A mari usque ad mare - Part 4 (5/14)
A mari usque ad mare - Part 4 (5/14)
971/28,777 of R rated Gen (with an edge of subtext) crack!fic in which Dean revisits his past in unexpected ways. (He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Father)
Prologue | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Epilogue
Part 4
Fluctuation
John rubbed his Marine tattoo distractedly as he hunched over his wife in bed. ‘Mary? Maybe I should I call the doctor.’
‘No,’ Dean wailed and doubled around the pillow again. Oh God, this was so embarrassing. His father had whisked him out of the bathroom, unfurled him from the towels, into a woollen nightgown over his vociferous protests, and cocooned him in their bed within minutes. Dean just wished the thought uppermost in his mind wasn’t a tiny pout about the granny nightie’s lack of sexiness. And he used to call Sammy the girl. Maybe it was the whole chick thing, hormones, or whatever. Hormones … baby … Dean pulled another feather pillow over his face and waited for the world to end.
‘Is it about the baby?’
‘No! Yes. I don’t know,’ Dean sobbed. He was crying for Christ’s sake. Why can’t I stop? Was this some sort of grand cosmic joke on him? What did I ever do? Okay, he’d done a lot, but come on; some of it had been legal. And he’d saved people, didn’t that count for something? ‘Hill of beans,’ that little voice jeered. ‘Shut up!’ he hissed back.
‘Is it me?’ John choked out.
‘No.’ Dean wondered if it was possible to smother oneself with a pillow if you tried hard enough. He shied away, and then relaxed as he felt a warm hand hesitantly begin to stroke his back. ‘Never you.’
‘You know, I kind of like the idea of a kid, a little … girl who’ll curl up with me while I tell her bedtime stories and …’
‘Boy,’ Dean muttered, pissed.
‘A boy? Well, I could probably work with that too,’ John said with a chuckle.
A chuckle, damn it. He’d forgotten that his dad had been so … carefree when he was little. More than one person had died the day the demon came calling.
‘There’s two spare rooms so why stop at one? We could raise our own softball team …’
Dean let John’s voice drone on above him. For now, crying was good. Cathartic even. Not healthy for the baby to have all that emotion bottled up. Dean hiccupped through his tears and finally fell asleep under his father’s gentle massage.
♒
Dean slid out of John’s protective embrace, and snuck out of his parent’s double bed early the next morning. An hour of lying there trying to visualise camels and deserts wasn’t working for him. Mind over matter, my ass!
He stood inside the open bathroom for a few minutes gathering his courage, and just quietly banging his head - he’d never realised how therapeutic that could be - against the wall. ‘Fucking goddamn universe,’ he finally bellowed up to the ceiling. It didn’t seem to care; it looked indifferent, almost bored in fact. ‘No justice anywhere,’ he muttered. No point yelling at the ceiling if it wasn’t going to put up a good fight. Wuss.
‘Mary?’
‘Shit!’ Don’t do that to me,’ Dean swore as he somehow managed to spin around, trip over that damned flower mat and end up on his butt on the frigid tiles staring at his father’s bloody feet all in a matter of seconds.
John had him gathered up in his arms even faster.
Huh! That shouldn’t be cool. Dean decided that was his outer chick talking, because it definitely wasn’t him.
‘You’ve got to take it easy with the baby, and how come I never knew you swore like a trucker?’
Dean looked at his father’s face so close. Think fast. ‘Uh, I …’ Great. Real smart answer. Can I blame it on the baby?
John just stood there in the middle of the bathroom, holding him up like he weighed nothing.
Why is that hot? Oh, I am so fucked up. Dean reminded himself to do that with chicks more often when he got his body back.
A distraction, that was what he needed. Blood. ‘You’re hurt.’ Somehow it came out sounding even more concerned than he meant it to. ‘John Elijah Winchester, you put me down this instant!’ That bit he got spot on.
He ignored the protestations and slid out of his father’s arms and pushed him down onto the seat. Turn about was only fair. ‘Just you hush,’ he warned him sternly as he started examining his father’s feet. ‘Christ on a stick! You’ve still got glass in the wounds. Why didn’t you say something?’
‘It’s nothing. I was more worried about you.’
‘Hmpf,’ Dean grunted concisely as he took a closer look. ‘You’re right, it’s not life and death. But it was stupid to leave it dry like that. Stay there and I’ll have it cleaned up in a minute.’
Seated cross-legged on the bathmat Dean patiently tweezed all the fragments out, humming contentedly to himself as he bathed the wounds and eased adhesive dressings over the deeper cuts.
‘Good news; no bullets, and at least I didn’t have to stitch you up and hose you down with holy water this time,’ he tried to joke as he pushed the first aid kit to one side and looked at up at his father’s face.
Up at John, his husband, who was just sitting there looking back down at him. Down at his wife, who’d probably never had to take a needle and thread to anything other than a piece of fabric in her life.
John, who was sliding down onto his knees in front of him; hands coming up to cup his face. Staring at him like he’d found the Holy Grail.
Talk your way out of this one. Can I have a headache? ‘Take a picture, dude,’ he quipped automatically. Oops.
‘D…Dean?’
What the fuck? Dean stared back at the man attempting to strangle him in a hug. No way! ‘Sammy?’
