(no subject)
Skinnybone Tree
Chapter 3
Dean copes for the rest of the afternoon, through another hour or two of submission holds, his dad’s arms around his throat or the other way around, and by the time they call it quits John’s doing better. Not great, but better, and when he puts Dean on the ground for the first time Sam calls a time-out and says he’s hungry. They’re running a little low on supplies; only counted on being out in the badlands - now that John’s said it Sam can’t stop thinking it - for a few days, maybe a week, but they’ve got enough to string together an early dinner, the shadows long on their faces.
They brought a six-pack out with them, something to cut the booze and water that they’d be drinking the rest of the time, but it turned to syrup in the can the minute the temperature reached past 100. Sam doesn’t drink any more than he has to, to keep a bartender from glaring at him or Dean from making fun of him, but he thinks he might actually kill for a beer right now, something to cut the heat, cold enough that it burns going down.
Sam’s tired. The heat is getting to him but feeling like he’s on a tightrope is even worse, waiting for Dean or John to explode. It feels weird to be in the middle, walking a thin line between his brother and some bizarro version of Dad, who seems almost oblivious to the tension in Dean’s shoulders, the dead look in his eyes. He’d almost forgotten the way that Dean was in those first few months after Dad died, after the crash and before the war, and it’s a physical ache to remember it.
John’s in high spirits. He’s either blind or trying to lighten the mood, but it’s hardly helping. Dean gets smaller by the minute, tucking himself into a neat, expressionless package. There’s a little bit of blood dried on the soft spot under John’s ear that Dean watches, ignoring Sam watching him. Sam’s gotten used to it.
“So I’m thinking,” Sam says, squatting by the doorway, “that we should go on a snipe hunt.” They’re spread out in the largest building in the meager ghost town, the only two-story, standing or sitting in what might’ve been the dining room at the back of the house or might’ve been where they butchered animals, for all that was left of the human hands that built it. It was where they put John when he walked out of the desert and his stuff - their stuff, the sleeping bag that they hadn’t been using, the water bottle that had hung off of Sam’s pack - was packed neatly in one corner.
John stares at him. Dean stares at him. “Are you joking?” John says, and he sounds so uncertain that it’s really hard not to laugh. John’s frowning a little, a crooked smile still caught on his face, as if he’s mostly sure Sam is kidding but not quite sure if this is something big bad hunters should know about. It’s not funny, not at all, but Sam grins a little anyway, tries to hide it with his hand.
“No,” Sam says, trying on his sincere face, “they’re real. They’re like snakes, actually. But fatter.” He almost makes it but he’s never been able to cultivate a poker face, and John bursts out laughing. Dean flinches at the sound.
“Actually, we’re running low on water and I thought we could scout around, find some cacti that, that Robert and I haven’t tapped yet, check the snares.” He catches himself waiting for permission even as John’s nodding willingly. He doesn’t look at his brother. Dean’s moved his stare onto Sam’s shoulders, his chin lowered almost to his chest, saying nothing. That’s okay.
It’s getting late enough in the day that their shadows ripple over the hills as they walk, jostling for space, merging from three shadows to one and back again. A comfortable sort of silence settles over them and that hurts more than seeing John play fan boy to his oldest son. Maybe this is what Dean thought their family was all along.
They split up about half a mile out of camp, where the ground drops off abruptly into a sheer cliff face, marbled with time. There are a thousand different ways to get down where flash floods have worn little channels in the stone and Dean is over the edge as soon as Sam says boo, kicking footholds into the cliff. They’d left most of the snares near the hoodoos in the valley, where the grass was thicker and they could actually see the tracks. John and Sam look at each other for a moment and Sam almost says something about Dean and cliffs and jumping face first. Instead, he gives John a nod, tells him to just head back to camp when he’s filled his bag, and heads east.
He wanders for a while, finds a couple of cacti, small and fat with stored water. The cacti are their last resort and the water tastes terrible even after purification but it’s easy enough to get. He works the top off with the hunting knife and scoops the pulp out, lets the water soak through the cheesecloth and into the wide mouth of the bag. He puts the top back on when he’s done and swats dust off his pants. The bag’s about half-full of foul smelling water. He’ll fill the rest up while he’s looking for Dean.
Dean makes it easy for Sam; his tracks are as clear as the rabbits, deliberate scuffles leading Sam away from the shale and onto the dusty floor of the valley, sidestepping his way around barrel cacti and scrub. It’s hot, even as the sun’s making its way behind the hills, still not far enough away from 90 to be comfortable. Last year, around this time, they were in upper New York, grounded by a snowstorm in the middle of exorcising a handful of demons. Routine enough, these days - like seeing old friends. Sam had liked the snow better.
He spots Dean about a quarter mile off, the broad line of his back clear enough in the shade of a low hoodoo. They make Sam’s palms itch, as if just by being near those weird formations, Dean's gonna bring one down on his head. He’s not doing anything but crouching near an empty snare, his wrists balanced on his knees. He turns when Sam’s about a hundred yards away and watches him approach, expressionless.
“You wanted to talk?” he says, tipping his chin back to meet Sam’s eyes.
“Yeah,” Sam says. A snipe hunt’s another one of those things, those codes that Sam felt stupid thinking up. Snipe hunt is Winchester for ditch the norm, we need to talk. Funny to think of John that way, as a hindrance or some wide-eyed person in peril. As an outsider.
Dean pats the ground beside him, frowns vaguely when the sand scorches his palm. Sam hunkers down next to him. Their knees brush together.
“We might have a problem when Michael shows up tomorrow,” Sam says.
Dean grunts, not really looking at him. “We can head him off at the pass when he shows up. Tell him what names we’re using and to keep his goddamn mouth shut.”
“Yeah,” Sam says. He rubs sweat off the back of his neck, around his mouth. “You think this’ll really work, then?”
Dean takes the easy interpretation, says, “It’s the best shot we have at getting in contact with this thing, short of a rain dance or whatever. We can’t stay here for much longer. It’s too fucking boring.”
“Not to mention we’re overstaying our welcome,” Sam says. Billy’s word only bought them so much time with the Res authorities, less time than they were hoping for.
“We’ll do it tomorrow,” Dean says. “Nighttime, so nobody wanders off and bakes in the sun.”
“You think he’ll want to come with?” Sam asks, and they both tense.
“He’s a regular eager beaver, ain’t he?” Dean says after a moment, which isn’t really an answer.
“It’s weird,” Sam says. “He’s almost - friendly. Was he really like this? Do you remember?”
Dean shrugs. “I’m still not sure it’s him.”
“What else could he be?” Sam asks, tiredly. “We did everything we could think of to make sure. He’s human. He’s alive. He’s got all the right ID. He’s got pictures of us, ones we’ve never even seen before.”
“He’s not Dad,” Dean says. And Sam can’t really say anything to that, not when Dean’s laid it flat between them, as if he’s said it’s really fucking hot out here or I love my car. So Sam says nothing. Dean’s hand strays to the snare, running two fingers down the length of the wire. They checked the snares last night, after John fell asleep, skinned and gutted two skinny jackrabbits, ate them in a stew for lunch. No use in checking them again until after nightfall, when Thlayli or Fiver would have had a chance to trip a wire.
“He’s - not Dad,” Dean says again, more hesitantly this time. He’s gotten better at this, at not keeping everything to himself, but talking about John is still a real, physical effort for Dean, as if he has to force out each word from wherever he’d hidden it away. “I mean, did you see him? Dad was a Marine, he was a hardass. I took that guy out in like, five minutes tops. Dad -” And here Dean laughs, under his breath, “- Dad would never have gone for that feint and he’d have kicked my ass for even trying it. You know it, Sam. It’s not him. It can’t be.”
