Someday Never Comes
Title: Someday Never Comes
Rating: PG -13
Wordcount: 2500
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: At the end of 5x14 - My Bloody Valentine, Dean asks for help. John shows up to offer whatever comfort he can provide.
Written for the Dean-focused hurt/comfort comment-fic meme (#5) on hoodie_time .
This fills 'Apocalypse' on my angst_bingo card, which means I have now successfully completed one straight line with 10 little extras all around it. Even if I don't manage an actual blackout I'll still have something to submit. I feel very accomplished and like I can finally get back to my poor neglected BB.
"Please...I can't...I need some help," Dean chokes out, eyes trained on the bright night sky. "Please."
Dean waits for the longest time. Stares up into the sky, at the stars twinkling happily above him and not a single soul answers his desperate plea.
He goes to take another pull off his bottle and ends up snorting most of it back onto the ground.
He's such a sucker for thinking praying would get him anything but a sore throat. Michael and his angelic choir are probably laughing their asses off at their pawn's pathetic plea for help.
Dean walks further into the maze of metal and rust, deep into the yard until he is surrounded by nothing but dead cars.
He doesn't know how long he just sits on the hood of some beat up Buick, stares up at the unforgiving night sky with the ever moving, twinkly-twisting stars that are making his eyes water until the tears he's been holding back for hours threaten to finally fall. The bottle in Dean's hand is getting dangerously empty and he doesn't even know where it all went.
Then it happens.
There're no bright, flashing lights, no flames and thunder. Just Dean closing his eyes for a minute and when he looks back up he is standing face to face with John Winchester.
"Hey, Dean."
His face is bright, peaceful, a calming, golden light emanating from his very core and Dean almost chokes on the whiskey that is trying to get back up past his throat.
He glances down at his bourbon. He doesn't usually hallucinate when he's wasted. Not like this anyway.
"I'm really here," the thing smiles with the exact right tilt of the head and crap, Dean's such a moron for thinking hallucination first and supernatural baddie second, but the alcohol must be really getting to him and besides, it's not like anyone's really surprised anymore at his stupidity.
Dean's free hand twitches as he tries to get the holy water in his pocket. "Not a demon though," the John-thing explains quietly. "And your flask is in your jacket pocket. Inside."
John Winchester. Dad. Fuck. Something - angel or demon or something in-between, Dean can't really tell the difference anymore anyway - has found an all new way to fuck with Dean's head. Fuck. Dean's thoughts tumble over each other, he can't pick out a single one and focus for one goddamn second, but he knows this is bad. Incredibly bad and evil and he's too fucking drunk to do anything about it.
Tools and rusty car parts clutter against each other when Dean stumbles a step backwards. "Son of a...you...go...fuck off."
Alright, so maybe he's come up with better insults in his day but considering how drunk he really is it's still fairly coherent and gets the point across just fine.
The John-thing lets the smile slide off of John's face and gives Dean that look. The one that makes Dean's heart stutter and his throat close up and it's almost enough to convince him he's actually talking to his father. Almost.
"What do you want?" he growls instead with his voice extra deep and gravelly to make up for the traitorous quiver. He glances around the scrapyard in the hope of finding some pure iron or a silver knife just lying around. "Who sent you?"
The thing smiles again. Cocks its head to the side and winks cheerfully. "You're the one who asked for help, son."
"What?"
"I'm here to help you."
"Uh..." Maybe it's the whiskey, or the deep aching hole Famine ripped into Dean's chest that he's been trying to fill to the brim with his amber companion, but maybe, just maybe this makes sense and his Dad actually came back, just to help Dean through his little break down. Maybe. "So what, I start talking to myself and heaven decides to send Daddy back Casper style?"
Dad...the thing...John shakes his head with a good natured sigh. "Not quite Casper," he says. "And I definitely didn't get here from upstairs."
"What? But...I saw you climb outa hell."
"Don't mean I'm in heaven."
"Then were..."
John shrugs. What's it matter?
"So, you boys fucked up the world pretty good since I've been gone, huh?" he asks. There is no reproach in his voice. None of the judgment Dean has come to expect, but the words hit home none the less.