♒
Part 5
971/28,777 of R rated Gen (with an edge of subtext) crack!fic in which Dean revisits his past in unexpected ways. (He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Father)
Prologue | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Epilogue
Part 4
Fluctuation
John rubbed his Marine tattoo distractedly as he hunched over his wife in bed. ‘Mary? Maybe I should I call the doctor.’
‘No,’ Dean wailed and doubled around the pillow again. Oh God, this was so embarrassing. His father had whisked him out of the bathroom, unfurled him from the towels, into a woollen nightgown over his vociferous protests, and cocooned him in their bed within minutes. Dean just wished the thought uppermost in his mind wasn’t a tiny pout about the granny nightie’s lack of sexiness. And he used to call Sammy the girl. Maybe it was the whole chick thing, hormones, or whatever. Hormones … baby … Dean pulled another feather pillow over his face and waited for the world to end.
‘Is it about the baby?’
‘No! Yes. I don’t know,’ Dean sobbed. He was crying for Christ’s sake. Why can’t I stop? Was this some sort of grand cosmic joke on him? What did I ever do? Okay, he’d done a lot, but come on; some of it had been legal. And he’d saved people, didn’t that count for something? ‘Hill of beans,’ that little voice jeered. ‘Shut up!’ he hissed back.
‘Is it me?’ John choked out.
‘No.’ Dean wondered if it was possible to smother oneself with a pillow if you tried hard enough. He shied away, and then relaxed as he felt a warm hand hesitantly begin to stroke his back. ‘Never you.’
‘You know, I kind of like the idea of a kid, a little … girl who’ll curl up with me while I tell her bedtime stories and …’
‘Boy,’ Dean muttered, pissed.
‘A boy? Well, I could probably work with that too,’ John said with a chuckle.
A chuckle, damn it. He’d forgotten that his dad had been so … carefree when he was little. More than one person had died the day the demon came calling.
‘There’s two spare rooms so why stop at one? We could raise our own softball team …’
Dean let John’s voice drone on above him. For now, crying was good. Cathartic even. Not healthy for the baby to have all that emotion bottled up. Dean hiccupped through his tears and finally fell asleep under his father’s gentle massage.
♒
Dean slid out of John’s protective embrace, and snuck out of his parent’s double bed early the next morning. An hour of lying there trying to visualise camels and deserts wasn’t working for him. Mind over matter, my ass!
He stood inside the open bathroom for a few minutes gathering his courage, and just quietly banging his head - he’d never realised how therapeutic that could be - against the wall. ‘Fucking goddamn universe,’ he finally bellowed up to the ceiling. It didn’t seem to care; it looked indifferent, almost bored in fact. ‘No justice anywhere,’ he muttered. No point yelling at the ceiling if it wasn’t going to put up a good fight. Wuss.
‘Mary?’
‘Shit!’ Don’t do that to me,’ Dean swore as he somehow managed to spin around, trip over that damned flower mat and end up on his butt on the frigid tiles staring at his father’s bloody feet all in a matter of seconds.
John had him gathered up in his arms even faster.
Huh! That shouldn’t be cool. Dean decided that was his outer chick talking, because it definitely wasn’t him.
‘You’ve got to take it easy with the baby, and how come I never knew you swore like a trucker?’
Dean looked at his father’s face so close. Think fast. ‘Uh, I …’ Great. Real smart answer. Can I blame it on the baby?
John just stood there in the middle of the bathroom, holding him up like he weighed nothing.
Why is that hot? Oh, I am so fucked up. Dean reminded himself to do that with chicks more often when he got his body back.
A distraction, that was what he needed. Blood. ‘You’re hurt.’ Somehow it came out sounding even more concerned than he meant it to. ‘John Elijah Winchester, you put me down this instant!’ That bit he got spot on.
He ignored the protestations and slid out of his father’s arms and pushed him down onto the seat. Turn about was only fair. ‘Just you hush,’ he warned him sternly as he started examining his father’s feet. ‘Christ on a stick! You’ve still got glass in the wounds. Why didn’t you say something?’
‘It’s nothing. I was more worried about you.’
‘Hmpf,’ Dean grunted concisely as he took a closer look. ‘You’re right, it’s not life and death. But it was stupid to leave it dry like that. Stay there and I’ll have it cleaned up in a minute.’
Seated cross-legged on the bathmat Dean patiently tweezed all the fragments out, humming contentedly to himself as he bathed the wounds and eased adhesive dressings over the deeper cuts.
‘Good news; no bullets, and at least I didn’t have to stitch you up and hose you down with holy water this time,’ he tried to joke as he pushed the first aid kit to one side and looked at up at his father’s face.
Up at John, his husband, who was just sitting there looking back down at him. Down at his wife, who’d probably never had to take a needle and thread to anything other than a piece of fabric in her life.
John, who was sliding down onto his knees in front of him; hands coming up to cup his face. Staring at him like he’d found the Holy Grail.
Talk your way out of this one. Can I have a headache? ‘Take a picture, dude,’ he quipped automatically. Oops.
‘D…Dean?’
What the fuck? Dean stared back at the man attempting to strangle him in a hug. No way! ‘Sammy?’
♒
Part 5