SPN FIC - All You Get From Love
izhilzha -- happy birthday! You asked for Dean taking care of John, so here 'tis. Not quite a classic H/C, but you know those Winchesters. They do things their own way. Fall 2002, after Sam's left for Stanford.
CHARACTERS: Dean and John
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1517 words
Some nights, Dad’s nothing more than a shadow. There’s nothing real about him at all. He’s just a human-shaped shell, and when he gets like that he reminds Dean of those old remnants in the nursing home they did the job at a couple weeks back. He’s just taking up space, like those old folks. If there’s something going on inside his head, you can’t tell it by looking at his face. That’s all shut down, locked up, silent and blank as a stone.
ALL YOU GET FROM LOVE
By Carol Davis
Some nights, Dad’s nothing more than a shadow. There’s nothing real about him at all. He’s just a human-shaped shell, and when he gets like that he reminds Dean of those old remnants in the nursing home they did the job at a couple weeks back. He’s just taking up space, like those old folks. If there’s something going on inside his head, you can’t tell it by looking at his face. That’s all shut down, locked up, silent and blank as a stone.
“Dad,” Dean wants to say. “Don’t do this. Talk to me.”
Dad talks, sometimes, but it’s about the job. Always about the job. Never about Sammy, or about Mom.
Never about himself, or about Dean.
Just the job.
Maybe that hurts less. Hurts Dad less, anyway; it doesn’t do a good goddamn for Dean, who could really tolerate talking about something other than the job once in a while. Sure, he could go out, walk down the hill to Millay’s and have a couple beers and talk to the barback or whoever’s sitting on the stool next to his. He could do that. Talk about the game, maybe. He can count on his fingers the number of games he’s watched in the last couple of years, but he figured out a long time ago how to fake his way through a sports-connected conversation. He knows some stats, a short run of things about pretty much any sport you could name. The normal ones, anyway. Not jai alai or weird shit like that.
He doesn’t know - or care - much about politics, but he can fake his way through that, too.
TV and movies, now that’s his strong suit. He can talk movies all night.
The thing is…he wants to talk to Dad, not some stranger.
It’s not like they need to have some soul-baring emo fest. There doesn’t need to be any tears, or hugging, or any of that Lifetime movie crap.
Just a little bit of a conversation. That’s all.
That’s not that much to ask.
But tonight’s gonna be another one of those nights. That was pretty plain when Dad walked through the door and sat down on the couch. He’d only been gone a few hours, but whatever had happened between lunchtime and when he came dragging back into the apartment had obviously whipped him good. Literally. The whole left side of his face was scraped and cut and had started darkening into one mother of a bruise. It looks worse now, practically black. But maybe that’s just because Dad said no to turning on the light next to the couch. He wants to sit there and rest his eyes, he says.
He’s been sitting there almost half an hour. Resting his eyes.
The way he’s sitting, Dean figures he could go hang out at Millay’s until closing time, come back and Dad would still be parked right there on the couch. Wouldn’t have eaten anything or done anything to clean up his face.
It’d be easy enough to blame this on Sammy, because Dad used to talk, before Sam took off. Not a whole lot, and a decent chunk of what came out of his mouth was yelling (mostly at Sam, but not always).
Even the yelling was better than this.
But it’s not Sam’s fault. Not really. If what Dad really wanted was to keep Sammy in his sights, they could’ve all pulled up stakes and moved to California. Could’ve found a place near where Sam’s going to school and run jobs from there. Dean suggested that once and Dad acted like it was the craziest shit he’d ever heard - even though he knows damn well that Bobby owns a house and a business and runs all his jobs from there, from the place down in Dakota. It’s not impossible to do. Except it is, somehow, in Dad’s mind. It’s impossible and it’s some seriously crazy shit.
“You want something to eat?” Dean asks softly.
Dad lifts his head and looks at him in a way that’s almost like staring, except it doesn’t last long enough to be a stare.
“I’ll make you something,” Dean offers.
“Not hungry.”
