Fic: Not Exactly The Bradys (Part Two) (Adult)
FANDOM: Supernatural
RATING: Adults Only
PAIRING: John/Dean.
SPOILERS: None. Well, maybe sort of vague spoilers for the pilot.
WARNINGS: Blood, death, sex...nothing you shouldn't expect, really.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own the Winchesters or Supernatural. If you were under the impression I might, I can do you a great deal on the Golden Gate Bridge...
SUMMARY: In the Winchester house, when things go bump in the night, it's best to have a gun under your pillow.
NOTES: Set pre-series: Dean is 18, Sam 14.
Not Exactly The Bradys
Chapter 2: Dean
12.12 am
Dean woke grabbing for the knife that was always with him when he slept. A strong hand covered his mouth and another closed over his wrist, preventing him from getting to the knife. The single terrified thought that went through his mind was Sammy! Then he recognised the face of his father above him and relaxed. John released his son's wrist and laid a finger over his lips, signalling for silence. Dean nodded to show he understood and the hand over his mouth was withdrawn.
"Come with me," John whispered. He left the boys' bedroom quickly.
When his dad gave an order, he meant now so Dean didn't stop to dress. He followed his dad, closing the bedroom door carefully. Behind him, Sammy was sound asleep.
John moved fast, forcing Dean to hurry after him. Not until they reached the hall downstairs did Dean catch up enough to get a good look at his dad. The sight stopped him in his tracks. John's shirt was spattered with blood, and a number of thick, black spines were sticking out of his body.
Dean, not slow, figured that the hunt had gone badly wrong. "Dad!" he began, about to point out that he needed to get those things out of him quickly.
John gestured for quiet. "No, Dean. Come with me, do as you're told and don't ask questions."
Dean straightened. "Yes, sir."
And only when Dean acknowledged his order did John open the door and let him see what waited in the living room.
Dean thought seeing blood all over his father was the worst he would see this night; he'd been wrong. Sanchez stood in the middle of the room, cradling Carla's body in his arms. There was blood all over both of them, more, much more than stained John's shirt. The sight of Sanchez with blood dripping thickly over his eyes was so horrible it stopped Dean in his tracks.
Carla was a mess, blood streaking her lovely blonde hair. Dean felt the first stab of grief; he'd met these two only briefly today (yesterday? It was past midnight) while Sam was in school but he liked Carla. She treated him like an adult, like a hunter. Not like a kid hanging on to Dad's coat-tails. He sat with them while they planned tonight's hunt and Carla took Dean's suggestions seriously. They'd made it sound like a straightforward job; what could have gone so badly wrong?
This wasn't the first time Dean had seen a hunt go bad. He remembered the black dog which, just a few months earlier, almost killed both Dean and his father. A dog is man's best friend...except when it's a vicious, demonic hellhound. They made it out with nothing worse than cuts and bruises, but it was a close one. Yeah, sometimes things went bad. Watching Carla bleed was the worst Dean had ever seen. He thought, That could be Dad, and hated himself for being glad it was Carla instead.
"Dean!" His father's voice snapped Dean out of his brief hesitation. "We need to clear a space."
They moved the furniture, shoving everything against the walls to leave a large space in the middle of the room. Dean helped John lift the couch to move it and couldn't help noticing how the exertion brought fresh blood from his wounds. It scared him, because Dad had to be hurting, and badly, and because Dean knew what they'd been hunting. They got the couch up against the wall and John turned to lift a chair. He cried out in pain.
Instantly, Dean was as his father's side. "Dad, let me finish this. You're hurt."
"Pain..." John forced the word through gritted teeth, "...is good."
Dean could see he was in a lot of pain, and didn't understand how that could be good. But John had told him not to ask questions, so Dean got on with the job. He lifted the chair and moved it, then went back for the table which he turned onto its side, leaving a large space in the middle of the room.
