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gilascaveTitle: Heart's Desire VII: The Way Home 5/7
Authors: Wolfling (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wolfling) and James (zortified)
Sequel: to Heart's Desire VI: Seeing Through Different Eyes
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 41,800 (story total)
Disclaimer: not ours, no profit made
Spoilers: none
Warnings: angst, smut, hugging.
Summary: The Winchesters hunt a ghost, while Dean's ghosts hunt him.
Notes: As always, we'd like to thankwesleysgirl for the awesome beta job. We'd also like to thank Hansen's, Diet Rite, and Pepsi for their diet sodas that zortified can drink without getting dizzy. Caffeine makes the world go 'round, people!
The entire series can be found in Gila's Cave and Wolfling's Den.
Chapter Five
Dean felt like complete and utter crap. He was barely awake, and the only thing he could feel was complete and utter crap. He opened his eyes, discovering that it was way too light to be nighttime, and that he felt even more like crap, awake. He moaned as he tried to roll onto his back and discovered that he was in his t-shirt and briefs when he was fairly sure he'd fallen asleep with his jeans and boots on.
He tried looking around the room again and saw Sammy at the table, typing on his laptop. Except -- there was a Metallica sticker on it, and didn't they live in an apartment now, not motel rooms?
Dean blinked again and tried to say his brother's name. He didn't actually manage to make anything that sounded remotely like "Sammy" but the noise was enough to attract Sam's attention anyway.
His brother looked up with a worried expression that smoothed out into a smile as he got up and came over to sit on the edge of the bed beside Dean. "You're awake."
"No," Dean said. He let his head fall back on the pillow and wondered why it was so hot -- the a/c must be busted. "I feel like shit."
Sam ran fingers that felt wonderfully cool gently over Dean's face. "That's because you've got the flu."
"I thought that was bullshit for Dad." He closed his eyes and realised that his entire body ached like he'd been thrown into a wall. He tried to move and had a vague sense-memory of -- had to have been a dream. Dean opened his eyes again and looked at Sam.
"What?" Sam asked, reaching out and caressing Dean's face again.
"Nothing. Had a weird dream." Dean shook his head. It had been kinda nice, dreaming about Dad holding him like he was a little kid.
It made Dean think he really was sick, to be thinking that sort of crap. He pushed himself upright and bit back a groan. Sam immediately moved to help him, shifting the pillows behind Dean to be more comfortable. "What kind of dream?" he asked, turning to the night stand beside the bed and picking up a glass of ginger ale with a bendy straw in it and offering it to Dean.
He frowned at the ginger ale. "Where the hell--" Since when did they have straws? He took it, though, drinking a couple swallows. "Just a weird ass -- dreamt Dad was--" He stopped, belatedly realising he was about to say something that would make Sam tease him for a decade.
"Dad was...?" Sam said leadingly.
Dean waved a hand, surprised to find he used up all his energy doing so, and let it fall back onto the bed. "Here. Holding me like I was a baby." He made a face. "I must be feverish."
"You are," Sam informed him pleasantly. "But that wasn't a dream."
Dean looked at his brother. He took another drink of ginger ale, bending the straw a little more. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"You didn't imagine it. Dad was holding you." Sam gave him a teasing smile. "You put up a fuss every time he tried to put you to bed."
Dean stared at him. That was probably the most absurd thing -- then Dean grinned. "You're pulling my leg." Leave it to his brother to mess with him when he was sick. He was kinda proud. He bent the straw back up, but decided he'd had enough when his stomach protested.
Sam shook his head, expression serious. "No leg pulling. He was worried about you. We both were."
"For what? You said I have the flu. It's not some demonic flu thing, is it?" Dean was pretty sure he hadn't done anything lately that would have exposed him to a supernatural illness, but that hardly meant it was impossible. He suddenly realised he was playing with the straw, bending it up and down. He set the glass back down on the table.
"Nothing demonic," Sam reassured him quickly. "But you were having..." he trailed off. "Don't you remember?"
"I was throwing up my guts," Dean said. "I thought it was...you know. The shit that happened." He didn't want to think about it and didn't really understand why he was suddenly thinking about it now after eight years of not.
"So did I," Sam admitted wryly.
"So if it's just the flu, why were you worried?"
Sam looked down at his hands, but didn't answer.
"Sammy?" This didn't look good. He leaned forward, reaching for his brother's wrist. "What's wrong? Where's Dad?" It was just a poltergeist, right? There wasn't something wrong... except Sam wouldn't tell him if there was, if Dean was sick.
"Dad's fine. He's out doing some research." Sam took a deep breath and admitted, "I told him."
"Told him what?" As soon as he said it, he realised -- no, Sam couldn't possibly mean... "You told him we're--"
"No," Sam quickly denied. "God, no. Not that. I told him about what you did when you were fourteen."
Dean let out a sigh, relieved that his brother hadn't done something so incredibly stupid. Then he realised what Sam had told their dad.
And still felt relieved. He tugged on Sam's wrist, pulling him forward. Sam came willingly, though his expression was still a little wary. Dean settled himself quickly against his brother, the feel of it reminding him eerily of the dream he'd had -- not a dream, Sam had told him. Dad had really been here, holding him?
It was too bizarre to think about.
"Thank you," he said, closing his eyes.
Sam's arms tightened around him. "I was afraid you were going to freak."