Dean tilts his bottle back all the way, lets the last amber drops slide down his throat, all the while painfully aware of his father's eyes on him. He is in no state to be having a conversation with John Winchester right now. Drunk and hurting and bruised all over with not a single thought making sense anymore.
He made a list in his head, a couple years back, when he was going to hell and thinking about all the things he should have said over the years, how it wasn't fair and he was just a kid and Sammy deserved a real home, but he sees that face and he hears that voice and the whiskey is rushing through his veins and a lifetime of conditioning kicks in, leaving Dean empty and bereft with not a clue what to say.
"We're workin' on setting in right again," he mumbles quietly and feels his hand twitch around the slick neck of his bottle. It's been three (forty - one hundred) years and still he can't help falling over himself with apologies for the man. Fucking pathetic's what it is.
"Yeah?" John asks quietly and it feels like cold air is being pushed down Dean's throat. "'Cause it kinda sounded like you were planning on giving up on it."
"Listen," Dean sighs. He feels the old wave of resentment build up in his chest and for the first time in his life he feels like he can't stump on it and force it back down. "I fucked up. I know I did. I was all messed up from hell and Sam got himself some demon nookie and wanna know what he's doing right now? He's locked up in Bobby's basement, coming down from a demon blood fix. So hey, why don't you go in there and help him out? You could hug and cuddle and then you'll get to tell him it's okay and not to blame himself and how you're proud of him for being such an awesome son." He turns around, walks a couple of steps out into the yard. Funny how rasping a couple of passive aggressive phrases can leave you completely drained and your shoulders shaking. "That's how it usually goes, isn't it?"
"You saying Sammy's my favorite?" John's voice smashes into Dean like a wild river over smooth gravel. It's not loud and it doesn't even sound all that dangerous and Dean feels his spine straighten and his jaw snap shut at the tone all the same.
"Now why would I ever think that?" he rasps, willing his tense muscles to relax when he turns around to find himself nose to nose with John. He wonders if glowy ghosts are physically able to smack people in the mouth.
"You know that's a load of bull. You know I love you."
"Yeah," Dean snorts. "Right. Long as I don't bring the paper in wrong."
Dean feels a wave of exhilaration rush through his body, hard and brutal, it makes his legs tremble with an unfamiliar combination of pride and fear and a lightheaded-ness that has nothing to do with the alcohol.
It's new, this speaking his mind thing and he makes a mental note to apologize to Sammy for all the times he's given him crap about standing up to the old man. His nerves are on edge, every single one tingling and trembling, air is rushing in and out of his lungs in too-quick heaves and he doesn't know if he's crying or cackling like a madman or just standing rooted to the spot but he knows he's feeling something.
John's glowy dark eyes bore into Dean's in that way he has when he knows he's full of crap but expects Dean to fall in line anyway. "Dean, I'm here to help you," he whispers desperately and something in Dean snaps.
"You know what? Why don't you fuck off back to your dead Stepford kid and help him?"
"What the fuck are you talking about?" John shoots right back.
Dean feels the knot in his chest loosen just a bit with the familiar quiet anger. It's less distressing than the smiley gentle glowy-ness, but right now Dean also doesn't care about familiar and comfortable. Not one fucking bit.
"I'm talking about the bastard kid you had in Michigan," he roars, feels the bottle slide out of his sweaty grasp when his fingers spasm uncontrollably. John actually takes a step back at the sudden anger and Dean keeps going, his voice rising and falling and cracking all over the place with every step he forces his father back. "You know, the one who got to live in a house that didn't have rats or cockroaches or green shit growing on the ceiling over his bed? The one who got taken to a fucking ball game every fucking year while Sam and I got to sleep with guns under our pillows, wondering if you'd even bother coming back this time. The kid who learned how to drive even though you weren't bleeding out in the backseat. In my own car by the way, because you fed me some bullshit line about needing to borrow it for your cover. That kid ring any bells?"
Dean has to stop for breath. His entire body is shaking, the world around him spinning and turning with John's grief stricken face the only thing to focus on.
