FIC: Until Morning
Apr. 25th, 2008 07:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nilchanceTitle: Until Morning
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nilchance
Rating: Gen
A/N: Part of the vet!Dean verse, preceded by Amends to the Dead by me, and Prometheus (Up from Ashes) bypoisontaster.
If John had been asked which son would crack, he'd have said Sam. At the heart of his plans for his own death, for the hunt, for killing the demon, was the assumption that Sam could break. Sam could twist inside, pulled by the demon blood and the hunt and his usefulness as a weapon. Didn't mean that John didn't love his boy like he always had; thinking about Sam fallen, changed, hurt like nothing had since Mary. But the facts were that Sam might break if Dean didn't hold on.
Dean is broken, and John has no plans for it. No tactics. Nothing to kill. Just late nights, his son on the couch with the thousand yard stare John had seen in too many Marines. Too many times, that stare had come just before those grunts got shipped home in a bag. All of them are fucked, soldiers and hunters both, but Dean crossed a line that John can't follow.
Before, barking orders might've helped. Give Dean something to do with his hands, quiet the ticking thoughts in Dean's head. But the guns are clean, the dishes done. Hard words won't reach him, and he won't listen to anything kinder; God knows, Sammy tries. John wants to bind the wound, but it's not there. He wants the 4 year old back to pull on his lap and surround, contain, protect until morning broke.
Dean flinches when John moves too fast. He isn't a child anymore. The demon is dead, and this is as close to morning as any of them will ever get.
Which is why John mutely accepts the cans of kitten formula and mixes it up. It smells like ass, worse than the damned baby formula did, but John still knows the rhythm of feeding small things.
"How old are they, do you think?" Sam asks.
John glances in the window above the sink, checking on his boys. Both are huddled up at the kitchen table, Sam's laptop open as they look for advice on kitten care. Dean is still cradling the kittens in one arm, their heads poking up over as they squirm. "Maybe a month," John says.
Dean doesn't twitch at the sudden noise, just shifts the kittens and looks at him. "That almost done?"
"Yeah, yeah, hold on." John fills the medicine droppers and comes to the table. He can hold them in the palm of his hand, rolling together like ammo.
"They're starving," Dean adds pointedly. Pulling out a chair, he nods John into it and unceremoniously hands him a furball. "Here, take him."
John nearly fumbles. The kitten is a small thing, goddamn precious to Dean, and it's trust for Dean to hand it over. Careful, like the kitten is loaded, John settles it against his chest and gives Dean the other dropper. The kitten snags tiny needle claws in John's shirt and mewls. The second the bottle gets near it, it lunges for the tip. It's an easy feed, sucking the formula in by itself. Its noisy grunts remind John of Sam, all chubby cheeks and feral baby hunger.
When he glances up, checking on his boys again in the sudden quiet, Dean and Sam are both watching intently. Dean shifts the other kitten and gives it the dropper, smudging milk onto its nose. John knows Dean's look: the centered-down focus of a sniper shot.
"If it doesn't take," John tells him, "give the dropper a few taps. Gentle."
Dean nods, settles in. The other kitten is a problem; it struggles to get the dropper, to suck, to swallow. Dean holds steady, rubbing its head, giving it a little at a time. When the kitten burbles and squeaks, Dean's smile is staggering. "Yeah, I know, little dude, but you're okay. There you go."
Sam stops typing to watch Dean, and the look on his face would probably make Dean balk if his attention isn't all on the kitten in his arms. John pushes himself away, back to the noisy little bastard he's holding.
Sam scoots the chair over. Dean starts, forces himself back down, turning to let Sam see the kitten. Sam grins, murmurs something to make Dean scoff, and reaches over to stroke the kitten's head with a broad fingertip.
His boys. He's seen them both kill before. He's seen them both die. Funny how this can still make his heart hurt like he's dying again.
Dean nudges him, pulls him back. Like always. "Hey. You're just as bad. What are you laughing about?"
John says, "Nothing much. Feed the damn cat."