"I don't think I could have told him," Dean said. He'd thought about it -- once. The idea of it had, well, as Sam said, freaked him out. But he'd always sort of wished his dad knew, if only.... "He wasn't mad?" he asked, thinking of one of the reasons why he'd never wanted to tell his dad what had happened.
"Not at you."
That didn't make sense. He looked at Sam, wondering who the hell Dad could be mad at.
"He's planning on making a trip to South Carolina to pay a certain blackmailing bitch a visit," Sam explained.
Dean blinked, staring at his brother. But Sam was serious. "What the hell for?" he demanded, surprise giving him more strength than he'd thought he'd have. "She just... asked for what she wanted." Like every other trade he'd ever made.
Maybe he was still feverish, because what Sam was saying made absolutely no sense.
"It wasn't something she should have asked for," Sam said fiercely.
Dean frowned. "Why not? Everyone else wanted the same thing." His head hurt and he was exhausted. And his brother still wasn't making any sense. Why get mad at Dorinda Lee for doing the same thing everyone else had done? She'd just been the first, and.. well, maybe Dean hadn't been exactly ready for it. But he'd done OK, and he'd saved Dad, so it must have been good enough.
He'd gotten plenty good enough, pretty quick, and all those other people...was Dad going to hunt them down, too?
"God, Dean, it has nothing to do about if you were good enough or not," Sam told him, looking at him with a stricken look. "Of course you were good enough -- you always are at whatever you think you need to do. Some things you just should never have needed to do."
"Why not?" Dean frowned, then yawned. "It's no big deal." He shivered, a sudden flash of Dorinda Lee -- he'd forgotten about after, in the bathroom of the motel room, trying to wash himself clean. Scrubbing her lipstick off his mouth. Off his cock.
"What would you think if it had been me she'd wanted?" Sam asked.
"You're too young," Dean said, frowning. Christ, Sam was just ten -- even if Dorinda had wanted Sam, there was no way Dean would let him.
"Say it had happened a few years later then and I was the one who was 14." Sam seemed to be watching him awfully closely. "Would you still think it was no big deal?"
Scowling, Dean wanted to know why the hell Sam was saying this. "You don't need to do that sort of thing," he said. "If you need something I'll take care of it."
"I know," Sam said softly and leaned over and kissed him. "But that wasn't what I asked."
Dean glared at his brother again -- not for kissing him, because that was always nice. But for being stubborn and pig-headed and.. and other things he couldn't think of words for other than "Sam Winchester." Why Sam wanted to... let anyone do that sort of thing to him, he didn't understand. Use him like he was nothing. "You're better than that," he said, glaring harder.
Sam nodded in agreement. "So are you."
Dean sighed. "It doesn't matter," he said again, because he had a feeling Sam wasn't ever going to believe him. "I don't have a choice." He rested his head against Sam, and shivered -- weird, because the room was still hot, so why was he shivering? But Sam was comfortable and safe, like always, and he didn't want to move.
He felt Sam shift, reaching for something, though his brother didn't let go of him. Then Sam was handing him two Tylenol and the ginger ale again. "Take these."
Dean let him give him the pills; he still hurt everywhere and the painkillers would hopefully help with that. The ginger ale was warm, but he drank all of it -- realising as he started swallowing just how thirsty he was. When Sam took the glass away Dean leaned into him again. "Gotta take care of you," he said. He didn't understand why Sam didn't get that. It was the only reason Dean did what he did -- he'd do anything to make sure Sam had what he needed. Even if that meant Dean giving up something he didn't really need.
"You do." Sam was stroking his hair again. "You always have. You're pretty much everything to me. That's how I know it's a big deal. You're everything so anyone that makes you feel like nothing is so very wrong they can't even see right anymore."
Dean raised his head and looked at his brother. "Do I have a fever?" It might explain why he felt dizzy trying to follow what Sam had just said.
Sam gave a kind of warbly chuckle. "Yes."
Nodding, Dean relaxed. "So that's why you aren't making sense." He stopped trying to replay Sam's last sentence in his head. He'd heard it before, he thought -- Sam's insistence that because Sam loved him, that suddenly Dean didn't have to make sure everything was all right. That there would be no need for rent, or groceries, or staying out of juvenile detention, just because Sam wanted....whatever Sam wanted.
Dean felt tired and his head still ached despite the Tylenol.
"I want what you want," Sam told him, seeming to answer his thoughts. "Whatever that is. I have you, so I have everything. I want to give you the same thing."
"All I ever wanted was you," Dean said. "Love you. Want you happy." He yawned, and closed his eyes.
He felt Sam kiss him lightly. "You've got me. Always." Another kiss. "I love you. You make me happy."
Dean smiled, snuggling in. "Like it when you say that. Even when it freaks me out." His headache seemed to be fading, and he felt a lot better. He knew it was because Sam was holding him -- he loved it when Sam cuddled.
Sam chuckled. "Guess it's a good thing I'm determined to keep saying it then, huh?"
Dean nodded, feeling himself slipping back to sleep. "Couldn't stop you anyway."
The last thing he remembered was Sam murmuring, "Love you," to him again.
When he woke up the next time, he didn't feel quite as hot, and his body ached but not quite as badly, and best of all Sam was still holding him.
