling you that; but she did, and I remember that about her. I remember it every day."
"I remember those stupid slippers she used to wear," Dean offered.
"The fuzzy ones?"
"Yeah. They were pink, too, weren’t they?"
"Yellow, I think," John said.
"She liked yellow."
"Yes she did. Reminded her of sunshine, she said."
Dean snorted. "Girls," he said, his tone clear with his opinion of that.
"Give it a few years, bud. You’ll think girls are the best thing since sliced bread."
"She liked purple, too," Dean said. "What did that remind her of?"
They talked until Dean dozed off again, revisiting a hundred memories, John telling Dean stories he’d never heard, telling him some he probably shouldn’t have heard until he was much older; and even then, ones he probably shouldn’t have heard about his mother.
But it wasn’t just about Dean. It was about him, too. About what he remembered. About what he wanted to remember.
Lying in the dark, the warmth of his son against his side, the smell of hospital antiseptic strong and biting in his nose and the memory of Mary fresh in his mind like strawberries and sex and chocolate chip cookies baking on a Saturday afternoon, John listened to the quiet and found himself coming home.
finis