“A sandwich or something.”
You wanna tell me what went wrong? Dean thinks. Huh? Is that too much?
As he’s done almost every day, every night, since Sam left, he busies himself in the kitchen. Sets out bread and mayonnaise and bologna and makes a thick sandwich. Then makes another just like it.
Mom wouldn’t put up with this crap, he thinks.
If you want to be serious about it, he’s got no real idea what Mom would or wouldn’t put up with, because he remembers her mostly as a concept. He’s held on to a couple of brief flashes of her over the years: her smile, the way her hair would brush against his face when she leaned down to kiss him good night, the way she liked to tickle his cheek. But that’s it. He doesn’t know what she liked to do, what TV shows were her favorites, if she enjoyed doing the laundry and cooking and cleaning the bathtub or if she thought it was a royal pain in the ass. He doesn’t know if she could sing or not.
He doesn’t know anything, really, because Dad won’t talk about her.
But he figures if she had half a brain in her head, and any kind of spine at all, she wouldn’t put up with this kind of crap. Wouldn’t put up with Dad just sitting there on the couch, his face all pinched and tight because he’s been beat all to hell again by something he didn’t want Dean to help him go after. It was gonna be a nothing job, he said before he left. It’d take him a couple hours.
Yeah, it took him a couple hours. And now he looks like hell on toast.
There’s a mostly full two-liter of generic cola in the fridge. Dean grabs that and fills a plastic tumbler.
Dammit all, he wishes Dad would say something.
Silent, he puts the sandwiches on a plate and carries it and the glass of cola over to the couch.
“Here,” he says.
Dad glances at him. At the food. “Not hungry,” he rasps.
“Eat it anyway.”
“Dean -“
It’s a threat. A warning.
Fuck you, Dean thinks. Fuck you running, you crazy sonofabitch. You can act like this all you want, but I ain’t giving up.
You hear me? I ain’t giving up.
I’m NOT.
“You need me to patch you up?” he asks, with as little emotion as he can manage.
“No.”
“Okay, then. I’m goin’ to bed.”
And he walks slowly toward the bedroom doorway, because that’s what he does. That’s what he has to do, to allow a little bit of room that Dad might, someday, decide to fill with… something.
Something.
Partly, he creeps along like this because he’s worn out. Two months, and he’s had enough of this new Sam-less existence to last him six lifetimes. A couple times, before Sam left, he entertained the notion that he and Dad might use Sam’s absence to help build some new, tight relationship, just the two of them. That they’d work together. Be a team. But if that ship’s on the horizon, it’s still not visible to the naked eye.
He makes it to the doorway and rests a hand on the frame.
Shit, he thinks, and he can feel his shoulders slump. He needs to sleep. Needs to be somewhere other than here for a few hours so he can recharge, forget, empty his head enough to be able to wake up in the morning and tackle this fabulous Sam-less life all over again.
It’d be different if Dad would just…
“Dean,” Dad says.
“What?” Dean replies without turning, and thinks, I’m all you’ve got left, you sonofabitch. Could you not…
“Son.”
“Yeah. What?”
“Shoulder’s…kinda bad.”
It’s offhanded. Just a comment tossed out into the wind.
But that’s the way they do things. Pretty much, it’s the way they’ve always done things, with or without Sam.
More than likely, it’s the way they always will do things.
It’s some crazy shit, but it’s the way they do things.
Dean turns, hand coming away from the doorframe to wipe his hair back off his forehead. He’s starting to feel as beat as Dad looks, and part of it’s because he hasn’t had anything to eat either, not since breakfast yesterday. He didn’t want to eat, not until Dad got back. Not until he knew Dad was all right.
He doesn’t like to eat alone, not when he’s waiting.
Doesn’t like to do much of anything alone.
There’s a shadow over there on the couch. Human-shaped, shoulders drawn in, fists clenched.
Mom wouldn’t like this, Dean thinks. He’s pretty sure of that: she wouldn’t like this.
But she’s not here. Neither is Sammy.