Behind him, Sanchez laid Carla down on the floor. He stripped off his leather jacket and folded it, placing it under her head as a pillow. Dean had time, then, to notice details like the blue towels wrapped around her thigh, soaking up blood. Too much blood. He watched Sanchez remove Carla's belt and the bloody towels, and then wrap the belt around her thigh as a tourniquet. Sanchez worked quickly, as if this was something he'd done many times.
John shoved the bloody towels into Dean's hands, and there was so much blood it splashed his skin and started to soak into his pyjama pants.
"Get rid of these," John ordered. "We need the medkit, the sharpest knife you can find in the kitchen and the alcohol. Don't wake your brother."
Dean tried to ignore the wetness spreading around his middle as he hurried into the kitchen. John didn't specify how he was to "get rid" of the towels so Dean dumped them in the sink and filled it with cold water to soak out the blood. He got the medkit - a large box filled with everything you'd expect to find in a home first-aid box, and a good deal more. Dean checked the contents quickly, as he'd been trained to do, though he knew the full inventory would be there. He wasn't sure why his father wanted a knife but the kitchen knife with the five-inch blade was super-sharp: Dean had cut himself on it more than once. He added the knife to the box and started searching for the alcohol. He expected it to be in the cupboard above the sink with the rest of the cleaning materials, but it wasn't there. It would be in one of the high cupboards: a carry-over from when Sammy was a suicidally-curious toddler and would drink from any container he could get open. Dean tried the next cupboard.
"Dean!"
At first, Dean thought the whisper was his dad and when he turned around he was braced for criticism for being so slow. But it wasn't John in the doorway. It was Sam. A yawny Sammy still in his jammies. Don't wake your brother, John had ordered.
"What are you doing here, Sammy?" Dean demanded. He looked past his brother, terrified he was going to see their dad. Dean didn't need the order to know that Sam shouldn't see what was happening in their living room. It would give him nightmares for weeks.
"I woke up..." Sam yawned.
Dean cut him off. "Ssh! Go back to bed, Sammy. You don't want to see this." He opened the next cupboard. No alcohol. He shifted a few bottles around to make sure. Where the hell was it? Dad wouldn't have asked for alcohol if they didn't have any...would he?
"What are you looking for, dude?" Sammy asked him.
"Alcohol."
"On the dresser," Sammy said, as if Dean should have known.
Dean threw a withering glance at Sammy. "No dumbass, not scotch." At eighteen, Dean enjoyed a beer or three, but he hadn't really developed a taste for spirits. His dad said he would, soon enough, and on nights like this he understood the appeal of a strong drink to numb the feelings, but that wasn't what he needed right then. "Alcohol. For cleaning stuff."
Sam had the grace to look apologetic. "Oh. There's some iodine in the bathroom. Will that do?"
"Get it for me, Sammy," Dean ordered with relief. It was possible that iodine was what dad meant, and if it wasn't, it would be a good substitute. And Carla was bleeding to death while he wasted time searching.
Dean lifted the medkit and waited at the bottom of the stairs for Sammy. He took the bottle from Sam and added it to the box he carried.
"I can help," Sam insisted eagerly.
The thought of Sam seeing their dad hurt as bad as he was made Dean cold with fear. "No, you can't! Dad will be so mad if he knows you're up. Go back to bed, Sammy. Please!"
Sam couldn't be deterred so easily. "Is Dad okay?" he pressed. "What's goin' on?"
"Sam, just go," Dean begged him. "I'll tell you tomorrow."
Sam turned and started back up the stairs. Dean stayed where he was, watching him, because he knew his little brother well, and Sam hated taking orders from anyone. Just to prove Dean right, Sammy glanced back over his shoulder.
"Go!" Dean whispered again.
Sammy left. Dean waited until he heard the bedroom door click shut, then he hurried to rejoin the others.
It was easiest not to think about it.
Dean set the box down where John told him to. He opened the iodine and wiped down the knife blade without waiting to be asked. He laid out everything they might need. Antiseptic wipes, absorbent swabs for cleaning up the blood, bandages, tape and sterile gauze dressings pre-cut into squares. Everything neatly laid out in the order he thought he'd need each item.