Except...Sam had gotten a lot bigger around the waist, and smelled like Dad. Dean opened his eyes. It looked like Dad, too. He had Dean comfortably resting against him while he read a newspaper he was holding in his free hand.
"Daddy?" He was probably still dreaming. Except why would he dream that he still felt like shit, even if less shitty than before?
Dad immediately put the paper down and turned his full attention to Dean. "Hey," he said with a smile. "How are you feeling?"
"Sick?" He looked around, feeling a little confused. "Where's Sam?"
"He's checking some records at the library." Dad lay a gentle hand against Dean's forehead. "Fever seems to be down a little, so that's good. Do you want something to drink?"
Dean nodded, feeling more confused. He'd been a kid the last time Dad had taken care of him when he was sick. But Dad was holding up a glass of what looked like ginger ale -- with a straw stuck in it. Sam had to have bought those; they'd had bendy-straw sword matches often enough.
"Is there anything else you want?" Dad asked when Dean finished drinking.
He thought about it, but he wasn't thirsty, and he knew he didn't want any food. He wasn't completely exhausted like the last time he'd woken up -- and he had a feeling he'd had a less-than-coherent conversation with Sam. Dean shook his head and relaxed against his dad. "You know what the poltergeist is yet?" he asked.
"We've got some good leads," Dad told him. "That's what's Sam out trying to verify."
Dean nodded, again. "He's good at that," he said. Sam had always been the brain, and had always liked hitting the books and doing research and generally being a geek.
Dad nodded in agreement. "He is. He always has been."
Letting his eyes slip closed, Dean laughed. "Takes after you. Both geeks..." Dean sometimes wondered if he took after Mom -- if she'd been happier doing things rather than reading up on them. Not that he thought she might have liked blowing up buildings, but for all he knew, she would have loved it as much as he did.
Dad chuckled. "You think I'm a geek?"
"I know you're a geek," Dean protested. "Where do you think Sam learned it?"
"A geek." Dad seemed to be very bemused by being called this.
"You're a total research geek," Dean insisted. "The amount of detail you both go into....and God forbid anyone re-arrange your papers while you're still studying 'em." It occurred to him belatedly that criticizing his dad might not be a great idea, especially considering their positions. Dean closed his mouth and wondered if he could get away with blaming it on his fever. Tensing, he started to shift away.
But Dad tightened his arm around Dean and answered in an almost teasing tone. "I'd have thought the hunting and the weapons would balance out any.... geekness."
Letting himself be kept in place, Dean tried to explain, "It's just...your kind of geek. You're a geek about hunting. You always want the shiniest toys and read up on everything about them before you get one."
"So what kind of geek are you, then?" Dad asked after seeming to think that over.
Dean laughed. "I'm not. You and Sam are the geeks -- he doesn't think he's anything like you, but you two are completely alike." Dean sighed. "I'm not like either of you."
"Why do you think that?" Dad's hand found its way up to Dean's face, touching it then sliding back to stroke his hair.
It was relaxing, even as it was out of the world freaky. "Because I don't like that stuff," he said. "I don't wanna read about something, I just want to shoot things and blow up buildings." It was really unlikely that Mom would have liked those things -- Dean wondered vaguely who, if anyone, he did take after.
There was a long pause and then Dad said, "Dean, you do remember who it was who taught you to shoot, don't you?"
"Just because you're good at it doesn't... It's a skill. It's something you need to be good at, in order to do your job. Anything you have to do, you're good at, push yourself to be the best you can be. I--" He didn't know if it would be such a great idea to confess, or not. "I only worked that hard because I wanted you to be proud."
There was a longer pause. Then, "I am proud of you, Dean. I've always been proud of you."
Dean nodded, thinking that he had always been a good shot with any weapon his dad had trained him on -- partly to please his dad and partly because shooting things was fun. Whether it was tin cans or evil monsters, there was a satisfaction that had probably played as much a role in compelling him to practise as wanting to make his dad proud of him.
And there was the fact his baby brother had been better than him with the rifle, which still annoyed him. He needed to find a good field or practise range in Palo Alto.
Dad was looking at him and frowning slightly. "Did you hear what I said?"
"Yeah, you think I'm like you," Dean repeated. Maybe he was right, a little. He couldn't be totally unlike his dad, after all.
"I think you're my son, my firstborn. I look at you and I see bits of myself and bits of...your mother," Dad's voice threatened to break but didn't quite. "God, you smile just like her, and your heart.... You give everything for those you care about, just like she did."
Dean's eyebrows rose, and for a second he couldn't really breathe. He stared at his dad. His dad almost never talked about Mom. And never when he hadn't had a few drinks, first. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask for more, but he stopped himself.
Dad's eyes were distant, melancholy, but he smiled at Dean as he said, "She'd be proud of you too, son."
The words hit him right in his stomach, but Dean frowned. "For shooting things?"
"For the man you've become."
"Oh." It was nice to think his mom would be proud, even if Dean wasn't entirely sure what he'd ever done that he'd want her to know about. He could think of a lot of things he didn't want her to know. Stuff like what Sam said he'd told Dad. And Dad was saying that Mom would be proud. Which meant... despite the stuff Sam had told him.
Dad was watching him closely. "Is any of this sinking in?"