It’s just the two of them. And maybe that ship’s out there on the horizon after all.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “Okay.”
* * * * *
CHARACTERS: Dean and John
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1517 words
Some nights, Dad’s nothing more than a shadow. There’s nothing real about him at all. He’s just a human-shaped shell, and when he gets like that he reminds Dean of those old remnants in the nursing home they did the job at a couple weeks back. He’s just taking up space, like those old folks. If there’s something going on inside his head, you can’t tell it by looking at his face. That’s all shut down, locked up, silent and blank as a stone.
ALL YOU GET FROM LOVE
By Carol Davis
Some nights, Dad’s nothing more than a shadow. There’s nothing real about him at all. He’s just a human-shaped shell, and when he gets like that he reminds Dean of those old remnants in the nursing home they did the job at a couple weeks back. He’s just taking up space, like those old folks. If there’s something going on inside his head, you can’t tell it by looking at his face. That’s all shut down, locked up, silent and blank as a stone.
“Dad,” Dean wants to say. “Don’t do this. Talk to me.”
Dad talks, sometimes, but it’s about the job. Always about the job. Never about Sammy, or about Mom.
Never about himself, or about Dean.
Just the job.
Maybe that hurts less. Hurts Dad less, anyway; it doesn’t do a good goddamn for Dean, who could really tolerate talking about something other than the job once in a while. Sure, he could go out, walk down the hill to Millay’s and have a couple beers and talk to the barback or whoever’s sitting on the stool next to his. He could do that. Talk about the game, maybe. He can count on his fingers the number of games he’s watched in the last couple of years, but he figured out a long time ago how to fake his way through a sports-connected conversation. He knows some stats, a short run of things about pretty much any sport you could name. The normal ones, anyway. Not jai alai or weird shit like that.
He doesn’t know - or care - much about politics, but he can fake his way through that, too.
TV and movies, now that’s his strong suit. He can talk movies all night.
The thing is…he wants to talk to Dad, not some stranger.
It’s not like they need to have some soul-baring emo fest. There doesn’t need to be any tears, or hugging, or any of that Lifetime movie crap.
Just a little bit of a conversation. That’s all.
That’s not that much to ask.
But tonight’s gonna be another one of those nights. That was pretty plain when Dad walked through the door and sat down on the couch. He’d only been gone a few hours, but whatever had happened between lunchtime and when he came dragging back into the apartment had obviously whipped him good. Literally. The whole left side of his face was scraped and cut and had started darkening into one mother of a bruise. It looks worse now, practically black. But maybe that’s just because Dad said no to turning on the light next to the couch. He wants to sit there and rest his eyes, he says.
He’s been sitting there almost half an hour. Resting his eyes.
The way he’s sitting, Dean figures he could go hang out at Millay’s until closing time, come back and Dad would still be parked right there on the couch. Wouldn’t have eaten anything or done anything to clean up his face.
It’d be easy enough to blame this on Sammy, because Dad used to talk, before Sam took off. Not a whole lot, and a decent chunk of what came out of his mouth was yelling (mostly at Sam, but not always).
Even the yelling was better than this.
But it’s not Sam’s fault. Not really. If what Dad really wanted was to keep Sammy in his sights, they could’ve all pulled up stakes and moved to California. Could’ve found a place near where Sam’s going to school and run jobs from there. Dean suggested that once and Dad acted like it was the craziest shit he’d ever heard - even though he knows damn well that Bobby owns a house and a business and runs all his jobs from there, from the place down in Dakota. It’s not impossible to do. Except it is, somehow, in Dad’s mind. It’s impossible and it’s some seriously crazy shit.
“You want something to eat?” Dean asks softly.
Dad lifts his head and looks at him in a way that’s almost like staring, except it doesn’t last long enough to be a stare.
“I’ll make you something,” Dean offers.
“Not hungry.”
“A sandwich or something.”
You wanna tell me what went wrong? Dean thinks. Huh? Is that too much?