“He wasn’t Superman, Dean,” Sam says softly. He stares down at his hands. His thighs are cramping from staying so still, the fabric of his jeans pulling tight across his knees. Dean snorts. “He had to learn all that stuff, same as we did.”
“Yeah, but -” Dean cuts himself off, lapses back into silence. This close, Sam can smell his brother’s sweat, see it prickling the short hair around his ears. Dean always smells faintly of leather, no matter what he’s been wearing, the smell of it ground into his skin. Leather and sunscreen, now, the gamy scent of unwashed skin beneath it.
“It’s sort of like,” Dean says after a moment, hesitantly. Sam waits, not looking at Dean. “Even when we were really, really small, Dad knew everything. Whenever I stole something from the store. Whenever I didn’t make you brush your teeth. He always knew. He’d know I was going to try that stupid fake-out. He’d know -”
“- that it was you,” Sam finishes. “That it was us.” He knew he’d hit a nerve and Dean’s shoulders hunch like they’re on strings.
“Yeah,” Dean says. “Maybe. So what.”
“All of this,” Sam says slowly. “You walked off last night because you were afraid that he would figure out who we were, and today you’re pissed off that he hasn’t? What the hell is wrong with you, Dean? What do you really want?”
“Peace on earth,” Dean snaps. “And blow jobs.”
“No,” Sam says. He moved without thinking about it and now his knees are on the sand, burning, but he’s got a fist wrapped around Dean’s collar and for now, it’s keeping his brother in place. “No. Don’t fucking do this to me.”
Dean shifts a little, away from Sam, a smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. “What do you want me to say, man? Sammy, I’m freaking out because we’re stuck in the middle of the desert with our dead father, who’s now younger than I am, and waiting for him to figure out that his two sons are fucking each other is kinda nerve wracking?”
For a moment, Sam can barely breathe. Dean’s leaning far enough away that the seam on his shirt is straining, his eyes flat, waiting for Sam’s response, like this is a fight he’ll win as easily as the one in the barn, Dad on his knees, his face turning red from lack of oxygen. “You’ve been waiting for this to happen,” he says.
Dean bats Sam’s hand away, gets to his feet. “Yeah, exactly. I totally thought that Dad would come through a portal in time and bust up our gay incestuous love affair, like, a year ago. Maybe for my birthday or something. Guess he forgot.”
He goes down when Sam punches him, knuckles connecting with the apple of his cheekbone. He lands flat on his back, eyes wide and stunned, and his hand’s only just coming up to touch his face when Sam’s fingers are back around his collar, hauling Dean to his feet.
“All this time,” Sam hisses, “All these years -”
Dean just stares at him, sullen. His hands wrap around Sam’s but make no effort to shake Sam off. The sweat on Dean’s palms makes his hands slippery. “This isn’t some sort of - of cosmic justice, Dean,” Sam says. He can hear the desperation in his voice and so can Dean, who turns his head a little, like he’s embarrassed on Sam’s behalf. “I thought that you - that we were -”
He falters. Dean’s shaking his head. “Sammy -”
“Shut up,” Sam says fiercely. “Shut the hell up or I’ll punch you again.”
“Sam,” Dean says, soft this time. “It’s fucked up. It’s always been fucked up and no matter what - no matter how long this goes on, it’s not gonna change.”
“So you’re waiting for god to strike you down for it,” Sam says bitterly. “You’re such a fucking idiot, Dean.”
“Okay,” Dean says, smirking. “Whatever you say, Sammy. Hey, let’s go back to camp and pretend it’s all hunky dory, okay? Shoot the shit with Dad. Maybe we can ask him if we’ve got any inbred ancestors, that’d be fun. Come on. Hit me again, you’ve been waiting for it, I know. Come on. Come on, Sammy.”
He’s laughing when Sam tackles him, wheezy little gasps that don’t stop even when he hits the ground hard, Sam landing on top of him, knees on either side of Dean’s hips. He stops laughing when Sam presses a heel against Dean’s crotch, palms his cock through his jeans. Dean’s already hard and his hips buck up against Sam’s hand, and Sam might think about that if he wasn’t trying to tear Dean’s jeans open. He slams his other hand over Dean’s wrists when Dean starts fighting, pinning both of them on the ground. Dean’s good but Sam’s bigger, heavier. He wraps his fingers around Dean’s cock, pumps twice, his grip tight enough that it has to hurt.
The sound that tears itself out of Dean’s throat hurts just to hear it, Sam’s cock painfully hard, rubbing against unyielding denim and the broad muscle of Dean’s thigh. He’s rubbing against Dean’s leg like a dog, like some clumsy teenager.
“Fuck, Sam,” Dean groans. His fingers dig furrows in the sand. It’s hard for Sam to slow down, deep breaths, trying to ground himself on the feel of Dean underneath him, moving, but he does, jacks Dean’s cock as if he has all the time in the world to do it. “No,” Dean sobs and then his whole body is clenching up and he’s coming, head thrown back, throat working soundlessly. He turns his face away when Sam swings a knee off of him but Sam’s hands are already hauling him up, onto his knees, pushing his face towards Sam’s crotch.
Dean’s still for a heartbeat, pliant, and then both his hands come up to grip Sam’s hipbones, mouthing the line of Sam’s cock through his jeans. Wanting it now, working Sam’s pants down his hips, sucking and biting each inch of skin before he licks Sam’s cock into his mouth. He’s clumsy with it, spit drooling out of the corners of his mouth. Sam tilts his brother’s head up, feels the slide of his own cock through Dean’s cheek, almost comes from that alone.
Dean talks a lot, when they fuck, and Sam likes it - a lot - but he’s never been able to do it himself. Too embarrassed about it even if he can throw Dean up against a wall and fuck him hard enough to leave fingernail gouges. He can push Dean’s head between his legs and hook his ankles around Dean’s neck, guide Dean’s mouth to his asshole, but he can’t ask for it, can’t tell Dean to slide three wet fingers up his ass and stretch him wide.
It’s not that he can’t say the words. He’s just afraid of what else would come out. Of what Dean would say if Sam asked, You want this, right?
**
His hands slide down Sam’s throat, down the nape of his neck, pressing down on the sensitive muscles of Sam’s shoulder blades. The noise it presses out of his brother is tight, hissing - caught between his teeth. He can’t see Sam but he can smell him, sweat and skin and old clothes. Loves that about Sam, that smell, noses for it in the soft place under Sam’s jaw, his ear. They’ve done this before - holed up so far from civilization that when they fuck it’s so dark they have to go slow or wind up punching the other in the face.
When he stretches, knees on either side of Sam’s thighs, he can feel where Sam’s hands are tied together, flexing slow - pulling - shaking - tremors running up and down Sam’s arms. Strangle knot around his wrists and that’s the first thing that twinges because Dean knows how to lay a knot and that one’s a bitch to undo and he never, ever uses it on a person. He wants to stop moving, to grope for the knife that has to be under the pillows he can’t feel, let Sam loose, but his hands and mouth and hips move, pushing his cock against Sam’s ass.