"What?" He looked up at Dad, feeling suddenly like Dad had been lecturing him on something -- but he'd always paid attention to those lectures and it had always sunk in, so why.... He rubbed at his face and thought he still felt warm. "How can you say that?" slipped out, when he'd only meant to think it.
"That Mary would be proud of you?" Dad asked.
"Sam told you what I did," he said, barely able to whisper it.
Dad nodded solemnly. "He did."
"You...she'd hate me," Dean said, feeling the words slip out even as it occurred to him it might be the wrong thing to admit out loud.
"No." Dean felt his father's arm around him tighten. "Dean, your mother could never hate you. I could never hate you. You're my son. And I certainly could never hate you for that."
He didn't argue with his dad -- been taught too early not to. But...being someone's kid didn't erase the things they'd done. Maybe that was all Dad meant, though, that she'd just ignore those things. Like parents who insisted their murdering, thieving kids were still loved and innocent and....
Maybe Dad just meant that she'd forgive him, since he'd done it to save Dad's life.
"I'm sorry, Dean."
"I didn't know what else to do," Dean said quickly, wanting to apologise before Dad could say it. Tell him what he'd done wrong, how he could have avoided the whole.... He shoved himself away from Dad, hard, and rolled over to the far edge of the bed. Someone had left a trash can right where he needed it, and the ginger ale he'd had came up.
He felt his father's hand on his back as he was sick, rubbing in soothing circles that he vaguely remembered from being sick as a child. It felt a lot like how Sam did it, too, which was weird. Or...not, Dean wasn't sure. He finished upchucking his soda and leaned sideways onto the pillow.
Dad ran a hand over his forehead in a gesture that would've brushed Dean's hair back if it had been longer. "Do you want some water to wash your mouth out?" he asked quietly.
Dean nodded, feeling exhausted again. He felt himself turning towards Dad's hand as he moved away, and stopped himself. But Dad must've seen because after he gave Dean some water, he tugged gently on Dean's shoulder, pulling him closer until his head was pillowed on Dad's knee and the hand was back stroking his hair.
He blamed it on being sick and exhausted, because he let him. The kind of cuddling he hadn't had from anyone but Sam since he'd been so small he could barely remember. He wanted to close his eyes and drift off, but he also wanted to stay awake and enjoy this while he could.
Dad was silent for so long that Dean was on the verge of falling asleep before he spoke again. "I know you didn't know what else to do," he said quietly. "You were put in a situation you never should have been in, where all the decisions were bad ones and you chose the one that you thought was least bad."
Dean forced himself not to speak -- it was always so hard, listening to his Dad correct him. He rarely yelled, rarely belabored whatever point he was trying to make. He just made it and expected you to figure it out on your own. But he nodded, to let his dad know he'd heard and understood. "I'm sorry," he whispered, not sure it would help. He still didn't know what he could have done, but Dad was right that he'd made a bad choice.
He closed his eyes and tried to think about what she'd said. What else he could have done. Sam had only told Dad about it today, and already he'd figured out how Dean had fucked it up, which meant it was probably fucking obvious and he'd missed it because he'd been so caught up in what she'd done to him.
Dad made a sound of frustration. "Dean, you weren't in the wrong. It wasn't your fault."
"But you said I made a bad decision," Dean whispered, which meant he should have done something else only he didn't have any idea what. Let Dad die, or let Dorinda force him-- Dean could feel himself shaking, and god, he wanted Sammy. Even if he had to lie, Sam would tell him it hadn't been his fault, and he wouldn't be disgusted by the fact Dean couldn't stop shaking or that now he was crying like a little kid because he'd been wrong and his dad was telling him so.
"What?" John said sounding honestly surprised. "No, Dean, that's not what I said. I said you made the least bad. You made the best decision you could. I hate like hell that that bitch had her hands on you, but none of that is your fault. You were doing what you did to save my life. And you did."
He still couldn't stop shaking, but hearing Dad say that.... He dug his fingers into the fabric of Dad's jeans, wanting...wanting to hear him say it again. He pressed his face against his dad's knee, and felt something inside him unravel. "I thought...you'd tell me what I should have done. That I made a mistake."
John shook his head. "No, son. You just did what you had to do. I was the one who'd made the mistake."
"You didn't mean to get caught," Dean said, and realised it kinda sounded stupid even as he said it. "And it wasn't like we could let them keep killing people."
"And you couldn't let them kill me," Dad said.
"No," Dean gasped, because just the thought of letting his dad get killed made him feel queasy in a way that had nothing to do with the flu.
Dad began stroking his hair again. "And you didn't. You saved me."
Dean nodded. That had made it worth it, had made him able to forget more or less about that night, until recently. Maybe it was the flu, maybe Sam was right about feeling safe enough to deal with it.
What he'd done really didn't matter, because he'd saved Dad. Dean closed his eyes, feeling himself relaxing. Dorinda had been creepy, and scared him -- but he'd brought Dad home, safe. "I guess... it shouldn't bother me, what she did," he muttered, feeling like he could probably fall asleep without much effort.
"It bothers me, what she did," Dad said softly.
Dean nodded again. It bothered him, too, really, though he'd always tried not to ever say so. He'd finally told Sam, and he'd always wanted, ever since it had happened, to tell Dad. He could feel Dad's hand still running through his hair, and his stomach still felt sore, but he didn't feel quite so hot anymore.