As he’s done almost every day, every night, since Sam left, he busies himself in the kitchen. Sets out bread and mayonnaise and bologna and makes a thick sandwich. Then makes another just like it.
Mom wouldn’t put up with this crap, he thinks.
If you want to be serious about it, he’s got no real idea what Mom would or wouldn’t put up with, because he remembers her mostly as a concept. He’s held on to a couple of brief flashes of her over the years: her smile, the way her hair would brush against his face when she leaned down to kiss him good night, the way she liked to tickle his cheek. But that’s it. He doesn’t know what she liked to do, what TV shows were her favorites, if she enjoyed doing the laundry and cooking and cleaning the bathtub or if she thought it was a royal pain in the ass. He doesn’t know if she could sing or not.
He doesn’t know anything, really, because Dad won’t talk about her.
But he figures if she had half a brain in her head, and any kind of spine at all, she wouldn’t put up with this kind of crap. Wouldn’t put up with Dad just sitting there on the couch, his face all pinched and tight because he’s been beat all to hell again by something he didn’t want Dean to help him go after. It was gonna be a nothing job, he said before he left. It’d take him a couple hours.
Yeah, it took him a couple hours. And now he looks like hell on toast.
There’s a mostly full two-liter of generic cola in the fridge. Dean grabs that and fills a plastic tumbler.
Dammit all, he wishes Dad would say something.
Silent, he puts the sandwiches on a plate and carries it and the glass of cola over to the couch.
“Here,” he says.
Dad glances at him. At the food. “Not hungry,” he rasps.
“Eat it anyway.”
“Dean -“
It’s a threat. A warning.
Fuck you, Dean thinks. Fuck you running, you crazy sonofabitch. You can act like this all you want, but I ain’t giving up.
You hear me? I ain’t giving up.
I’m NOT.
“You need me to patch you up?” he asks, with as little emotion as he can manage.
“No.”
“Okay, then. I’m goin’ to bed.”
And he walks slowly toward the bedroom doorway, because that’s what he does. That’s what he has to do, to allow a little bit of room that Dad might, someday, decide to fill with… something.
Something.
Partly, he creeps along like this because he’s worn out. Two months, and he’s had enough of this new Sam-less existence to last him six lifetimes. A couple times, before Sam left, he entertained the notion that he and Dad might use Sam’s absence to help build some new, tight relationship, just the two of them. That they’d work together. Be a team. But if that ship’s on the horizon, it’s still not visible to the naked eye.
He makes it to the doorway and rests a hand on the frame.
Shit, he thinks, and he can feel his shoulders slump. He needs to sleep. Needs to be somewhere other than here for a few hours so he can recharge, forget, empty his head enough to be able to wake up in the morning and tackle this fabulous Sam-less life all over again.
It’d be different if Dad would just…
“Dean,” Dad says.
“What?” Dean replies without turning, and thinks, I’m all you’ve got left, you sonofabitch. Could you not…
“Son.”
“Yeah. What?”
“Shoulder’s…kinda bad.”
It’s offhanded. Just a comment tossed out into the wind.
But that’s the way they do things. Pretty much, it’s the way they’ve always done things, with or without Sam.
More than likely, it’s the way they always will do things.
It’s some crazy shit, but it’s the way they do things.
Dean turns, hand coming away from the doorframe to wipe his hair back off his forehead. He’s starting to feel as beat as Dad looks, and part of it’s because he hasn’t had anything to eat either, not since breakfast yesterday. He didn’t want to eat, not until Dad got back. Not until he knew Dad was all right.
He doesn’t like to eat alone, not when he’s waiting.
Doesn’t like to do much of anything alone.
There’s a shadow over there on the couch. Human-shaped, shoulders drawn in, fists clenched.
Mom wouldn’t like this, Dean thinks. He’s pretty sure of that: she wouldn’t like this.
But she’s not here. Neither is Sammy.
It’s just the two of them. And maybe that ship’s out there on the horizon after all.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “Okay.”
* * * * *