Sam groans. Stirs under Dean’s hands but he feels weak, wrong. It shudders down low in Dean’s belly but his hands keep moving, his tongue tracing down Sam’s spine, over the scars, the dimple in his spine that never healed right, Sam’s skin hot under his mouth. Heartbeat pounding in Dean’s ears even though he -
- sobbing, in and out, not Sam because he’s lying underneath Dean, as still as if he’s knocked out or just waking up from it, something at the edge of Dean’s hearing underneath the beat-beat of Sam’s heart, could be his name or nothing at all -
He swallows two of his own fingers, sucks them deep, swirls his tongue over and around and gets them wet enough to push into Sam’s ass, too fast, it’s not something Sam likes all that much so they don’t do it unless Dean really asks for it. Feels fucking amazing, now - his cock pushing against Sam’s crack, brushing the back of his own knuckles. It hits in his belly, the small of his back, all the unexpected places that fucking Sam drags out of him, and he wraps his other hand around his cock and holds Sam steady with the other. Pushes. Sinks into his brother, spine curved and shaking with the effort.
He thinks he can hear Sam calling his name. Whispering. Screaming it, maybe, the sound so far off he can’t even be sure. Noise crawling over his skin like tiny animals, like insects in the darkness, like his fingers curving over Sam’s hips.
Louder now, Sam crying like he used to, when he was small enough to curl up in bed with Dean. The Sam he’s touching finally starting to move, clenching around Dean’s cock, fucking back against him almost accidentally. “Sammy,” Dean says - hears the word like it’s whispered into his own ear - needing to hear Sam say he’s okay, that it feels good. Dean’s hips snap forward, fucking Sam deep. His hands shake on Sam’s skin. “Sammy, please!”
Sam’s moving now, shifting or struggling, trying to get his knees up underneath him. He wants to move back, stop moving until Sam’s okay, but -
He gags when his teeth close over the raw skin on Sam’s back. He’s seen it, touched it enough times to know where his mouth is, at the edge of the burns, faint and pink and sensitive. He actually thinks he’s going to throw up for a minute, the muscle in his jaw tensing because now he’s sure. Sam’s not getting up because Dean’s tied his legs down too, and he’s trying to get away because one of Dean’s hands is holding him down and the other one is digging hard into the scar in the small of his back, the one that never really stopped hurting, his thumb pressing down hard enough that it hurts Dean.
“Sam, Sam,” he gasps, his whole body tight, so close to orgasm that he wouldn’t be able to slow down if he could, dream, a dream a dream this has to be a dream. When he comes it bursts across the back of his eyes and then, superimposed over darkness and oil-slick colors, he sees the curve of Sam’s shoulder, not underneath him but only inches from his face. It disappears when he blinks, his eyelashes brushing against his skin and for a long moment, he can only breathe, wiped out, panting harshly, and then it happens.
He realizes that he’s still grinding his thumb against Sam’s spine only a second before the nail rips away from the skin, snapping the same way he’s seen girls pull fake nails off, and the pain shoots right up his arm, lancing down his spine even as his ruined thumb breaks Sam’s skin and sinks into meat too soft to still be on a living person.
He’s still feeling it when it finally hits him that he’s awake, tangled in the sleeping bag and halfway across the room from where Sam, amazingly, is still asleep. In the moonlight, his hair in his face, he looks like a very, very overgrown six year old. It only makes Dean feel worse.
He tugs a pair of jeans and a shirt on and goes out into the air. It’s stuffy inside the buildings even though there aren’t any windows to speak of, and he stands in the doorway and just breathes for a long time.
A voice comes out of the dark: “Hey.” Dean startles, turns around. John’s a few yards away from him, his hands in his pocket, a sheepish smile on his face.
“Hey,” Dean says. He keeps his voice low. “What’re you doing, honing your ninja skills out here?”
John shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep. Been sitting by the fire, but I thought I heard something, though I’d check it out.”
“Just me,” Dean says. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. His fingers are still shaking.
“Yeah,” John says, and then, hesitantly, “You wanna have a drink or something? You don’t look too good.”
Dean lets his hand drop, takes a deep breath and lets it out. “Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”
They finish off the bottle, sitting together at the edge of the fire. There wasn’t much left - just enough to take the edge of the nightmare off and make Dean feel a little warmer. John is quiet, watching the fire. Minding his own business.
“Thanks,” Dean says, after a long while.
John grunts. “Don’t mention it. It’s your booze, anyway.”
“S’pose so.” He remembers the fuss Sam kicked up when Dean wanted to bring alcohol, all the bitching about dehydration and desert temperatures and walking off cliffs. Billy handed them the bottle on the way out the door and the look on Sam’s face was just priceless.
“Had a nightmare,” Dean says. He feels stupid just saying it. This isn’t his dad and even if it was, there’ve been a lot of miles between now and the last time he needed to be comforted after a bad dream.
John nods. “Me too.”
Dean starts a bit at that, turns to look at John fully. “Really? Maybe it’s connected.” He hasn’t been able to sleep well since they got here but hadn’t thought much of it.
John shrugs, smiles a little. “Maybe. Happens to me a lot, though.”
“You, uh,” Dean says. “You get a lot of nightmares?”
John shrugs. “Fair bit, I guess. Seems pretty standard for our line of work, anyway. Not many people turn to hunting without a reason for it.”
It’s practically a written invitation to ask. Dean sets the bottle down carefully, watches the last few drops settle in the glass. “What are your nightmares about?” he says, swallowing what he really wants to ask. He knows the story anyway, of how John got into hunting. He was there, after all.
John stares into the fire and after a moment, so does Dean. It’s easier that way. “My wife,” John says, after a moment. “That’s not so bad, anymore. It’s mostly about my boys, these days.”
“How - why?” Dean asks.
John smiles, still staring into the fire. “It’s a big, scary world out there. I never really knew how scary it was, and ... I don’t know if I can keep them safe from all of it. I don’t think I can.” He laughs under his breath. “Wish you could meet ‘em. Dean, my oldest - kid’s a little pistol. Thinks he can take on the world. Practically attached at the hip to the baby, Sammy. But that’s - it’s good. We lost their mom when Sammy was just a few months old, it was hard on all of us.”
Dean licks his lips. His mouth is dry. His throat aches for more alcohol, for more sleep, anything. “You lost your wife?” he says.
John’s face hardens. “She was murdered,” he says. For a long moment, Dean thinks that’s it. That’s all he’s going to say. He’s tensing to stand when John grins, abruptly. “There’s this thing that Dean’s picked up, I don’t know where he’s gotten it from,” he says. “But it’s hilarious. He herds the baby around, like a little sheepdog. Little nudges, almost. I’m surprised he hasn’t started nipping at Sammy’s heels yet.”
“What?” Dean says, startled. “That’s freakin weird.” He’s almost a little offended. He remembers when he didn’t talk, remembers watching his dad relearn how to shoot and kill and defend, and he thinks he’d remember imitating Rin-Tin-Tin.
“He’s a funny kid,” John says. There’s still the slightest smile lingering around his mouth, and after a moment he adds, “He’s the bravest person I’ve ever known.”
If he could think clearly, Dean would be glad for the darkness, for the flickering light on their faces that hides the rush of blood to his face. He had almost forgotten what his dad said to him that day in the hospital, before he’d died - hadn’t told anybody about it, not even Sam. When Sam had asked him if Dad had said anything Before, Dean had said no. He couldn’t tell Sam the part that mattered, the secret part, but even more than that, couldn’t actually say he was proud of me or he loved me, he really actually did. He hadn’t really thought Sam would care about that part, anyway.
He almost doesn’t hear it when John coughs a little, offers up an embarrassed smile, finally turning to look at Dean. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m not usually in the habit of pouring my guts out to strangers. You probably don’t give a shit about any of this, anyway.”