In fact he kinda felt like things were a little bit all right.
end chapter five
continue to chapter six
Authors: Wolfling (
wolfling) and James (zortified)Sequel: to Heart's Desire VI: Seeing Through Different Eyes
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 41,800 (story total)
Disclaimer: not ours, no profit made
Spoilers: none
Warnings: angst, smut, hugging.
Summary: The Winchesters hunt a ghost, while Dean's ghosts hunt him.
Notes: As always, we'd like to thank
wesleysgirl for the awesome beta job. We'd also like to thank Hansen's, Diet Rite, and Pepsi for their diet sodas that zortified can drink without getting dizzy. Caffeine makes the world go 'round, people!The entire series can be found in Gila's Cave and Wolfling's Den.
Chapter Five
Dean felt like complete and utter crap. He was barely awake, and the only thing he could feel was complete and utter crap. He opened his eyes, discovering that it was way too light to be nighttime, and that he felt even more like crap, awake. He moaned as he tried to roll onto his back and discovered that he was in his t-shirt and briefs when he was fairly sure he'd fallen asleep with his jeans and boots on.
He tried looking around the room again and saw Sammy at the table, typing on his laptop. Except -- there was a Metallica sticker on it, and didn't they live in an apartment now, not motel rooms?
Dean blinked again and tried to say his brother's name. He didn't actually manage to make anything that sounded remotely like "Sammy" but the noise was enough to attract Sam's attention anyway.
His brother looked up with a worried expression that smoothed out into a smile as he got up and came over to sit on the edge of the bed beside Dean. "You're awake."
"No," Dean said. He let his head fall back on the pillow and wondered why it was so hot -- the a/c must be busted. "I feel like shit."
Sam ran fingers that felt wonderfully cool gently over Dean's face. "That's because you've got the flu."
"I thought that was bullshit for Dad." He closed his eyes and realised that his entire body ached like he'd been thrown into a wall. He tried to move and had a vague sense-memory of -- had to have been a dream. Dean opened his eyes again and looked at Sam.
"What?" Sam asked, reaching out and caressing Dean's face again.
"Nothing. Had a weird dream." Dean shook his head. It had been kinda nice, dreaming about Dad holding him like he was a little kid.
It made Dean think he really was sick, to be thinking that sort of crap. He pushed himself upright and bit back a groan. Sam immediately moved to help him, shifting the pillows behind Dean to be more comfortable. "What kind of dream?" he asked, turning to the night stand beside the bed and picking up a glass of ginger ale with a bendy straw in it and offering it to Dean.
He frowned at the ginger ale. "Where the hell--" Since when did they have straws? He took it, though, drinking a couple swallows. "Just a weird ass -- dreamt Dad was--" He stopped, belatedly realising he was about to say something that would make Sam tease him for a decade.
"Dad was...?" Sam said leadingly.
Dean waved a hand, surprised to find he used up all his energy doing so, and let it fall back onto the bed. "Here. Holding me like I was a baby." He made a face. "I must be feverish."
"You are," Sam informed him pleasantly. "But that wasn't a dream."
Dean looked at his brother. He took another drink of ginger ale, bending the straw a little more. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"You didn't imagine it. Dad was holding you." Sam gave him a teasing smile. "You put up a fuss every time he tried to put you to bed."
Dean stared at him. That was probably the most absurd thing -- then Dean grinned. "You're pulling my leg." Leave it to his brother to mess with him when he was sick. He was kinda proud. He bent the straw back up, but decided he'd had enough when his stomach protested.
Sam shook his head, expression serious. "No leg pulling. He was worried about you. We both were."
"For what? You said I have the flu. It's not some demonic flu thing, is it?" Dean was pretty sure he hadn't done anything lately that would have exposed him to a supernatural illness, but that hardly meant it was impossible. He suddenly realised he was playing with the straw, bending it up and down. He set the glass back down on the table.
"Nothing demonic," Sam reassured him quickly. "But you were having..." he trailed off. "Don't you remember?"
"I was throwing up my guts," Dean said. "I thought it was...you know. The shit that happened." He didn't want to think about it and didn't really understand why he was suddenly thinking about it now after eight years of not.
"So did I," Sam admitted wryly.
"So if it's just the flu, why were you worried?"
Sam looked down at his hands, but didn't answer.
"Sammy?" This didn't look good. He leaned forward, reaching for his brother's wrist. "What's wrong? Where's Dad?" It was just a poltergeist, right? There wasn't something wrong... except Sam wouldn't tell him if there was, if Dean was sick.
"Dad's fine. He's out doing some research." Sam took a deep breath and admitted, "I told him."
"Told him what?" As soon as he said it, he realised -- no, Sam couldn't possibly mean... "You told him we're--"
"No," Sam quickly denied. "God, no. Not that. I told him about what you did when you were fourteen."
Dean let out a sigh, relieved that his brother hadn't done something so incredibly stupid. Then he realised what Sam had told their dad.
And still felt relieved. He tugged on Sam's wrist, pulling him forward. Sam came willingly, though his expression was still a little wary. Dean settled himself quickly against his brother, the feel of it reminding him eerily of the dream he'd had -- not a dream, Sam had told him. Dad had really been here, holding him?
It was too bizarre to think about.
"Thank you," he said, closing his eyes.
Sam's arms tightened around him. "I was afraid you were going to freak."