John's silent nod of approval was worth more than anything to Dean.
Dean looked at his father's wounds. There were at least fifteen spines sticking out of him, mostly in his chest and upper arms. One was worryingly close to his heart. Dean knew that the spines were hollow and filled with poison. One or two spines would not be enough to kill a man. Fifteen just might be. Dean didn't know for sure, but he wasn't going to risk it. He moved toward John, reaching for the buttons of his shirt."We've got to get those things out of you, Dad."
John allowed Dean to undo the first two buttons, but then pushed his hands away. "No," he insisted. "Carla first."
It was an order, but Dean wasn't listening. He cared about Carla but between her life and his father's there was no fucking contest. John came first. Always. He shook his head, no, reaching for the third button. Every second those spines were in John's flesh more of the poison could be seeping into him. He might die.
John snapped, "While you make up your mind, she's choking on her own blood!"
Dean thought that was fucking unfair because he wasn't being indecisive. He'd just made a decision Dad disagreed with. "Help Sanchez. Now!" That was a clear order. The anger in his father's voice got Dean moving. Sanchez showed him what to do: hold the tourniquet tight. Dean knew it was a job intended to keep him out of the way and occupied.
John took up the knife and tested the edge against his thumb. "Good," he muttered.
Carla's skin was pale, almost grey from blood loss. Holding the tourniquet, Dean rested his hand on her leg and found her cool to his touch. He was no doctor but he recognised shock. She needed a hospital.
John laid the knife point against Carla's neck, near one of the spines stuck into her, and for a panicked moment Dean honestly thought he was going to cut her throat. He watched, his heart pounding.
Sanchez's gravely voice cut into the silence. "John, do it."
Dean watched, because he couldn't help it, as his father pushed the knife into Carla's neck. John's fingers slid down the thick spine to the point where it entered her neck. Blood welled from the cut John had made. Dean saw John twist the spine a little, then he pulled out both knife and spine. Blood spurted from the wound, a powerful gush that made Dean jerk away even though he wasn't in its path.
The gush of blood hit John full in his face. "Fuck!" John wiped his eyes hastily and grabbed for the gauze Dean had laid out. Dean stayed where he was, frozen, watching Carla's blood spread out over the carpet beneath her. Her heart was still pumping, each beat driving more blood out through the wound. Dean was still gripping the tourniquet, trying to keep the blood in her body even as he watched it spill. John did his best to fix it, packing gauze against the wound and applying pressure. The white gauze turned red almost at once. And still John kept trying. Long after the pulsing blood slowed to a trickle, long after the last breath left her lungs, John was holding the wound closed, trying to stop a flow of blood that was slowing all on its own because there was no more blood for her heart to pump out onto the floor.
Dean knew she was dead long before his father accepted it. His fingers were cramping on the belt he held. Dean realised the futility of what he was doing and let the belt go, stretching his fingers and looked up into his dad's face. John's eyes were wild, desperate.
And then, behind John, Dean saw Sammy, lurking in the darkness on the other side of the doorway. Dean nearly died. He couldn't have said what scared him more: Sammy seeing this horror (Dean had a vivid memory of Sammy at six years old barfing at the sight of Dean's blood); or what Dad might do if he caught Sammy watching them. Dad was beginning to let Sammy in on the hunting, but Dean knew he wouldn't want Sammy knowing about this. Shit, neither did Dean!
John began to turn away from Carla and Dean knew he'd see Sammy. "Dad?" Dean said quickly.
John's shoulders slumped and he looked the other way, to Sanchez.
Even before John spoke, Dean saw the raw grief in his father's eyes. Dean forgot about Carla. He even forgot about Sammy. He forgot everything except John Winchester, because it wasn't Carla's death Dean saw in his father's eyes, even though John said all the right things to Sanchez. No, it was someone else, another woman John failed to save, fourteen years earlier.