“No, uh,” Dean clears his throat. “It’s cool. I know how it is. Sometimes it’s easier to talk to someone who doesn’t know you. Or something. That’s what Dr. Phil says, anyway.”
John smiles thinly, but his eyes are wide. Knowing. So Dean keeps talking. “I never talk about my dad to anyone. Not even Jimmy. He - my dad died, god, it’s been six years now and I still - it’s like it happened yesterday, sometimes. We were ... real close, you know?”
“Not really,” John says. “My daddy kicked me out when I said I was gonna join the Army. Haven’t seen him since.”
“That’s not what -” Dean starts, and then catches himself. John’s looking at him, curious. “Nothing, I’m just surprised, is all. You seem like the family type.”
John grins openly at that. “That obvious, huh?”
“No,” Dean says. He looks away again. John’s still staring at him. “No, just - they’re most of what you talk about, dude. The first thing you told us about yourself was that you’ve got kids, and then, you know, the whole time travel thing, they were all you wanted to know about. If I found myself 20 years in the future, I think I’d want to, I don’t know, find out if the Sox ever won the Series or if disco ever really died.”
“You think you could track them down?” John asks suddenly. “Would you be able to call my boys up on that, that little phone of yours? Didn’t really think of it before, stuck out in the desert and all, but -”
“No,” Dean says.
John shuts his mouth, raises an eyebrow. Not challenging, not exactly. Waiting. “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Dean says slowly. “I seem to remember a whole lot of movies with paradoxes and dead - and look, we’ve run into them a few times, we’re not exactly on their Christmas card list, you know? They - they don’t trust other hunters. Got a lot of reasons not to.”
John nods, after a moment. He looks back to the fire, staring hard. Looking fucking heartbroken in that way Dean knows pretty well, his eyebrows knitted together, his mouth drawn up tight. Keeping everything in. “Look,” Dean says. “Jimmy and me have seen a lot of stuff, you know? But never anything like this, this time travel thing. They wouldn’t even know what to think. Mikey’s gonna be here in the morning and we should be done with all of this tomorrow and we can, after that we can get you back to where you belong. Back to your boys. Okay? Don’t worry about it, John, okay?”
John keeps nodding, slowly. He’s got his hands up, bracing his chin, and he twists his wedding band around and around.
“Hey,” Dean says, “That Sam grew up to be a tall motherfucker, man. I guess he got his Wheaties when he was a kid, right?”
John’s mouth softens a little. “He eats a lot of Cheerios, these days. You uh, you think he looks anything like me?”
“Yeah,” Dean says. “He’s got your smile.”
They’re quiet for a long time after that. They pass a jug of water back and forth between them, like some sort of G-rated version of what they were drinking earlier. Dean was twelve or so when Dad started letting him have sips of whatever he was drinking but Sammy had to wait until he was sixteen for official permission. Dean was giving him beer by then anyway, keeping it on the down low even though Dean’s pretty sure John knew all about it. There were years when it was just the two of them, Dean and Dad, huddled around campfires or case files, passing the bottle back and forth. Good years, even though he missed Sammy so bad it made him sick.
“Hey,” John says, clearing his throat. “Thanks.”
“What for?” Dean asks, warily.
“Ahh, you know,” John says, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “For listening. There’s not a lot of chances for me to get any of this shit out. Not a lot of people who know what it’s like.”
“I don’t know what it’s like,” Dean mumbles. John shakes his head.
“Yeah, you do. I can see it in your face. Hunting’s a lonely thing, and my boys - they’re all I have. I’m not a good dad. Mary, my wife, she was so goddamn good, she always knew just what they needed and even after all this time, Dean still knows what the baby wants before I do. Look, I’m not trying to embarrass you, lord knows. Just - thanks.”
“No problem,” Dean says. “Hey, how about them Royals, huh? They um, exist in your time?”
“I don’t follow baseball,” John says, “What’s your real name?”
“What?” Dean says blankly.
John quirks a smile at him. “Come on.”
“That’s,” Dean says. “Um. Classified.” He cringes even as he says it, his face hot.
“You don’t ever use your real names?” John asks. He’s more curious than disappointed but shame prickles hot and heavy in Dean’s chest anyway.
“Sometimes,” Dean says slowly. He remembers being able to lie to his dad. “We had a lot of trouble with the Feds, a few years back. Popped up on their radar and couldn’t get off it. It’s - it took a long time to get better.” It’s the truth, just not all of it.
John just nods, open and trusting. Enough awareness in his eyes that he knows he’s being lied to. “Is this where I tell you I’m not a cop?” he says, grinning.
“No,” Dean says. He swallows, tries again. “No, just - don’t ask. I can’t tell you.”
“Okay,” John says. “I get it. Sorry I brought it up.”
“It’s okay,” Dean says. “Sorry I can’t tell you.”
**
Sam’s not where Dean left him, and Dean feels a brief stab of panic before he closes his eyes, waits for them to adjust to the darkness.
“You look stupid,” Sam says. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I can’t see,” Dean grunts. He gropes towards the sound of Sam’s voice and Sam reaches out to him, gathers Dean and guides him until he’s sitting the same way that Sam is, with his back up against the wall of their makeshift room, cross-legged on the hard packed floor. “How long you been awake?” Dean asks, warily, when he’s settled. Sam’s knee and shoulder press against his briefly, then relax. It’s hard not to flinch away from it and Dean stares hard until he can see Sam, until he knows for sure he’s still awake.
“A while,” Sam says. “You woke me up when you got up.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He can feel Sam fidgeting. When they were young, before Sam hit that final growth spurt and shot past Dean and Dad in the span of a weekend, Sam used to curl up next to him, tuck his head under Dean’s chin and just sort of sigh deeply every now and again, working out his childhood angst or worry or whatever. Sam’s too tall for that now, unless they’re in bed.
“I wish I had known him,” Sam says finally, so soft that Dean can barely hear him. Little wounded voice in the dark.
“I wish you had too,” Dean says. “You heard all of that, I guess.”
“Yeah,” Sam says. “I don’t think I ever thought of him as - as a person before. Even when I knew that he wasn’t perfect. I spent years being so angry with him for the way he raised us, for what he did to us, and I didn’t ever ...” He trails off. Dean can hear him breathing. All that he can see of his brother is the highlight on his nose and his cheeks, gold from the fire that Dean left their father sitting in front of.
“I know,” Dean says. He hears Sammy sniff a little, watches him wipe his eyes furtively from the corner of his own. “He did the best he could.”
“Was he really like that?” Sam asks, quiet like he doesn’t really want to know the answer.
“Like what?”
Sam doesn’t say anything. Dean tries to pitch his tone for gentle. It comes out colorless and he winces, knowing that Sam will notice. “Yeah,” he says. “He was like that. Didn’t talk about it often, mostly just, you know, around the time of year that Mom died, but - yeah.”
They sit quietly for a long time, just breathing into the dark. Dean’s hand finds its way to the back of Sam’s head, scratching a little under Sam’s hair, cupping the back of his brother’s skull. Dean’s eyes are heavy, itchy. He wants to go back to sleep, wants to start talking and just let all of it out, everything that’s stopping his throat up and making it impossible to breathe or think. He wants to ask, really, seriously, that Sam wants this. He wants his Dad back.
Dean takes a deep breath. “Sam -”
Sam shifts, scooting down the wall until his head is tucked against the curve of Dean’s neck and shoulder. It’s uncomfortable, totally awkward, his shoulders braced and his butt halfway across the floor, and he knocks Dean in the chin before he’s totally settled. It feels stupidly wonderful. “Yeah,” Sam says. “I know.”