"I don't think I could have told him," Dean said. He'd thought about it -- once. The idea of it had, well, as Sam said, freaked him out. But he'd always sort of wished his dad knew, if only.... "He wasn't mad?" he asked, thinking of one of the reasons why he'd never wanted to tell his dad what had happened.
"Not at you."
That didn't make sense. He looked at Sam, wondering who the hell Dad could be mad at.
"He's planning on making a trip to South Carolina to pay a certain blackmailing bitch a visit," Sam explained.
Dean blinked, staring at his brother. But Sam was serious. "What the hell for?" he demanded, surprise giving him more strength than he'd thought he'd have. "She just... asked for what she wanted." Like every other trade he'd ever made.
Maybe he was still feverish, because what Sam was saying made absolutely no sense.
"It wasn't something she should have asked for," Sam said fiercely.
Dean frowned. "Why not? Everyone else wanted the same thing." His head hurt and he was exhausted. And his brother still wasn't making any sense. Why get mad at Dorinda Lee for doing the same thing everyone else had done? She'd just been the first, and.. well, maybe Dean hadn't been exactly ready for it. But he'd done OK, and he'd saved Dad, so it must have been good enough.
He'd gotten plenty good enough, pretty quick, and all those other people...was Dad going to hunt them down, too?
"God, Dean, it has nothing to do about if you were good enough or not," Sam told him, looking at him with a stricken look. "Of course you were good enough -- you always are at whatever you think you need to do. Some things you just should never have needed to do."
"Why not?" Dean frowned, then yawned. "It's no big deal." He shivered, a sudden flash of Dorinda Lee -- he'd forgotten about after, in the bathroom of the motel room, trying to wash himself clean. Scrubbing her lipstick off his mouth. Off his cock.
"What would you think if it had been me she'd wanted?" Sam asked.
"You're too young," Dean said, frowning. Christ, Sam was just ten -- even if Dorinda had wanted Sam, there was no way Dean would let him.
"Say it had happened a few years later then and I was the one who was 14." Sam seemed to be watching him awfully closely. "Would you still think it was no big deal?"
Scowling, Dean wanted to know why the hell Sam was saying this. "You don't need to do that sort of thing," he said. "If you need something I'll take care of it."
"I know," Sam said softly and leaned over and kissed him. "But that wasn't what I asked."
Dean glared at his brother again -- not for kissing him, because that was always nice. But for being stubborn and pig-headed and.. and other things he couldn't think of words for other than "Sam Winchester." Why Sam wanted to... let anyone do that sort of thing to him, he didn't understand. Use him like he was nothing. "You're better than that," he said, glaring harder.
Sam nodded in agreement. "So are you."
Dean sighed. "It doesn't matter," he said again, because he had a feeling Sam wasn't ever going to believe him. "I don't have a choice." He rested his head against Sam, and shivered -- weird, because the room was still hot, so why was he shivering? But Sam was comfortable and safe, like always, and he didn't want to move.
He felt Sam shift, reaching for something, though his brother didn't let go of him. Then Sam was handing him two Tylenol and the ginger ale again. "Take these."
Dean let him give him the pills; he still hurt everywhere and the painkillers would hopefully help with that. The ginger ale was warm, but he drank all of it -- realising as he started swallowing just how thirsty he was. When Sam took the glass away Dean leaned into him again. "Gotta take care of you," he said. He didn't understand why Sam didn't get that. It was the only reason Dean did what he did -- he'd do anything to make sure Sam had what he needed. Even if that meant Dean giving up something he didn't really need.
"You do." Sam was stroking his hair again. "You always have. You're pretty much everything to me. That's how I know it's a big deal. You're everything so anyone that makes you feel like nothing is so very wrong they can't even see right anymore."
Dean raised his head and looked at his brother. "Do I have a fever?" It might explain why he felt dizzy trying to follow what Sam had just said.
Sam gave a kind of warbly chuckle. "Yes."
Nodding, Dean relaxed. "So that's why you aren't making sense." He stopped trying to replay Sam's last sentence in his head. He'd heard it before, he thought -- Sam's insistence that because Sam loved him, that suddenly Dean didn't have to make sure everything was all right. That there would be no need for rent, or groceries, or staying out of juvenile detention, just because Sam wanted....whatever Sam wanted.
Dean felt tired and his head still ached despite the Tylenol.
"I want what you want," Sam told him, seeming to answer his thoughts. "Whatever that is. I have you, so I have everything. I want to give you the same thing."
"All I ever wanted was you," Dean said. "Love you. Want you happy." He yawned, and closed his eyes.
He felt Sam kiss him lightly. "You've got me. Always." Another kiss. "I love you. You make me happy."
Dean smiled, snuggling in. "Like it when you say that. Even when it freaks me out." His headache seemed to be fading, and he felt a lot better. He knew it was because Sam was holding him -- he loved it when Sam cuddled.
Sam chuckled. "Guess it's a good thing I'm determined to keep saying it then, huh?"
Dean nodded, feeling himself slipping back to sleep. "Couldn't stop you anyway."
The last thing he remembered was Sam murmuring, "Love you," to him again.
When he woke up the next time, he didn't feel quite as hot, and his body ached but not quite as badly, and best of all Sam was still holding him.