Author:
nilchanceRating: Gen
A/N: Part of the vet!Dean verse, preceded by Amends to the Dead by me, and Prometheus (Up from Ashes) by
poisontaster. If John had been asked which son would crack, he'd have said Sam. At the heart of his plans for his own death, for the hunt, for killing the demon, was the assumption that Sam could break. Sam could twist inside, pulled by the demon blood and the hunt and his usefulness as a weapon. Didn't mean that John didn't love his boy like he always had; thinking about Sam fallen, changed, hurt like nothing had since Mary. But the facts were that Sam might break if Dean didn't hold on.
Dean is broken, and John has no plans for it. No tactics. Nothing to kill. Just late nights, his son on the couch with the thousand yard stare John had seen in too many Marines. Too many times, that stare had come just before those grunts got shipped home in a bag. All of them are fucked, soldiers and hunters both, but Dean crossed a line that John can't follow.
Before, barking orders might've helped. Give Dean something to do with his hands, quiet the ticking thoughts in Dean's head. But the guns are clean, the dishes done. Hard words won't reach him, and he won't listen to anything kinder; God knows, Sammy tries. John wants to bind the wound, but it's not there. He wants the 4 year old back to pull on his lap and surround, contain, protect until morning broke.
Dean flinches when John moves too fast. He isn't a child anymore. The demon is dead, and this is as close to morning as any of them will ever get.
Which is why John mutely accepts the cans of kitten formula and mixes it up. It smells like ass, worse than the damned baby formula did, but John still knows the rhythm of feeding small things.
"How old are they, do you think?" Sam asks.
John glances in the window above the sink, checking on his boys. Both are huddled up at the kitchen table, Sam's laptop open as they look for advice on kitten care. Dean is still cradling the kittens in one arm, their heads poking up over as they squirm. "Maybe a month," John says.
Dean doesn't twitch at the sudden noise, just shifts the kittens and looks at him. "That almost done?"
"Yeah, yeah, hold on." John fills the medicine droppers and comes to the table. He can hold them in the palm of his hand, rolling together like ammo.
"They're starving," Dean adds pointedly. Pulling out a chair, he nods John into it and unceremoniously hands him a furball. "Here, take him."
John nearly fumbles. The kitten is a small thing, goddamn precious to Dean, and it's trust for Dean to hand it over. Careful, like the kitten is loaded, John settles it against his chest and gives Dean the other dropper. The kitten snags tiny needle claws in John's shirt and mewls. The second the bottle gets near it, it lunges for the tip. It's an easy feed, sucking the formula in by itself. Its noisy grunts remind John of Sam, all chubby cheeks and feral baby hunger.
When he glances up, checking on his boys again in the sudden quiet, Dean and Sam are both watching intently. Dean shifts the other kitten and gives it the dropper, smudging milk onto its nose. John knows Dean's look: the centered-down focus of a sniper shot.
"If it doesn't take," John tells him, "give the dropper a few taps. Gentle."
Dean nods, settles in. The other kitten is a problem; it struggles to get the dropper, to suck, to swallow. Dean holds steady, rubbing its head, giving it a little at a time. When the kitten burbles and squeaks, Dean's smile is staggering. "Yeah, I know, little dude, but you're okay. There you go."
Sam stops typing to watch Dean, and the look on his face would probably make Dean balk if his attention isn't all on the kitten in his arms. John pushes himself away, back to the noisy little bastard he's holding.
Sam scoots the chair over. Dean starts, forces himself back down, turning to let Sam see the kitten. Sam grins, murmurs something to make Dean scoff, and reaches over to stroke the kitten's head with a broad fingertip.
His boys. He's seen them both kill before. He's seen them both die. Funny how this can still make his heart hurt like he's dying again.
Dean nudges him, pulls him back. Like always. "Hey. You're just as bad. What are you laughing about?"
John says, "Nothing much. Feed the damn cat."
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*healed!*
Date: 2008-04-26 01:41 am (UTC)Careful, like the kitten is loaded,
Yes. This simile wins FOR ALL TIME.