Chapter 4
Chapter 3
Dean copes for the rest of the afternoon, through another hour or two of submission holds, his dad’s arms around his throat or the other way around, and by the time they call it quits John’s doing better. Not great, but better, and when he puts Dean on the ground for the first time Sam calls a time-out and says he’s hungry. They’re running a little low on supplies; only counted on being out in the badlands - now that John’s said it Sam can’t stop thinking it - for a few days, maybe a week, but they’ve got enough to string together an early dinner, the shadows long on their faces.
They brought a six-pack out with them, something to cut the booze and water that they’d be drinking the rest of the time, but it turned to syrup in the can the minute the temperature reached past 100. Sam doesn’t drink any more than he has to, to keep a bartender from glaring at him or Dean from making fun of him, but he thinks he might actually kill for a beer right now, something to cut the heat, cold enough that it burns going down.
Sam’s tired. The heat is getting to him but feeling like he’s on a tightrope is even worse, waiting for Dean or John to explode. It feels weird to be in the middle, walking a thin line between his brother and some bizarro version of Dad, who seems almost oblivious to the tension in Dean’s shoulders, the dead look in his eyes. He’d almost forgotten the way that Dean was in those first few months after Dad died, after the crash and before the war, and it’s a physical ache to remember it.
John’s in high spirits. He’s either blind or trying to lighten the mood, but it’s hardly helping. Dean gets smaller by the minute, tucking himself into a neat, expressionless package. There’s a little bit of blood dried on the soft spot under John’s ear that Dean watches, ignoring Sam watching him. Sam’s gotten used to it.
“So I’m thinking,” Sam says, squatting by the doorway, “that we should go on a snipe hunt.” They’re spread out in the largest building in the meager ghost town, the only two-story, standing or sitting in what might’ve been the dining room at the back of the house or might’ve been where they butchered animals, for all that was left of the human hands that built it. It was where they put John when he walked out of the desert and his stuff - their stuff, the sleeping bag that they hadn’t been using, the water bottle that had hung off of Sam’s pack - was packed neatly in one corner.
John stares at him. Dean stares at him. “Are you joking?” John says, and he sounds so uncertain that it’s really hard not to laugh. John’s frowning a little, a crooked smile still caught on his face, as if he’s mostly sure Sam is kidding but not quite sure if this is something big bad hunters should know about. It’s not funny, not at all, but Sam grins a little anyway, tries to hide it with his hand.
“No,” Sam says, trying on his sincere face, “they’re real. They’re like snakes, actually. But fatter.” He almost makes it but he’s never been able to cultivate a poker face, and John bursts out laughing. Dean flinches at the sound.
“Actually, we’re running low on water and I thought we could scout around, find some cacti that, that Robert and I haven’t tapped yet, check the snares.” He catches himself waiting for permission even as John’s nodding willingly. He doesn’t look at his brother. Dean’s moved his stare onto Sam’s shoulders, his chin lowered almost to his chest, saying nothing. That’s okay.
It’s getting late enough in the day that their shadows ripple over the hills as they walk, jostling for space, merging from three shadows to one and back again. A comfortable sort of silence settles over them and that hurts more than seeing John play fan boy to his oldest son. Maybe this is what Dean thought their family was all along.
They split up about half a mile out of camp, where the ground drops off abruptly into a sheer cliff face, marbled with time. There are a thousand different ways to get down where flash floods have worn little channels in the stone and Dean is over the edge as soon as Sam says boo, kicking footholds into the cliff. They’d left most of the snares near the hoodoos in the valley, where the grass was thicker and they could actually see the tracks. John and Sam look at each other for a moment and Sam almost says something about Dean and cliffs and jumping face first. Instead, he gives John a nod, tells him to just head back to camp when he’s filled his bag, and heads east.
He wanders for a while, finds a couple of cacti, small and fat with stored water. The cacti are their last resort and the water tastes terrible even after purification but it’s easy enough to get. He works the top off with the hunting knife and scoops the pulp out, lets the water soak through the cheesecloth and into the wide mouth of the bag. He puts the top back on when he’s done and swats dust off his pants. The bag’s about half-full of foul smelling water. He’ll fill the rest up while he’s looking for Dean.
Dean makes it easy for Sam; his tracks are as clear as the rabbits, deliberate scuffles leading Sam away from the shale and onto the dusty floor of the valley, sidestepping his way around barrel cacti and scrub. It’s hot, even as the sun’s making its way behind the hills, still not far enough away from 90 to be comfortable. Last year, around this time, they were in upper New York, grounded by a snowstorm in the middle of exorcising a handful of demons. Routine enough, these days - like seeing old friends. Sam had liked the snow better.
He spots Dean about a quarter mile off, the broad line of his back clear enough in the shade of a low hoodoo. They make Sam’s palms itch, as if just by being near those weird formations, Dean's gonna bring one down on his head. He’s not doing anything but crouching near an empty snare, his wrists balanced on his knees. He turns when Sam’s about a hundred yards away and watches him approach, expressionless.
“You wanted to talk?” he says, tipping his chin back to meet Sam’s eyes.
“Yeah,” Sam says. A snipe hunt’s another one of those things, those codes that Sam felt stupid thinking up. Snipe hunt is Winchester for ditch the norm, we need to talk. Funny to think of John that way, as a hindrance or some wide-eyed person in peril. As an outsider.
Dean pats the ground beside him, frowns vaguely when the sand scorches his palm. Sam hunkers down next to him. Their knees brush together.
“We might have a problem when Michael shows up tomorrow,” Sam says.
Dean grunts, not really looking at him. “We can head him off at the pass when he shows up. Tell him what names we’re using and to keep his goddamn mouth shut.”
“Yeah,” Sam says. He rubs sweat off the back of his neck, around his mouth. “You think this’ll really work, then?”
Dean takes the easy interpretation, says, “It’s the best shot we have at getting in contact with this thing, short of a rain dance or whatever. We can’t stay here for much longer. It’s too fucking boring.”
“Not to mention we’re overstaying our welcome,” Sam says. Billy’s word only bought them so much time with the Res authorities, less time than they were hoping for.
“We’ll do it tomorrow,” Dean says. “Nighttime, so nobody wanders off and bakes in the sun.”
“You think he’ll want to come with?” Sam asks, and they both tense.
“He’s a regular eager beaver, ain’t he?” Dean says after a moment, which isn’t really an answer.
“It’s weird,” Sam says. “He’s almost - friendly. Was he really like this? Do you remember?”
Dean shrugs. “I’m still not sure it’s him.”
“What else could he be?” Sam asks, tiredly. “We did everything we could think of to make sure. He’s human. He’s alive. He’s got all the right ID. He’s got pictures of us, ones we’ve never even seen before.”
“He’s not Dad,” Dean says. And Sam can’t really say anything to that, not when Dean’s laid it flat between them, as if he’s said it’s really fucking hot out here or I love my car. So Sam says nothing. Dean’s hand strays to the snare, running two fingers down the length of the wire. They checked the snares last night, after John fell asleep, skinned and gutted two skinny jackrabbits, ate them in a stew for lunch. No use in checking them again until after nightfall, when Thlayli or Fiver would have had a chance to trip a wire.
“He’s - not Dad,” Dean says again, more hesitantly this time. He’s gotten better at this, at not keeping everything to himself, but talking about John is still a real, physical effort for Dean, as if he has to force out each word from wherever he’d hidden it away. “I mean, did you see him? Dad was a Marine, he was a hardass. I took that guy out in like, five minutes tops. Dad -” And here Dean laughs, under his breath, “- Dad would never have gone for that feint and he’d have kicked my ass for even trying it. You know it, Sam. It’s not him. It can’t be.”