"Dean, I..."
And suddenly a violent shudder travels up from his abdomen and all the bourbon comes back up in one painful, sticky amber heave.
"I'm sorry," a lonely voice says somewhere to his right. Dean feels a soft, warm touch graze against his shoulder and he finds himself leaning into the touch before he can stop himself. "Real sorry."
He nods, because damn, he's sorry too. For unloading like that, for jump starting the Apocalypse, for not being enough for Sammy, for breaking in hell, for not saving Sam in Cold Oak, for fucking up everything since he was four years old.
"Not your fault." The hand on his shoulder grows warmer, more solid and Dean feels the hot tears in his eyes threaten to spill over. Again. "I didn't see what I was doing to you boys. I didn't."
Dean feels a bitter laugh splutter past his lips. It tastes spicy and sweet and hurts his throat. "You left us to starve, Dad," he rasps, drops his head even further until all he can see is gravel and the tips of his worn boots. "You left me to take care of Sam when all...when all I needed...it wasn't fair..."
"You said it wasn't that bad," John whispers. "When I was dying."
"Yeah, well, I changed my mind."
"I was trying to keep you alive." John's voice comes out rough and choked and Dean feels another mad wave of accomplishment wrapped around a thick ball of regret rush through him.
"Maybe I'd rather've died," he rasps. It's not true. Not really. He didn't mind too much, but it feels good saying it none the less.
"Mary would have hated me for what I did to you."
Dean wonders if he should ask about that. How come the two of them never met up after John's death, but hisses "she never loved you in the first place," instead.
They couldn't stand each other at first.
Match made in heaven.
"Alright Dean, that's enough."
John's voice is smooth and grumbling at the same time. Cool mountain water over sun-hot gravel. It's not much of a command and Dean finds himself nodding. It's strange, agreeing with John Winchester when there's nothing he can do to stop you from telling him to shove it.
"I'm sorry," John says again and the pressure on Dean's shoulder gets slightly heavier. Dean turns, their eyes lock. "I'm sorry for messing you up the way I did. Both of you. I had no business putting all of that on your shoulders."
It wasn't that bad, Dean wants to say. His anger spent and he's right back in his hospital bed.
"I'm so fucking sorry for what I did to you. I always thought it'd end someday. Someday just never came around 's all."
"What? We're in a Clearwater song now?" Dean snorts half heartedly and John smiles and keeps going.
"I didn't mean for any of this to happen. I loved you more than anything, you know that, right?"
Dean nods weakly. He does. Sort of. He's always figured John loved him. Knowing would've been nice once in a while though.
"But I did keep you alive." John's voice grows hard and Dean finds himself dropping his gaze before a warm, almost-real hand tugs his chin up again. "At the end of the day Adam's dead, you're still here. So you can hate me all you want, God knows I deserve it, but as far as I'm concerned, you're alive. They haven't broken you and that's what matters. And you've been putting up a hell of a fight against those holy dicks."
Dean bites his lip, blinks rapidly. This is getting awkward. He'd really prefer to go back to being yelled at.
"Is this supposed to be our Field of Dreams moment?" he snarks, drags up a lopsided grin from out of nowhere that hurts his jaw when he forces it to stay in place. "'Cause I like to think I'm better looking than Kevin Costner."
"I'm not about to throw a shotgun at you," John smiles and Dean actually laughs. He can't even remember when he last did that. They look at each other for the longest time, both smiling quietly and fuck Famine for thinking there is nothing left for Dean to crave. This. This is all he needs to keep right on going until the end of time.
"I know you boys can beat this," John whispers, steps closer until their foreheads are almost touching. "Heaven and Hell got nothing on you two. Just keep fightin', will ya?"
The quiet "yessir" is past Dean's lips before he knows it, but he can't really help join John's heartfelt bark of a laugh.
"Proud of ya," John smiles, leans in to brush his lips against Dean's forehead and Dean finds himself leaning forward, drinking in the closeness and love he so desperately needs.
Down in the panic room, Sammy screams.
"Dad, you think you could go in there and help Sammy?"
Dean opens his eyes.