More than anything else in the world, Dean wanted to reach out and take that pain from his father's eyes, but he knew it was too late. It had been too late long before Dean was old enough to understand.
"Dean, go and find a blanket."
Dean nodded, acknowledging the order, and tried to stand. Maybe it was tiredness, or the smell of blood surrounding him, but as he straightened a wave of dizziness assaulted him and Dean swayed on his feet.
"Dean," John said quietly.
"Yes, sir?"
"You're doing great, son." John met Dean's eyes wearily, and managed a smile.
Dean appreciated the effort. He got himself focussed on what was important, and strode toward the door.
Sammy was still there. The little idiot even got dressed. God, Dad was gonna kill him! Dean grabbed Sam by the front of his sweater and shoved him up against the wall, praying Dad wouldn't hear them.
He whispered furiously, "What the fuck are you doing? I told you to go back to bed!"
"I thought you needed help!" Sammy protested.
Dean still holding Sammy against the wall, drew back enough to take a good look at his little brother. He saw the gun in his belt, the knife at his side. Jesus, they were lucky the kid hadn't barged in.
Terror gripped Dean's heart. How much had Sam seen? How much did he know? This wasn't about a hunt gone bad any longer. It was about a dead woman on the living room floor. It was about his father and Sanchez calmly planning to dump her body.
A world of ghosts and demons Dean could live with. He'd been living in that world since he was four. But this...this crossed into a different world. This was the world of cops and courts, the world where what Dean just witnessed was called reckless endangerment at best and murder at worst. Shit, John could go to prison for this.
Dean would never tell anything he'd seen. But Sam was a lot younger and...well, he could be disconcertingly honest at times. Dean didn't really believe Sammy would betray them, but it was that chance, however remote it was, that made him push his fists into his brother's chest, hard enough to hurt.
"Sam, I oughta..." fucking chain you to your bed at nights! "When are you gonna learn to follow orders!"
He didn't have time for this. Dad would be out here any second, wanting to know where the hell Dean was with his blanket. Dean let go of Sam and strode across the hall. There were spare blankets in the cupboard under the stairs. Dean picked one at random and walked back with the heavy cloth in his arms.
Sammy hadn't moved. He was watching Dean with real fear in his eyes. Good. If he was scared maybe he'd fucking listen this time!
Dean hissed at Sam, "We don't need help. Go back upstairs, now!" And stay there, this time, Sammy or I swear to god I'll... He couldn't come up with anything good enough to finish the thought. Dean walked on past him without looking back. He didn't dare. He just had to trust that Sammy would do as he was told this time. Dean thought he would; Sammy had seen enough for one night.
Dean couldn't quite believe Dad expected him to do this. He knew his hand was shaking as he lifted the knife and wiped the blade clean of Carla's blood. Then his father's hand covered his, just a brief, reassuring touch.
"Son, she was already dead," John said quietly. "We had to try, but it was always too late."
Dean felt his mouth quirk in a quick smile, because he knew his father didn't really believe what he was saying. Not that he would ever let John suspect he knew.
"The spines are barbed, son. You have to cut in to get it loose. If you don't, it will break off inside me." John's look was steady. "You understand what that means?"
Geez, Dad, no pressure! Dean nodded. "If I do it wrong the poison could kill you. Dad," he begged, "the ER is fifteen minutes away."
"Yeah, by car. Sanchez took it," John reminded him. "You can do this, Dean."
His father's confidence in him made Dean lift the knife again. "I can't believe you let him take the car, man." If Sanchez screwed up, the cops could trace the Impala right back to John Winchester. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what he had to do. The air tasted of blood. He swallowed, feeling a little sick. "You want something to bite on?" he offered, suddenly realising that this was going to hurt his dad a lot.
John shook his head. "I don't need it."
And that scared the crap out of Dean because he knew his dad wasn't into the Rambo thing. If John said he wasn't going to feel pain, it meant the spines had been left in much too long. The poison was already in John's system.
