gwendolyngrace (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
gwendolyngrace) wrote2008-07-24 12:59 am
gwendolyngrace) wrote2008-07-24 12:59 am
Entry tags:
happy birthday, erinrua!
Can't sleep, and this fic popped into my head, so Happy Birthday, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
erinrua!
Hope your day is happier than this wee bit of angst.
ETA: Supernatural Fanfiction Awards Featured Story (June 2008)
Title: Mother's Day
Rating: PG
Genre: Gen
Characters: John, wee!Dean
"Dad?"
John cracked an eye open on the room and instantly regretted it. God, everything hurt. The harsh glare from the bedside lamp felt like a hot lancet direct to his brain.
"Dean," he muttered, and his lips felt muzzled, swollen. "Lights out, okay?"
Dean turned the lamp off, but a second click put it back on at a lower wattage. "You can't go to sleep, Dad."
"Can't?" John parrotted. "Whosays? Time'zit?"
"It's about oh-one-hundred, but you can't sleep. Please, Dad. Uncle Bobby says--"
"You called Bobby?" John scrubbed his face; missed; tried again and damn, if that didn't set the gremlins to jack-hammering the inside of his skull. "'S the middle of the night." Jesus, was he really slurring that badly? "Go to bed, champ. Turn that light out."
John tried to turn over, put his back to the table and the lamp and his boy, but he could only make it onto his stomach before that particular patch of anatomy warned him he should quit while he was ahead. The pillow was dark enough.
"No, sir," Dean said distinctly.
John forced his head to the side, wincing. "What?"
"No, sir. I'm not letting you sleep. Not for at least six hours."
John stared at his son in shock for a moment. Any other day, he'd have kicked Dean's ass across the room for disobedience like that. Outright refusal of a direct order? Not Dean's SOP. And what the Hell had crawled up Dean's britches tonight, of all nights? "Where's your brother?"
Dean refused to be deflected, which was odd in itself. "He's in the other bed. He's fine. Dad, please, I'll stay up with you, but if you go to sleep, Uncle Bobby says--"
Suddenly, Dean's concern and his words clicked in John's muddled brain. "Son, I do not have a concussion. Just a headache. A killer sonuvabitch of a headache. And it's late and you and Sammy have school, so go get in beside your brother and let me get some shut-eye."
Dean shook his head. "I can't. I won't let you, sir. I'm okay, I'll stay up with you--"
"No you will not. I told you, I am fine. In fact, sleep is the only thing I do need." With great effort, John turned his back to the room.
"Then I'm calling the paramedics."
John sat up and pointed at Dean on pure adrenaline and anger. "Absolutely not. The only thing you're doing, young man, is parking your ass in that bed with your brother, and leaving me the fuck alone."
"But Uncle Bobby--"
"Fuck Bobby," John spat. "I do not have a concussion!" He had the presence of mind not to raise his voice, but the intensity of it still made his teeth hurt, and his eyes felt about to pop out of his head. His stomach flipped and he lunged out of the bed, propelled himself past Dean and into the bathroom, and retched into the toilet.
When he came out, Dean handed him a glass of water. He drank cautiously. "Sure acts like a concussion," Dean grumbled.
"Excepting in how it's not," John said wearily. He sat down on the bed, afraid that his wobbly legs would no longer hold him. "Dean. Trust the old man, here. I haven't hit my head on anything." He looked up imploringly.
Dean's eyes widened; then his mouth followed suit. "Oh."
John felt his last reserves slipping away. He rubbed his eyes with an open palm and slid between the sheets. "Please, son. Leave it alone." His voice cracked on the last syllable. "Just let be, Dean," he said, losing any semblance of control over the tears that had been threatening all day, the thickness in his throat that the whiskey had been able to chase, but Dean's protective sincerity had brought crashing to the surface again.
He felt, more than heard, the change in light, the settling of the room as Dean climbed into bed. A few seconds of silence hung between the coverlet and the bedstead.
"Dad?" Dean whispered.
"Yeah, son," John said, more in agreement than acknowledgment.
"M'sorry," his boy said despondently.
"I know. Me, too," John agreed again, flat and numb with exhaustion.
"So...are you just...hungover?" He brought up the word as if it were a cuss, and John had the impression Dean wasn't sure he'd diagnosed his father correctly, but had bravely put the term out there, just to see if he'd hit the target.
John sighed. He should have stayed away until he could come back fully functioning again. He should have waited to return to the only thing he could call home anymore: wherever his boys laid their heads.
But if he had to get through without her, he couldn't do without them.
"Go to sleep, Dean," he rumbled. "Before it's time for Sammy to get up."
"Yes, sir. M'sorry," he repeated.
"Already told me," John reminded him.
"It's just...I thought--"
"I know, sport. You thought you were taking care of me. I get it." He sighed slowly. "Some things you just can't take care of."