The scrap yard is empty.
Rating: PG -13
Wordcount: 2500
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: At the end of 5x14 - My Bloody Valentine, Dean asks for help. John shows up to offer whatever comfort he can provide.
Written for the Dean-focused hurt/comfort comment-fic meme (#5) on hoodie_time .
This fills 'Apocalypse' on my angst_bingo card, which means I have now successfully completed one straight line with 10 little extras all around it. Even if I don't manage an actual blackout I'll still have something to submit. I feel very accomplished and like I can finally get back to my poor neglected BB.
"Please...I can't...I need some help," Dean chokes out, eyes trained on the bright night sky. "Please."
Dean waits for the longest time. Stares up into the sky, at the stars twinkling happily above him and not a single soul answers his desperate plea.
He goes to take another pull off his bottle and ends up snorting most of it back onto the ground.
He's such a sucker for thinking praying would get him anything but a sore throat. Michael and his angelic choir are probably laughing their asses off at their pawn's pathetic plea for help.
Dean walks further into the maze of metal and rust, deep into the yard until he is surrounded by nothing but dead cars.
He doesn't know how long he just sits on the hood of some beat up Buick, stares up at the unforgiving night sky with the ever moving, twinkly-twisting stars that are making his eyes water until the tears he's been holding back for hours threaten to finally fall. The bottle in Dean's hand is getting dangerously empty and he doesn't even know where it all went.
Then it happens.
There're no bright, flashing lights, no flames and thunder. Just Dean closing his eyes for a minute and when he looks back up he is standing face to face with John Winchester.
"Hey, Dean."
His face is bright, peaceful, a calming, golden light emanating from his very core and Dean almost chokes on the whiskey that is trying to get back up past his throat.
He glances down at his bourbon. He doesn't usually hallucinate when he's wasted. Not like this anyway.
"I'm really here," the thing smiles with the exact right tilt of the head and crap, Dean's such a moron for thinking hallucination first and supernatural baddie second, but the alcohol must be really getting to him and besides, it's not like anyone's really surprised anymore at his stupidity.
Dean's free hand twitches as he tries to get the holy water in his pocket. "Not a demon though," the John-thing explains quietly. "And your flask is in your jacket pocket. Inside."
John Winchester. Dad. Fuck. Something - angel or demon or something in-between, Dean can't really tell the difference anymore anyway - has found an all new way to fuck with Dean's head. Fuck. Dean's thoughts tumble over each other, he can't pick out a single one and focus for one goddamn second, but he knows this is bad. Incredibly bad and evil and he's too fucking drunk to do anything about it.
Tools and rusty car parts clutter against each other when Dean stumbles a step backwards. "Son of a...you...go...fuck off."
Alright, so maybe he's come up with better insults in his day but considering how drunk he really is it's still fairly coherent and gets the point across just fine.
The John-thing lets the smile slide off of John's face and gives Dean that look. The one that makes Dean's heart stutter and his throat close up and it's almost enough to convince him he's actually talking to his father. Almost.
"What do you want?" he growls instead with his voice extra deep and gravelly to make up for the traitorous quiver. He glances around the scrapyard in the hope of finding some pure iron or a silver knife just lying around. "Who sent you?"
The thing smiles again. Cocks its head to the side and winks cheerfully. "You're the one who asked for help, son."
"What?"
"I'm here to help you."
"Uh..." Maybe it's the whiskey, or the deep aching hole Famine ripped into Dean's chest that he's been trying to fill to the brim with his amber companion, but maybe, just maybe this makes sense and his Dad actually came back, just to help Dean through his little break down. Maybe. "So what, I start talking to myself and heaven decides to send Daddy back Casper style?"
Dad...the thing...John shakes his head with a good natured sigh. "Not quite Casper," he says. "And I definitely didn't get here from upstairs."
"What? But...I saw you climb outa hell."
"Don't mean I'm in heaven."
"Then were..."
John shrugs. What's it matter?
"So, you boys fucked up the world pretty good since I've been gone, huh?" he asks. There is no reproach in his voice. None of the judgment Dean has come to expect, but the words hit home none the less.