Dean didn't waste any more time. He reached for the first spine, which was embedded in the muscle of John's left arm. Though the knife was extremely sharp, Dean had to push hard to break through the skin. Or maybe it just felt hard because he was so damned nervous. Blood welled around the blade and Dean knew he'd gone too deep. John never flinched. Dean gripped the thick spine, pulling on it gently to feel where the barb was. When he was sure, he eased the knife blade around the hooked tip of the spine. It was like coring an apple and it should have made John scream, but John was silent. Then the spine came free with a gush of blood. Dean breathed with relief and tore the shirt sleeve open so he could dress the wound. He wiped the blood away quickly, added a gauze dressing, taped it down and it was done. Except it wasn't done, because that was just one spine.
Dean began to reach toward the next spine, and froze. He was going about this wrong. He paused and took a good look at his father, noting where the spines were, how they pinned the shirt to his body. He needed to strip the shirt off, which meant it would be best to start in the middle and work outward. Dean reached up to unbutton John's shirt. He couldn't help glancing upward, meeting his dad's eyes briefly as he worked on the buttons. He knew they were both remembering the same thing. Dean shoved that thought back down into the dark where it belonged and raised the knife toward the next spine. It wasn't like cutting meat. Meat didn't breathe. The rise and fall of John's chest was a distraction as Dean worked. He concentrated hard on each small task in turn. Cut close to the spine. Find the barb. Twist...pull. Clean and bandage. Over and over again. He allowed himself to think of nothing but the knife and the spines. One almost broke as he pulled it loose and Dean's breath hitched. He had to cut again, deeper, to get the spine out and for the first time John made a sound of pain.
Dean stopped then, worried. "Dad?"
John said, "You're doing good, son,"
Dean didn't think he was doing so good, but he was doing the best he could. He moved on to the next spine.
"Dad, what happens when the cops find Carla's body?"
John answered speaking through gritted teeth, "If we're lucky, they won't."
"If they do?" Dean persisted.
"I don't know, son, but unless they find her tonight, there won't be any evidence linking her to us. Carla Sanchez lived totally off the grid. No drivers licence, no social security, not even a passport. Officially she's been a missing person since she was your age. Good enough?"
Dean stopped listening after I don't know. "No, sir." Even a few months earlier Dean would have accepted his dad's assurance. Not this time. He was worried about cops.
"I didn't think so," John smiled, and the note of pride in his voice made Dean smile back. But John didn't answer his question.
2.41 am
The living room carpet was rolled up in the back yard: at the first opportunity they would burn it. An old but barely-used rug had been extracted from the attic and laid down in place of the ruined carpet. After a once-over with a vacuum cleaner it would look brand new. All of the living room furniture was back where it should be. Everything that could be cleaned was in a sack beside the front door; Dean would head out to the all-night laundromat when Sanchez returned the car.
Dean, still wearing his blood-soaked pyjama pants, sat at the kitchen table watching his father nurse a glass of scotch. John wore a dark green sweater in place of the ruined shirt. They were in the kitchen because neither of them could bear to sit in the other room.
Dean couldn't sit still. He pushed away from the table and opened the refrigerator. He took out a bottle of beer, but he didn't really want it. It was just something to do. All he could think about was the blood on the living room carpet. Carla's blood. His father's blood. His father's skin warm beneath Dean's hands, iron-hard muscle sheathed in warm flesh and blood. That small sound of pain when Dean cut too deeply, which suddenly, in Dean's memory, didn't sound like pain at all.
Dean stared out of the window into the darkness, trying to fight off his feelings. That was a place he couldn't go.
"Dean," John said gently. "It's okay."
Dean said nothing, because he was pretty sure it wasn't okay. Nothing was okay about this night.
Then he felt John's hand on his shoulder. "I know what you're feeling," John told him.
Dean almost laughed. "No. You don't." He didn't move a muscle. With his dad touching him, Dean didn't dare to move.