“He wasn’t Superman, Dean,” Sam says softly. He stares down at his hands. His thighs are cramping from staying so still, the fabric of his jeans pulling tight across his knees. Dean snorts. “He had to learn all that stuff, same as we did.”
“Yeah, but -” Dean cuts himself off, lapses back into silence. This close, Sam can smell his brother’s sweat, see it prickling the short hair around his ears. Dean always smells faintly of leather, no matter what he’s been wearing, the smell of it ground into his skin. Leather and sunscreen, now, the gamy scent of unwashed skin beneath it.
“It’s sort of like,” Dean says after a moment, hesitantly. Sam waits, not looking at Dean. “Even when we were really, really small, Dad knew everything. Whenever I stole something from the store. Whenever I didn’t make you brush your teeth. He always knew. He’d know I was going to try that stupid fake-out. He’d know -”
“- that it was you,” Sam finishes. “That it was us.” He knew he’d hit a nerve and Dean’s shoulders hunch like they’re on strings.
“Yeah,” Dean says. “Maybe. So what.”
“All of this,” Sam says slowly. “You walked off last night because you were afraid that he would figure out who we were, and today you’re pissed off that he hasn’t? What the hell is wrong with you, Dean? What do you really want?”
“Peace on earth,” Dean snaps. “And blow jobs.”
“No,” Sam says. He moved without thinking about it and now his knees are on the sand, burning, but he’s got a fist wrapped around Dean’s collar and for now, it’s keeping his brother in place. “No. Don’t fucking do this to me.”
Dean shifts a little, away from Sam, a smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. “What do you want me to say, man? Sammy, I’m freaking out because we’re stuck in the middle of the desert with our dead father, who’s now younger than I am, and waiting for him to figure out that his two sons are fucking each other is kinda nerve wracking?”
For a moment, Sam can barely breathe. Dean’s leaning far enough away that the seam on his shirt is straining, his eyes flat, waiting for Sam’s response, like this is a fight he’ll win as easily as the one in the barn, Dad on his knees, his face turning red from lack of oxygen. “You’ve been waiting for this to happen,” he says.
Dean bats Sam’s hand away, gets to his feet. “Yeah, exactly. I totally thought that Dad would come through a portal in time and bust up our gay incestuous love affair, like, a year ago. Maybe for my birthday or something. Guess he forgot.”
He goes down when Sam punches him, knuckles connecting with the apple of his cheekbone. He lands flat on his back, eyes wide and stunned, and his hand’s only just coming up to touch his face when Sam’s fingers are back around his collar, hauling Dean to his feet.
“All this time,” Sam hisses, “All these years -”
Dean just stares at him, sullen. His hands wrap around Sam’s but make no effort to shake Sam off. The sweat on Dean’s palms makes his hands slippery. “This isn’t some sort of - of cosmic justice, Dean,” Sam says. He can hear the desperation in his voice and so can Dean, who turns his head a little, like he’s embarrassed on Sam’s behalf. “I thought that you - that we were -”
He falters. Dean’s shaking his head. “Sammy -”
“Shut up,” Sam says fiercely. “Shut the hell up or I’ll punch you again.”
“Sam,” Dean says, soft this time. “It’s fucked up. It’s always been fucked up and no matter what - no matter how long this goes on, it’s not gonna change.”
“So you’re waiting for god to strike you down for it,” Sam says bitterly. “You’re such a fucking idiot, Dean.”
“Okay,” Dean says, smirking. “Whatever you say, Sammy. Hey, let’s go back to camp and pretend it’s all hunky dory, okay? Shoot the shit with Dad. Maybe we can ask him if we’ve got any inbred ancestors, that’d be fun. Come on. Hit me again, you’ve been waiting for it, I know. Come on. Come on, Sammy.”
He’s laughing when Sam tackles him, wheezy little gasps that don’t stop even when he hits the ground hard, Sam landing on top of him, knees on either side of Dean’s hips. He stops laughing when Sam presses a heel against Dean’s crotch, palms his cock through his jeans. Dean’s already hard and his hips buck up against Sam’s hand, and Sam might think about that if he wasn’t trying to tear Dean’s jeans open. He slams his other hand over Dean’s wrists when Dean starts fighting, pinning both of them on the ground. Dean’s good but Sam’s bigger, heavier. He wraps his fingers around Dean’s cock, pumps twice, his grip tight enough that it has to hurt.
The sound that tears itself out of Dean’s throat hurts just to hear it, Sam’s cock painfully hard, rubbing against unyielding denim and the broad muscle of Dean’s thigh. He’s rubbing against Dean’s leg like a dog, like some clumsy teenager.
“Fuck, Sam,” Dean groans. His fingers dig furrows in the sand. It’s hard for Sam to slow down, deep breaths, trying to ground himself on the feel of Dean underneath him, moving, but he does, jacks Dean’s cock as if he has all the time in the world to do it. “No,” Dean sobs and then his whole body is clenching up and he’s coming, head thrown back, throat working soundlessly. He turns his face away when Sam swings a knee off of him but Sam’s hands are already hauling him up, onto his knees, pushing his face towards Sam’s crotch.
Dean’s still for a heartbeat, pliant, and then both his hands come up to grip Sam’s hipbones, mouthing the line of Sam’s cock through his jeans. Wanting it now, working Sam’s pants down his hips, sucking and biting each inch of skin before he licks Sam’s cock into his mouth. He’s clumsy with it, spit drooling out of the corners of his mouth. Sam tilts his brother’s head up, feels the slide of his own cock through Dean’s cheek, almost comes from that alone.
Dean talks a lot, when they fuck, and Sam likes it - a lot - but he’s never been able to do it himself. Too embarrassed about it even if he can throw Dean up against a wall and fuck him hard enough to leave fingernail gouges. He can push Dean’s head between his legs and hook his ankles around Dean’s neck, guide Dean’s mouth to his asshole, but he can’t ask for it, can’t tell Dean to slide three wet fingers up his ass and stretch him wide.
It’s not that he can’t say the words. He’s just afraid of what else would come out. Of what Dean would say if Sam asked, You want this, right?
**
His hands slide down Sam’s throat, down the nape of his neck, pressing down on the sensitive muscles of Sam’s shoulder blades. The noise it presses out of his brother is tight, hissing - caught between his teeth. He can’t see Sam but he can smell him, sweat and skin and old clothes. Loves that about Sam, that smell, noses for it in the soft place under Sam’s jaw, his ear. They’ve done this before - holed up so far from civilization that when they fuck it’s so dark they have to go slow or wind up punching the other in the face.
When he stretches, knees on either side of Sam’s thighs, he can feel where Sam’s hands are tied together, flexing slow - pulling - shaking - tremors running up and down Sam’s arms. Strangle knot around his wrists and that’s the first thing that twinges because Dean knows how to lay a knot and that one’s a bitch to undo and he never, ever uses it on a person. He wants to stop moving, to grope for the knife that has to be under the pillows he can’t feel, let Sam loose, but his hands and mouth and hips move, pushing his cock against Sam’s ass.