Dean tilts his bottle back all the way, lets the last amber drops slide down his throat, all the while painfully aware of his father's eyes on him. He is in no state to be having a conversation with John Winchester right now. Drunk and hurting and bruised all over with not a single thought making sense anymore.
He made a list in his head, a couple years back, when he was going to hell and thinking about all the things he should have said over the years, how it wasn't fair and he was just a kid and Sammy deserved a real home, but he sees that face and he hears that voice and the whiskey is rushing through his veins and a lifetime of conditioning kicks in, leaving Dean empty and bereft with not a clue what to say.
"We're workin' on setting in right again," he mumbles quietly and feels his hand twitch around the slick neck of his bottle. It's been three (forty - one hundred) years and still he can't help falling over himself with apologies for the man. Fucking pathetic's what it is.
"Yeah?" John asks quietly and it feels like cold air is being pushed down Dean's throat. "'Cause it kinda sounded like you were planning on giving up on it."
"Listen," Dean sighs. He feels the old wave of resentment build up in his chest and for the first time in his life he feels like he can't stump on it and force it back down. "I fucked up. I know I did. I was all messed up from hell and Sam got himself some demon nookie and wanna know what he's doing right now? He's locked up in Bobby's basement, coming down from a demon blood fix. So hey, why don't you go in there and help him out? You could hug and cuddle and then you'll get to tell him it's okay and not to blame himself and how you're proud of him for being such an awesome son." He turns around, walks a couple of steps out into the yard. Funny how rasping a couple of passive aggressive phrases can leave you completely drained and your shoulders shaking. "That's how it usually goes, isn't it?"
"You saying Sammy's my favorite?" John's voice smashes into Dean like a wild river over smooth gravel. It's not loud and it doesn't even sound all that dangerous and Dean feels his spine straighten and his jaw snap shut at the tone all the same.
"Now why would I ever think that?" he rasps, willing his tense muscles to relax when he turns around to find himself nose to nose with John. He wonders if glowy ghosts are physically able to smack people in the mouth.
"You know that's a load of bull. You know I love you."
"Yeah," Dean snorts. "Right. Long as I don't bring the paper in wrong."
Dean feels a wave of exhilaration rush through his body, hard and brutal, it makes his legs tremble with an unfamiliar combination of pride and fear and a lightheaded-ness that has nothing to do with the alcohol.
It's new, this speaking his mind thing and he makes a mental note to apologize to Sammy for all the times he's given him crap about standing up to the old man. His nerves are on edge, every single one tingling and trembling, air is rushing in and out of his lungs in too-quick heaves and he doesn't know if he's crying or cackling like a madman or just standing rooted to the spot but he knows he's feeling something.
John's glowy dark eyes bore into Dean's in that way he has when he knows he's full of crap but expects Dean to fall in line anyway. "Dean, I'm here to help you," he whispers desperately and something in Dean snaps.
"You know what? Why don't you fuck off back to your dead Stepford kid and help him?"
"What the fuck are you talking about?" John shoots right back.
Dean feels the knot in his chest loosen just a bit with the familiar quiet anger. It's less distressing than the smiley gentle glowy-ness, but right now Dean also doesn't care about familiar and comfortable. Not one fucking bit.
"I'm talking about the bastard kid you had in Michigan," he roars, feels the bottle slide out of his sweaty grasp when his fingers spasm uncontrollably. John actually takes a step back at the sudden anger and Dean keeps going, his voice rising and falling and cracking all over the place with every step he forces his father back. "You know, the one who got to live in a house that didn't have rats or cockroaches or green shit growing on the ceiling over his bed? The one who got taken to a fucking ball game every fucking year while Sam and I got to sleep with guns under our pillows, wondering if you'd even bother coming back this time. The kid who learned how to drive even though you weren't bleeding out in the backseat. In my own car by the way, because you fed me some bullshit line about needing to borrow it for your cover. That kid ring any bells?"
Dean has to stop for breath. His entire body is shaking, the world around him spinning and turning with John's grief stricken face the only thing to focus on.
"Dean, I..."
