Dean Winchester (forgetthehearse) wrote in drinkingdjinn, @ 2009-04-15 18:19:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | john/dean, past |
Episode 0x02 - Bad Acid Trip
Who: John Winchester, Dean Winchester
When: Fall, 1997
What: John discovers that Dean's been taking LSD.
Where: On The Road
Susan's gone home, but Dean stuck around the old shack for a while, sucking on another cube absent-mindedly. He fumbles for his walkman; Metallica starts to play with a few punching of buttons. He does not even need to put the earbuds in, just turn it up really loud and listen to the music weave in and out and that bass - he wish he had a boom box he could feel it, not just hear it. He lays on the floor of the place, the walkman by his head, and watches the patterns float across the ceiling.
Dean's not home when he's supposed to be, which means John's out in the truck, checking all the spots he can think to check. By the time he gets to the shed, he's seething and about ready to kill Dean. He kicks the door open and hauls Dean up by the scruff of his neck, growling "Get in the car," before shoving him towards the truck and slamming the shed door shut again.
Dean stumbles from the shove, startled by John's sudden appearance, but not reacting as quickly as he normally does. His mind tells him that he should be panicking, but he cannot seem to get the emotion up to do so. He rubs his eyes, trying to focus on the truck, knowing that he needs to follow the order, even if it seems like it is taking forever to get across the ten yards to where it is parked.
John follows behind, even more furious that Dean seems to be drunk. He shoves at him again, clenching his jaw so he doesn't yell at Dean in the middle of the street. "Walk straight, boy," he snaps, pushing hard at his shoulders, resisting the urge to just smack him upside the head.
Dean tries to straighten up and do as he is told, but he keeps getting distracted by things. Everything is full of color that he has never noticed before - at least, not since his last trip. He wants to point them out to John, show him just how freaking awesome everything looks, but John is shoving him, so he just focuses on making it to the car, clambering inside when he gets there.
He slams Dean's door shut then moves around to get into the driver's seat, slamming that door, too. He sits there, hands gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles are white and his nails are digging into his palms. "You been drinking, boy?" he growls through clenched teeth, looking over at Dean sprawled in his seat.
Dean blinks at him, pupils dark and round. "I haven't been drinking," he tells him, truthfully. He cannot understand why John seems so upset, though he thinks he should know. He knows he should be upset, too, but his thoughts keep flickering off, unable to even hold down a bad thought.
John grabs Dean's chin and studies his eyes with a frown, "The hell're you on, then?" Under the anger there's a flash of worry, but it's quickly smothered and he returns to being exceedingly pissed off. "Don't bother lyin', boy, I can tell when you lie." Which he sometimes can. It's mostly Sam he catches lying, through his guilty looks and blushes. Though Sam doesn't lie all too often.
Dean cannot help but laugh a bit. "Hippie stuff. Y'know, I should have been listening to Grateful Dead. 'd make more sense." The thought of lying does not even cross his mind at this point; the drug is too far in his system.
"What the hell would you do something like that for?" He shoves Dean back against the seat again, trying to think of some sort of fitting punishment for something like this. Dean wouldn't be sitting properly for a year, like as not.
The danger sensors finally flick on in Dean's mind, and he presses back against the door, trying to wedge himself as far away from John as possible. "Makes things better," he admits, his tone close to pleading.
"Makes things better," he mutters, turning the car on -- and then pauses to think over what Dean just said. "Makes what better?" he asks, slowly and carefully.
Dean is scared - his father is angry with him and this trip is quickly turning bad; everything in the corners of his vision are moving, making him feel like he is surrounded. He swallows quickly. "- life- what we do. Blood and people and scary ass shit that likes to jump out of the dark-"
So it is his fault. Shoving Dean into this life, pushing him to be the best soldier he can be -- he's not even twenty for god's sake. His punishment and rewards -- he's driven Dean to this. He slams a hand against the steering wheel, more frustrated than angry, now. He feels like he should -- forego punishment for this. But Dean was supposed to watch after his brother while John was gone, not sneak off to get high in some crappy shed. A lesson needed to be taught. He slams the truck into gear and starts towards the house, trying to figure all this out.
The movements are really beginning to freak Dean out. He curls his knees up to his chest and buries his face in them; lights still dance on the back of his eyelids, but at least everything's not shifting behind him-
"You're going to kill me," he mumbles to his jeans, with an air of finality
"Don't be stupid," John snaps, pulling into the driveway. He points a finger at Dean, "Stay," he orders, firmly. He tells Sam to head to the library to finish his homework, then tugs open Dean's door. "In the house. Now."