Sam groans. Stirs under Dean’s hands but he feels weak, wrong. It shudders down low in Dean’s belly but his hands keep moving, his tongue tracing down Sam’s spine, over the scars, the dimple in his spine that never healed right, Sam’s skin hot under his mouth. Heartbeat pounding in Dean’s ears even though he -
- sobbing, in and out, not Sam because he’s lying underneath Dean, as still as if he’s knocked out or just waking up from it, something at the edge of Dean’s hearing underneath the beat-beat of Sam’s heart, could be his name or nothing at all -
He swallows two of his own fingers, sucks them deep, swirls his tongue over and around and gets them wet enough to push into Sam’s ass, too fast, it’s not something Sam likes all that much so they don’t do it unless Dean really asks for it. Feels fucking amazing, now - his cock pushing against Sam’s crack, brushing the back of his own knuckles. It hits in his belly, the small of his back, all the unexpected places that fucking Sam drags out of him, and he wraps his other hand around his cock and holds Sam steady with the other. Pushes. Sinks into his brother, spine curved and shaking with the effort.
He thinks he can hear Sam calling his name. Whispering. Screaming it, maybe, the sound so far off he can’t even be sure. Noise crawling over his skin like tiny animals, like insects in the darkness, like his fingers curving over Sam’s hips.
Louder now, Sam crying like he used to, when he was small enough to curl up in bed with Dean. The Sam he’s touching finally starting to move, clenching around Dean’s cock, fucking back against him almost accidentally. “Sammy,” Dean says - hears the word like it’s whispered into his own ear - needing to hear Sam say he’s okay, that it feels good. Dean’s hips snap forward, fucking Sam deep. His hands shake on Sam’s skin. “Sammy, please!”
Sam’s moving now, shifting or struggling, trying to get his knees up underneath him. He wants to move back, stop moving until Sam’s okay, but -
He gags when his teeth close over the raw skin on Sam’s back. He’s seen it, touched it enough times to know where his mouth is, at the edge of the burns, faint and pink and sensitive. He actually thinks he’s going to throw up for a minute, the muscle in his jaw tensing because now he’s sure. Sam’s not getting up because Dean’s tied his legs down too, and he’s trying to get away because one of Dean’s hands is holding him down and the other one is digging hard into the scar in the small of his back, the one that never really stopped hurting, his thumb pressing down hard enough that it hurts Dean.
“Sam, Sam,” he gasps, his whole body tight, so close to orgasm that he wouldn’t be able to slow down if he could, dream, a dream a dream this has to be a dream. When he comes it bursts across the back of his eyes and then, superimposed over darkness and oil-slick colors, he sees the curve of Sam’s shoulder, not underneath him but only inches from his face. It disappears when he blinks, his eyelashes brushing against his skin and for a long moment, he can only breathe, wiped out, panting harshly, and then it happens.
He realizes that he’s still grinding his thumb against Sam’s spine only a second before the nail rips away from the skin, snapping the same way he’s seen girls pull fake nails off, and the pain shoots right up his arm, lancing down his spine even as his ruined thumb breaks Sam’s skin and sinks into meat too soft to still be on a living person.
He’s still feeling it when it finally hits him that he’s awake, tangled in the sleeping bag and halfway across the room from where Sam, amazingly, is still asleep. In the moonlight, his hair in his face, he looks like a very, very overgrown six year old. It only makes Dean feel worse.
He tugs a pair of jeans and a shirt on and goes out into the air. It’s stuffy inside the buildings even though there aren’t any windows to speak of, and he stands in the doorway and just breathes for a long time.
A voice comes out of the dark: “Hey.” Dean startles, turns around. John’s a few yards away from him, his hands in his pocket, a sheepish smile on his face.
“Hey,” Dean says. He keeps his voice low. “What’re you doing, honing your ninja skills out here?”
John shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep. Been sitting by the fire, but I thought I heard something, though I’d check it out.”
“Just me,” Dean says. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. His fingers are still shaking.
“Yeah,” John says, and then, hesitantly, “You wanna have a drink or something? You don’t look too good.”
Dean lets his hand drop, takes a deep breath and lets it out. “Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”
They finish off the bottle, sitting together at the edge of the fire. There wasn’t much left - just enough to take the edge of the nightmare off and make Dean feel a little warmer. John is quiet, watching the fire. Minding his own business.
“Thanks,” Dean says, after a long while.
John grunts. “Don’t mention it. It’s your booze, anyway.”
“S’pose so.” He remembers the fuss Sam kicked up when Dean wanted to bring alcohol, all the bitching about dehydration and desert temperatures and walking off cliffs. Billy handed them the bottle on the way out the door and the look on Sam’s face was just priceless.
“Had a nightmare,” Dean says. He feels stupid just saying it. This isn’t his dad and even if it was, there’ve been a lot of miles between now and the last time he needed to be comforted after a bad dream.
John nods. “Me too.”
Dean starts a bit at that, turns to look at John fully. “Really? Maybe it’s connected.” He hasn’t been able to sleep well since they got here but hadn’t thought much of it.
John shrugs, smiles a little. “Maybe. Happens to me a lot, though.”
“You, uh,” Dean says. “You get a lot of nightmares?”
John shrugs. “Fair bit, I guess. Seems pretty standard for our line of work, anyway. Not many people turn to hunting without a reason for it.”
It’s practically a written invitation to ask. Dean sets the bottle down carefully, watches the last few drops settle in the glass. “What are your nightmares about?” he says, swallowing what he really wants to ask. He knows the story anyway, of how John got into hunting. He was there, after all.
John stares into the fire and after a moment, so does Dean. It’s easier that way. “My wife,” John says, after a moment. “That’s not so bad, anymore. It’s mostly about my boys, these days.”
“How - why?” Dean asks.
John smiles, still staring into the fire. “It’s a big, scary world out there. I never really knew how scary it was, and ... I don’t know if I can keep them safe from all of it. I don’t think I can.” He laughs under his breath. “Wish you could meet ‘em. Dean, my oldest - kid’s a little pistol. Thinks he can take on the world. Practically attached at the hip to the baby, Sammy. But that’s - it’s good. We lost their mom when Sammy was just a few months old, it was hard on all of us.”
Dean licks his lips. His mouth is dry. His throat aches for more alcohol, for more sleep, anything. “You lost your wife?” he says.
John’s face hardens. “She was murdered,” he says. For a long moment, Dean thinks that’s it. That’s all he’s going to say. He’s tensing to stand when John grins, abruptly. “There’s this thing that Dean’s picked up, I don’t know where he’s gotten it from,” he says. “But it’s hilarious. He herds the baby around, like a little sheepdog. Little nudges, almost. I’m surprised he hasn’t started nipping at Sammy’s heels yet.”
“What?” Dean says, startled. “That’s freakin weird.” He’s almost a little offended. He remembers when he didn’t talk, remembers watching his dad relearn how to shoot and kill and defend, and he thinks he’d remember imitating Rin-Tin-Tin.
“He’s a funny kid,” John says. There’s still the slightest smile lingering around his mouth, and after a moment he adds, “He’s the bravest person I’ve ever known.”
If he could think clearly, Dean would be glad for the darkness, for the flickering light on their faces that hides the rush of blood to his face. He had almost forgotten what his dad said to him that day in the hospital, before he’d died - hadn’t told anybody about it, not even Sam. When Sam had asked him if Dad had said anything Before, Dean had said no. He couldn’t tell Sam the part that mattered, the secret part, but even more than that, couldn’t actually say he was proud of me or he loved me, he really actually did. He hadn’t really thought Sam would care about that part, anyway.
He almost doesn’t hear it when John coughs a little, offers up an embarrassed smile, finally turning to look at Dean. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m not usually in the habit of pouring my guts out to strangers. You probably don’t give a shit about any of this, anyway.”