Except...Sam had gotten a lot bigger around the waist, and smelled like Dad. Dean opened his eyes. It looked like Dad, too. He had Dean comfortably resting against him while he read a newspaper he was holding in his free hand.
"Daddy?" He was probably still dreaming. Except why would he dream that he still felt like shit, even if less shitty than before?
Dad immediately put the paper down and turned his full attention to Dean. "Hey," he said with a smile. "How are you feeling?"
"Sick?" He looked around, feeling a little confused. "Where's Sam?"
"He's checking some records at the library." Dad lay a gentle hand against Dean's forehead. "Fever seems to be down a little, so that's good. Do you want something to drink?"
Dean nodded, feeling more confused. He'd been a kid the last time Dad had taken care of him when he was sick. But Dad was holding up a glass of what looked like ginger ale -- with a straw stuck in it. Sam had to have bought those; they'd had bendy-straw sword matches often enough.
"Is there anything else you want?" Dad asked when Dean finished drinking.
He thought about it, but he wasn't thirsty, and he knew he didn't want any food. He wasn't completely exhausted like the last time he'd woken up -- and he had a feeling he'd had a less-than-coherent conversation with Sam. Dean shook his head and relaxed against his dad. "You know what the poltergeist is yet?" he asked.
"We've got some good leads," Dad told him. "That's what's Sam out trying to verify."
Dean nodded, again. "He's good at that," he said. Sam had always been the brain, and had always liked hitting the books and doing research and generally being a geek.
Dad nodded in agreement. "He is. He always has been."
Letting his eyes slip closed, Dean laughed. "Takes after you. Both geeks..." Dean sometimes wondered if he took after Mom -- if she'd been happier doing things rather than reading up on them. Not that he thought she might have liked blowing up buildings, but for all he knew, she would have loved it as much as he did.
Dad chuckled. "You think I'm a geek?"
"I know you're a geek," Dean protested. "Where do you think Sam learned it?"
"A geek." Dad seemed to be very bemused by being called this.
"You're a total research geek," Dean insisted. "The amount of detail you both go into....and God forbid anyone re-arrange your papers while you're still studying 'em." It occurred to him belatedly that criticizing his dad might not be a great idea, especially considering their positions. Dean closed his mouth and wondered if he could get away with blaming it on his fever. Tensing, he started to shift away.
But Dad tightened his arm around Dean and answered in an almost teasing tone. "I'd have thought the hunting and the weapons would balance out any.... geekness."
Letting himself be kept in place, Dean tried to explain, "It's just...your kind of geek. You're a geek about hunting. You always want the shiniest toys and read up on everything about them before you get one."
"So what kind of geek are you, then?" Dad asked after seeming to think that over.
Dean laughed. "I'm not. You and Sam are the geeks -- he doesn't think he's anything like you, but you two are completely alike." Dean sighed. "I'm not like either of you."
"Why do you think that?" Dad's hand found its way up to Dean's face, touching it then sliding back to stroke his hair.
It was relaxing, even as it was out of the world freaky. "Because I don't like that stuff," he said. "I don't wanna read about something, I just want to shoot things and blow up buildings." It was really unlikely that Mom would have liked those things -- Dean wondered vaguely who, if anyone, he did take after.
There was a long pause and then Dad said, "Dean, you do remember who it was who taught you to shoot, don't you?"
"Just because you're good at it doesn't... It's a skill. It's something you need to be good at, in order to do your job. Anything you have to do, you're good at, push yourself to be the best you can be. I--" He didn't know if it would be such a great idea to confess, or not. "I only worked that hard because I wanted you to be proud."
There was a longer pause. Then, "I am proud of you, Dean. I've always been proud of you."
Dean nodded, thinking that he had always been a good shot with any weapon his dad had trained him on -- partly to please his dad and partly because shooting things was fun. Whether it was tin cans or evil monsters, there was a satisfaction that had probably played as much a role in compelling him to practise as wanting to make his dad proud of him.
And there was the fact his baby brother had been better than him with the rifle, which still annoyed him. He needed to find a good field or practise range in Palo Alto.
Dad was looking at him and frowning slightly. "Did you hear what I said?"
"Yeah, you think I'm like you," Dean repeated. Maybe he was right, a little. He couldn't be totally unlike his dad, after all.
"I think you're my son, my firstborn. I look at you and I see bits of myself and bits of...your mother," Dad's voice threatened to break but didn't quite. "God, you smile just like her, and your heart.... You give everything for those you care about, just like she did."
Dean's eyebrows rose, and for a second he couldn't really breathe. He stared at his dad. His dad almost never talked about Mom. And never when he hadn't had a few drinks, first. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask for more, but he stopped himself.
Dad's eyes were distant, melancholy, but he smiled at Dean as he said, "She'd be proud of you too, son."
The words hit him right in his stomach, but Dean frowned. "For shooting things?"
"For the man you've become."
"Oh." It was nice to think his mom would be proud, even if Dean wasn't entirely sure what he'd ever done that he'd want her to know about. He could think of a lot of things he didn't want her to know. Stuff like what Sam said he'd told Dad. And Dad was saying that Mom would be proud. Which meant... despite the stuff Sam had told him.
Dad was watching him closely. "Is any of this sinking in?"
"What?" He looked up at Dad, feeling suddenly like Dad had been lecturing him on something -- but he'd always paid attention to those lectures and it had always sunk in, so why.... He rubbed at his face and thought he still felt warm. "How can you say that?" slipped out, when he'd only meant to think it.