"No?" The slightest pressure of John's hand directed him to turn around. Dean turned and John stepped back, checking his watch. "Listen, Dean, Sanchez won't be back for at least another hour. There's about eighty bucks in my wallet. Why don't you take it and take a walk down King Street."
Dean felt his mouth drop open. "I can't believe you just said that!" Aside from the fact that Dad promised to kick his ass into next week if he ever caught Dean cruising for hookers...John's meaning was clear and so fucking wrong.
John just looked at him steadily. "If you were a marine in my unit, that's what I'd do for you tonight. It'll help, Dean. Take the edge off what you're feeling."
Dean returned his father's look. White gauze peeked out from beneath his sweater, a silent reminder of how close John came to Carla's fate. John's face was a mask, but it was a mask Dean recognised. He remembered again how John looked when Carla died.
Dean hesitated, because he knew there was a good chance his dad would punch him out for what he was thinking. He said, quietly, "No, Dad. I don't need that." He reached for his father.
It wasn't the first time. Once, only once before they'd crossed this line and that, too, was after a hunt that didn't exactly go to plan. Dean remembered his panicked shout, warning Dad of danger and the idiotic way he leapt toward the edge of the cliff, dragging his dad to the ground. They'd both fallen over the edge, clinging to each other, rolling over and over down the steep slope while stones cut and bruised them both. When they finally came to a stop, Dean started laughing. After a moment, John joined him, but his laughter was harsh and strained. And then it happened.
Dean was no innocent, but he'd been thrown way off balance by that desperate, hurried, a-fuckin'-mazing encounter, partly because he didknow that sort of thing wasn't supposed to happen between fathers and sons. Not that all that much had happened. The following day John tried, awkwardly, to apologise for what happened and like an idiot, Dean let him. He'd told Dad to forget it. Fuck, that was dumb. In his defence, he'd been confused as hell and hadn't figured out until weeks later that the right response would have been to cut off the apology and damn well go for it. And because Dean got that so wrong, it ended before it truly began.
For a week or two, they'd walked on eggshells around each other, until Sammy demanded to know what Dean had done to piss Dad off. Then someone phoned with a story about a poltergeist in a school, which meant Dean got to go undercover and hang out there for a while to figure things out. Once the poltergeist was taken care of, Dean and his dad were okay again. Except for the memory. Except for Dean kicking himself for being a coward.
So this time, when John moved to push his hands away and said, "What are you doing?" in a voice Dean knew well, Dean looked right into his father's eyes and answered with John's own words:
"Takin' the edge off."
John grasped Dean's wrist, moving his hand away from his body. "I am your father," he said firmly.
Dean twisted his wrist out of John's grasp and closed his hand around John's, rubbing his thumb over John's wrist.
"Stop it," John said, but it lacked conviction.
Dean didn't stop. John grabbed him by the wrist again, twisting Dean's arm upward. Pain shot through the arm and Dean had to move closer to John, which probably wasn't what he intended. John's grip on his wrist was going to leave bruises. A perverse part of Dean liked it. He licked his lips.
"Stop it," John said again.
Dean looked into John's eyes. He was close enough to feel the heat of John's body. His heart was beating too fast, because Dean just didn't do this to his dad. He was the one who obeyed orders, who knew how to take no for an answer.
But not tonight. "I'm not a kid," Dean insisted, his look daring John to contradict him. "I'm not a virgin. I know what I'm doing. I know what I want."
He had to close his eyes to conceal his triumph when John released his wrist. John's hand cupped Dean's cheek and he leaned into the touch, his eyes never leaving John's, giving silent consent to whatever John wanted. Anything. John's thumb traced Dean's lips, once, then a second time. The second time Dean opened his mouth, turning his head a little to take the first joint of John's thumb into his mouth. He sucked, and was rewarded when John caught his breath sharply.
With shaking hands, John pushed Dean to his knees.
Comments