“No, uh,” Dean clears his throat. “It’s cool. I know how it is. Sometimes it’s easier to talk to someone who doesn’t know you. Or something. That’s what Dr. Phil says, anyway.”
John smiles thinly, but his eyes are wide. Knowing. So Dean keeps talking. “I never talk about my dad to anyone. Not even Jimmy. He - my dad died, god, it’s been six years now and I still - it’s like it happened yesterday, sometimes. We were ... real close, you know?”
“Not really,” John says. “My daddy kicked me out when I said I was gonna join the Army. Haven’t seen him since.”
“That’s not what -” Dean starts, and then catches himself. John’s looking at him, curious. “Nothing, I’m just surprised, is all. You seem like the family type.”
John grins openly at that. “That obvious, huh?”
“No,” Dean says. He looks away again. John’s still staring at him. “No, just - they’re most of what you talk about, dude. The first thing you told us about yourself was that you’ve got kids, and then, you know, the whole time travel thing, they were all you wanted to know about. If I found myself 20 years in the future, I think I’d want to, I don’t know, find out if the Sox ever won the Series or if disco ever really died.”
“You think you could track them down?” John asks suddenly. “Would you be able to call my boys up on that, that little phone of yours? Didn’t really think of it before, stuck out in the desert and all, but -”
“No,” Dean says.
John shuts his mouth, raises an eyebrow. Not challenging, not exactly. Waiting. “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Dean says slowly. “I seem to remember a whole lot of movies with paradoxes and dead - and look, we’ve run into them a few times, we’re not exactly on their Christmas card list, you know? They - they don’t trust other hunters. Got a lot of reasons not to.”
John nods, after a moment. He looks back to the fire, staring hard. Looking fucking heartbroken in that way Dean knows pretty well, his eyebrows knitted together, his mouth drawn up tight. Keeping everything in. “Look,” Dean says. “Jimmy and me have seen a lot of stuff, you know? But never anything like this, this time travel thing. They wouldn’t even know what to think. Mikey’s gonna be here in the morning and we should be done with all of this tomorrow and we can, after that we can get you back to where you belong. Back to your boys. Okay? Don’t worry about it, John, okay?”
John keeps nodding, slowly. He’s got his hands up, bracing his chin, and he twists his wedding band around and around.
“Hey,” Dean says, “That Sam grew up to be a tall motherfucker, man. I guess he got his Wheaties when he was a kid, right?”
John’s mouth softens a little. “He eats a lot of Cheerios, these days. You uh, you think he looks anything like me?”
“Yeah,” Dean says. “He’s got your smile.”
They’re quiet for a long time after that. They pass a jug of water back and forth between them, like some sort of G-rated version of what they were drinking earlier. Dean was twelve or so when Dad started letting him have sips of whatever he was drinking but Sammy had to wait until he was sixteen for official permission. Dean was giving him beer by then anyway, keeping it on the down low even though Dean’s pretty sure John knew all about it. There were years when it was just the two of them, Dean and Dad, huddled around campfires or case files, passing the bottle back and forth. Good years, even though he missed Sammy so bad it made him sick.
“Hey,” John says, clearing his throat. “Thanks.”
“What for?” Dean asks, warily.
“Ahh, you know,” John says, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “For listening. There’s not a lot of chances for me to get any of this shit out. Not a lot of people who know what it’s like.”
“I don’t know what it’s like,” Dean mumbles. John shakes his head.
“Yeah, you do. I can see it in your face. Hunting’s a lonely thing, and my boys - they’re all I have. I’m not a good dad. Mary, my wife, she was so goddamn good, she always knew just what they needed and even after all this time, Dean still knows what the baby wants before I do. Look, I’m not trying to embarrass you, lord knows. Just - thanks.”
“No problem,” Dean says. “Hey, how about them Royals, huh? They um, exist in your time?”
“I don’t follow baseball,” John says, “What’s your real name?”
“What?” Dean says blankly.
John quirks a smile at him. “Come on.”
“That’s,” Dean says. “Um. Classified.” He cringes even as he says it, his face hot.
“You don’t ever use your real names?” John asks. He’s more curious than disappointed but shame prickles hot and heavy in Dean’s chest anyway.
“Sometimes,” Dean says slowly. He remembers being able to lie to his dad. “We had a lot of trouble with the Feds, a few years back. Popped up on their radar and couldn’t get off it. It’s - it took a long time to get better.” It’s the truth, just not all of it.
John just nods, open and trusting. Enough awareness in his eyes that he knows he’s being lied to. “Is this where I tell you I’m not a cop?” he says, grinning.
“No,” Dean says. He swallows, tries again. “No, just - don’t ask. I can’t tell you.”
“Okay,” John says. “I get it. Sorry I brought it up.”
“It’s okay,” Dean says. “Sorry I can’t tell you.”
**
Sam’s not where Dean left him, and Dean feels a brief stab of panic before he closes his eyes, waits for them to adjust to the darkness.
“You look stupid,” Sam says. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I can’t see,” Dean grunts. He gropes towards the sound of Sam’s voice and Sam reaches out to him, gathers Dean and guides him until he’s sitting the same way that Sam is, with his back up against the wall of their makeshift room, cross-legged on the hard packed floor. “How long you been awake?” Dean asks, warily, when he’s settled. Sam’s knee and shoulder press against his briefly, then relax. It’s hard not to flinch away from it and Dean stares hard until he can see Sam, until he knows for sure he’s still awake.
“A while,” Sam says. “You woke me up when you got up.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He can feel Sam fidgeting. When they were young, before Sam hit that final growth spurt and shot past Dean and Dad in the span of a weekend, Sam used to curl up next to him, tuck his head under Dean’s chin and just sort of sigh deeply every now and again, working out his childhood angst or worry or whatever. Sam’s too tall for that now, unless they’re in bed.
“I wish I had known him,” Sam says finally, so soft that Dean can barely hear him. Little wounded voice in the dark.
“I wish you had too,” Dean says. “You heard all of that, I guess.”
“Yeah,” Sam says. “I don’t think I ever thought of him as - as a person before. Even when I knew that he wasn’t perfect. I spent years being so angry with him for the way he raised us, for what he did to us, and I didn’t ever ...” He trails off. Dean can hear him breathing. All that he can see of his brother is the highlight on his nose and his cheeks, gold from the fire that Dean left their father sitting in front of.
“I know,” Dean says. He hears Sammy sniff a little, watches him wipe his eyes furtively from the corner of his own. “He did the best he could.”
“Was he really like that?” Sam asks, quiet like he doesn’t really want to know the answer.
“Like what?”
Sam doesn’t say anything. Dean tries to pitch his tone for gentle. It comes out colorless and he winces, knowing that Sam will notice. “Yeah,” he says. “He was like that. Didn’t talk about it often, mostly just, you know, around the time of year that Mom died, but - yeah.”
They sit quietly for a long time, just breathing into the dark. Dean’s hand finds its way to the back of Sam’s head, scratching a little under Sam’s hair, cupping the back of his brother’s skull. Dean’s eyes are heavy, itchy. He wants to go back to sleep, wants to start talking and just let all of it out, everything that’s stopping his throat up and making it impossible to breathe or think. He wants to ask, really, seriously, that Sam wants this. He wants his Dad back.
Dean takes a deep breath. “Sam -”
Sam shifts, scooting down the wall until his head is tucked against the curve of Dean’s neck and shoulder. It’s uncomfortable, totally awkward, his shoulders braced and his butt halfway across the floor, and he knocks Dean in the chin before he’s totally settled. It feels stupidly wonderful. “Yeah,” Sam says. “I know.”
Chapter 4