"That Mary would be proud of you?" Dad asked.
"Sam told you what I did," he said, barely able to whisper it.
Dad nodded solemnly. "He did."
"You...she'd hate me," Dean said, feeling the words slip out even as it occurred to him it might be the wrong thing to admit out loud.
"No." Dean felt his father's arm around him tighten. "Dean, your mother could never hate you. I could never hate you. You're my son. And I certainly could never hate you for that."
He didn't argue with his dad -- been taught too early not to. But...being someone's kid didn't erase the things they'd done. Maybe that was all Dad meant, though, that she'd just ignore those things. Like parents who insisted their murdering, thieving kids were still loved and innocent and....
Maybe Dad just meant that she'd forgive him, since he'd done it to save Dad's life.
"I'm sorry, Dean."
"I didn't know what else to do," Dean said quickly, wanting to apologise before Dad could say it. Tell him what he'd done wrong, how he could have avoided the whole.... He shoved himself away from Dad, hard, and rolled over to the far edge of the bed. Someone had left a trash can right where he needed it, and the ginger ale he'd had came up.
He felt his father's hand on his back as he was sick, rubbing in soothing circles that he vaguely remembered from being sick as a child. It felt a lot like how Sam did it, too, which was weird. Or...not, Dean wasn't sure. He finished upchucking his soda and leaned sideways onto the pillow.
Dad ran a hand over his forehead in a gesture that would've brushed Dean's hair back if it had been longer. "Do you want some water to wash your mouth out?" he asked quietly.
Dean nodded, feeling exhausted again. He felt himself turning towards Dad's hand as he moved away, and stopped himself. But Dad must've seen because after he gave Dean some water, he tugged gently on Dean's shoulder, pulling him closer until his head was pillowed on Dad's knee and the hand was back stroking his hair.
He blamed it on being sick and exhausted, because he let him. The kind of cuddling he hadn't had from anyone but Sam since he'd been so small he could barely remember. He wanted to close his eyes and drift off, but he also wanted to stay awake and enjoy this while he could.
Dad was silent for so long that Dean was on the verge of falling asleep before he spoke again. "I know you didn't know what else to do," he said quietly. "You were put in a situation you never should have been in, where all the decisions were bad ones and you chose the one that you thought was least bad."
Dean forced himself not to speak -- it was always so hard, listening to his Dad correct him. He rarely yelled, rarely belabored whatever point he was trying to make. He just made it and expected you to figure it out on your own. But he nodded, to let his dad know he'd heard and understood. "I'm sorry," he whispered, not sure it would help. He still didn't know what he could have done, but Dad was right that he'd made a bad choice.
He closed his eyes and tried to think about what she'd said. What else he could have done. Sam had only told Dad about it today, and already he'd figured out how Dean had fucked it up, which meant it was probably fucking obvious and he'd missed it because he'd been so caught up in what she'd done to him.
Dad made a sound of frustration. "Dean, you weren't in the wrong. It wasn't your fault."
"But you said I made a bad decision," Dean whispered, which meant he should have done something else only he didn't have any idea what. Let Dad die, or let Dorinda force him-- Dean could feel himself shaking, and god, he wanted Sammy. Even if he had to lie, Sam would tell him it hadn't been his fault, and he wouldn't be disgusted by the fact Dean couldn't stop shaking or that now he was crying like a little kid because he'd been wrong and his dad was telling him so.
"What?" John said sounding honestly surprised. "No, Dean, that's not what I said. I said you made the least bad. You made the best decision you could. I hate like hell that that bitch had her hands on you, but none of that is your fault. You were doing what you did to save my life. And you did."
He still couldn't stop shaking, but hearing Dad say that.... He dug his fingers into the fabric of Dad's jeans, wanting...wanting to hear him say it again. He pressed his face against his dad's knee, and felt something inside him unravel. "I thought...you'd tell me what I should have done. That I made a mistake."
John shook his head. "No, son. You just did what you had to do. I was the one who'd made the mistake."
"You didn't mean to get caught," Dean said, and realised it kinda sounded stupid even as he said it. "And it wasn't like we could let them keep killing people."
"And you couldn't let them kill me," Dad said.
"No," Dean gasped, because just the thought of letting his dad get killed made him feel queasy in a way that had nothing to do with the flu.
Dad began stroking his hair again. "And you didn't. You saved me."
Dean nodded. That had made it worth it, had made him able to forget more or less about that night, until recently. Maybe it was the flu, maybe Sam was right about feeling safe enough to deal with it.
What he'd done really didn't matter, because he'd saved Dad. Dean closed his eyes, feeling himself relaxing. Dorinda had been creepy, and scared him -- but he'd brought Dad home, safe. "I guess... it shouldn't bother me, what she did," he muttered, feeling like he could probably fall asleep without much effort.
"It bothers me, what she did," Dad said softly.
Dean nodded again. It bothered him, too, really, though he'd always tried not to ever say so. He'd finally told Sam, and he'd always wanted, ever since it had happened, to tell Dad. He could feel Dad's hand still running through his hair, and his stomach still felt sore, but he didn't feel quite so hot anymore.
In fact he kinda felt like things were a little bit all right.
end chapter five
continue to chapter six