And suddenly a violent shudder travels up from his abdomen and all the bourbon comes back up in one painful, sticky amber heave.
"I'm sorry," a lonely voice says somewhere to his right. Dean feels a soft, warm touch graze against his shoulder and he finds himself leaning into the touch before he can stop himself. "Real sorry."
He nods, because damn, he's sorry too. For unloading like that, for jump starting the Apocalypse, for not being enough for Sammy, for breaking in hell, for not saving Sam in Cold Oak, for fucking up everything since he was four years old.
"Not your fault." The hand on his shoulder grows warmer, more solid and Dean feels the hot tears in his eyes threaten to spill over. Again. "I didn't see what I was doing to you boys. I didn't."
Dean feels a bitter laugh splutter past his lips. It tastes spicy and sweet and hurts his throat. "You left us to starve, Dad," he rasps, drops his head even further until all he can see is gravel and the tips of his worn boots. "You left me to take care of Sam when all...when all I needed...it wasn't fair..."
"You said it wasn't that bad," John whispers. "When I was dying."
"Yeah, well, I changed my mind."
"I was trying to keep you alive." John's voice comes out rough and choked and Dean feels another mad wave of accomplishment wrapped around a thick ball of regret rush through him.
"Maybe I'd rather've died," he rasps. It's not true. Not really. He didn't mind too much, but it feels good saying it none the less.
"Mary would have hated me for what I did to you."
Dean wonders if he should ask about that. How come the two of them never met up after John's death, but hisses "she never loved you in the first place," instead.
They couldn't stand each other at first.
Match made in heaven.
"Alright Dean, that's enough."
John's voice is smooth and grumbling at the same time. Cool mountain water over sun-hot gravel. It's not much of a command and Dean finds himself nodding. It's strange, agreeing with John Winchester when there's nothing he can do to stop you from telling him to shove it.
"I'm sorry," John says again and the pressure on Dean's shoulder gets slightly heavier. Dean turns, their eyes lock. "I'm sorry for messing you up the way I did. Both of you. I had no business putting all of that on your shoulders."
It wasn't that bad, Dean wants to say. His anger spent and he's right back in his hospital bed.
"I'm so fucking sorry for what I did to you. I always thought it'd end someday. Someday just never came around 's all."
"What? We're in a Clearwater song now?" Dean snorts half heartedly and John smiles and keeps going.
"I didn't mean for any of this to happen. I loved you more than anything, you know that, right?"
Dean nods weakly. He does. Sort of. He's always figured John loved him. Knowing would've been nice once in a while though.
"But I did keep you alive." John's voice grows hard and Dean finds himself dropping his gaze before a warm, almost-real hand tugs his chin up again. "At the end of the day Adam's dead, you're still here. So you can hate me all you want, God knows I deserve it, but as far as I'm concerned, you're alive. They haven't broken you and that's what matters. And you've been putting up a hell of a fight against those holy dicks."
Dean bites his lip, blinks rapidly. This is getting awkward. He'd really prefer to go back to being yelled at.
"Is this supposed to be our Field of Dreams moment?" he snarks, drags up a lopsided grin from out of nowhere that hurts his jaw when he forces it to stay in place. "'Cause I like to think I'm better looking than Kevin Costner."
"I'm not about to throw a shotgun at you," John smiles and Dean actually laughs. He can't even remember when he last did that. They look at each other for the longest time, both smiling quietly and fuck Famine for thinking there is nothing left for Dean to crave. This. This is all he needs to keep right on going until the end of time.
"I know you boys can beat this," John whispers, steps closer until their foreheads are almost touching. "Heaven and Hell got nothing on you two. Just keep fightin', will ya?"
The quiet "yessir" is past Dean's lips before he knows it, but he can't really help join John's heartfelt bark of a laugh.
"Proud of ya," John smiles, leans in to brush his lips against Dean's forehead and Dean finds himself leaning forward, drinking in the closeness and love he so desperately needs.
Down in the panic room, Sammy screams.
"Dad, you think you could go in there and help Sammy?"
Dean opens his eyes.
The scrap yard is empty.