"'Zit...I mean," Dean ventured, trailing off uncertainly.
"Yeah," John admitted, voice thick with grief. "It's because it's her birthday."
erinrua!Hope your day is happier than this wee bit of angst.
ETA: Supernatural Fanfiction Awards Featured Story (June 2008)
Title: Mother's Day
Rating: PG
Genre: Gen
Characters: John, wee!Dean
"Dad?"
John cracked an eye open on the room and instantly regretted it. God, everything hurt. The harsh glare from the bedside lamp felt like a hot lancet direct to his brain.
"Dean," he muttered, and his lips felt muzzled, swollen. "Lights out, okay?"
Dean turned the lamp off, but a second click put it back on at a lower wattage. "You can't go to sleep, Dad."
"Can't?" John parrotted. "Whosays? Time'zit?"
"It's about oh-one-hundred, but you can't sleep. Please, Dad. Uncle Bobby says--"
"You called Bobby?" John scrubbed his face; missed; tried again and damn, if that didn't set the gremlins to jack-hammering the inside of his skull. "'S the middle of the night." Jesus, was he really slurring that badly? "Go to bed, champ. Turn that light out."
John tried to turn over, put his back to the table and the lamp and his boy, but he could only make it onto his stomach before that particular patch of anatomy warned him he should quit while he was ahead. The pillow was dark enough.
"No, sir," Dean said distinctly.
John forced his head to the side, wincing. "What?"
"No, sir. I'm not letting you sleep. Not for at least six hours."
John stared at his son in shock for a moment. Any other day, he'd have kicked Dean's ass across the room for disobedience like that. Outright refusal of a direct order? Not Dean's SOP. And what the Hell had crawled up Dean's britches tonight, of all nights? "Where's your brother?"
Dean refused to be deflected, which was odd in itself. "He's in the other bed. He's fine. Dad, please, I'll stay up with you, but if you go to sleep, Uncle Bobby says--"
Suddenly, Dean's concern and his words clicked in John's muddled brain. "Son, I do not have a concussion. Just a headache. A killer sonuvabitch of a headache. And it's late and you and Sammy have school, so go get in beside your brother and let me get some shut-eye."
Dean shook his head. "I can't. I won't let you, sir. I'm okay, I'll stay up with you--"
"No you will not. I told you, I am fine. In fact, sleep is the only thing I do need." With great effort, John turned his back to the room.
"Then I'm calling the paramedics."
John sat up and pointed at Dean on pure adrenaline and anger. "Absolutely not. The only thing you're doing, young man, is parking your ass in that bed with your brother, and leaving me the fuck alone."
"But Uncle Bobby--"
"Fuck Bobby," John spat. "I do not have a concussion!" He had the presence of mind not to raise his voice, but the intensity of it still made his teeth hurt, and his eyes felt about to pop out of his head. His stomach flipped and he lunged out of the bed, propelled himself past Dean and into the bathroom, and retched into the toilet.
When he came out, Dean handed him a glass of water. He drank cautiously. "Sure acts like a concussion," Dean grumbled.
"Excepting in how it's not," John said wearily. He sat down on the bed, afraid that his wobbly legs would no longer hold him. "Dean. Trust the old man, here. I haven't hit my head on anything." He looked up imploringly.
Dean's eyes widened; then his mouth followed suit. "Oh."
John felt his last reserves slipping away. He rubbed his eyes with an open palm and slid between the sheets. "Please, son. Leave it alone." His voice cracked on the last syllable. "Just let be, Dean," he said, losing any semblance of control over the tears that had been threatening all day, the thickness in his throat that the whiskey had been able to chase, but Dean's protective sincerity had brought crashing to the surface again.
He felt, more than heard, the change in light, the settling of the room as Dean climbed into bed. A few seconds of silence hung between the coverlet and the bedstead.
"Dad?" Dean whispered.
"Yeah, son," John said, more in agreement than acknowledgment.
"M'sorry," his boy said despondently.
"I know. Me, too," John agreed again, flat and numb with exhaustion.
"So...are you just...hungover?" He brought up the word as if it were a cuss, and John had the impression Dean wasn't sure he'd diagnosed his father correctly, but had bravely put the term out there, just to see if he'd hit the target.
John sighed. He should have stayed away until he could come back fully functioning again. He should have waited to return to the only thing he could call home anymore: wherever his boys laid their heads.
But if he had to get through without her, he couldn't do without them.
"Go to sleep, Dean," he rumbled. "Before it's time for Sammy to get up."
"Yes, sir. M'sorry," he repeated.
"Already told me," John reminded him.
"It's just...I thought--"
"I know, sport. You thought you were taking care of me. I get it." He sighed slowly. "Some things you just can't take care of."
"'Zit...I mean," Dean ventured, trailing off uncertainly.
"Yeah," John admitted, voice thick with grief. "It's because it's her birthday."