Dean stays with his face in his knees until John orders him to move. He clambers out of the truck, not looking up at John. He tries to squint, but that just makes everything worse, casting the world into squirming, living shapes. He widens his eyes, quickly making his way inside.
Sam will be gone for the next hour or two, which means John has plenty of time to work Dean over. He slams and locks the door behind him, crossing his arms and glaring down at Dean. "What do you think I should do about this?"
Dean looks at the floor, then closes his eyes again, giving a half-hearted shrug. "I don't know." He leans back against the wall; he wants to tell John that he needs to help him, to make things right, protect him from the thing that scared him in the first place - not hunting, but John can think that for a while, if it would make him less angry.
John feels himself deflate a little, seeing Dean so small and scared looking. He wants Dean to fight back, to get angry back at him, so he can justify punishing him. But this -- this is heartbreaking. "How many times have you done this?"
Dean's tone is bland as he responds. "Six or seven times." He runs a hand through his hair, before stilling it and shoving both into his pockets. He keeps his eyes open for a bit, but stares at John's boots. He is braced for punishment; he knows he deserves it, and cannot think of a reason to protest it.
"Six or seven times," he repeats, just as dully. "Get to the kitchen, hands against the table." It won't be as bad as it usually is; seven strikes, for seven indescretions. Seems fair. But at the same time, utterly unfair, since he knows he's the cause of this. But... he can't let something like this slide. Dean should have known better. If there was a problem, he should have said something instead of -- going off and getting high.
Dean nods his acceptance; he takes his shirt off on the way, setting it on the table before leaning on it himself. He bites his lip, wishing he could come down; this was bad enough to take without weird shapes twisting in front of his eyes. He nearly wants to ask John to wait, wait to punish him until he is done with this trip, but he does not have the courage.
John takes a deep breath as he pulls his belt off, feeling mildly nauseous. He brushes his fingertips lightly between Dean's shoulderblades, then brings the belt down hard against his lower back, wincing and closing his eyes for a moment before he hits him a second and third time.
God, Dean wishes that John had not touched him like that, not before this. His mind is too fucked up as it is, that is the problem, don't you see that, Dad? He clamps down on his lip with his teeth, refusing to make a sound, either out of pride or as an act of defiance.
Another four hard slashes across Dean's back and John steps away, staring at the welts he'd raised, trembling faintly. "Go," he starts, then has to stop and clear his throat as his voice cracks slightly. "Go to your room. Your brother'll be home in a bit, I'll get us dinner."
Dean can barely contain the urge to hit something- he does not really care what it is- wall, table, John. He forcibly unclenches his fists and makes himself pick up his shirt and slide it on. He has taken his punishment, gotten what he deserves, and now he feels a right to be angry. He contains it until he is into the hallway, out of John's sight, and then it bursts out of him; he hits the wall with his fist in a single violent motion.
There -- John has his excuse to be rough with Dean without feeling guilty. He strides over to Dean and grips him by the back of the neck, pulling him away from the wall. "You ever do that again, it'll be worse than just a lashing, you hear me, boy?"
Dean should know that the impulse to shove him is just the drug talking, but he does it anyway, glaring at John with slightly unfocused eyes. He drops back a step as if he expects this to turn into a boxing match, face hard. "I'm going," he snaps, turning slightly towards his room.
John grabs Dean's wrist and whirls him around, backhanding him hard across the face. "You don't want to start a fight with me, boy. You'll regret it." Though maybe a fight is just what John needs right now. He's -- angry and frustrated and confused and doesn't know how to work any of it out. He can't shoot it down or salt and burn it, so he's at a loss for what to do.
Dean grimaces as the blow lands, biting his lip again; it's started to bleed now, but he does not take notice of it. He tries to twist his wrist out of John's grip. He wants a fight too, because it is easier than talking, easier than saying the things he needs to. He knows that he will lose and probably be much worse off for it, but he can handle pain much easier.
"Let me go," he growls, the first demand that he has made of his father in a very long time.
He pushes Dean back against the wall, holding his wrists above his head and shifting to shove his hip against him, pinning him there firmly. "What the hell did you say to me?" he growls, glaring down at Dean, furious again. Anger is easier to deal with, raw violence is less complicated than trying to reason things out.
Dean tries to escape, but John is stronger than he is; his fingernails dig into his palms as he squirms. "Let me go!" He feeds his fear into his anger; the world is twisting violently at the edges of his vision, making him feel like the nothing is solid, and they are both going to fall. He cannot focus on John's face, or he would be glaring.
John slams Dean's wrists harder against the wall, not much caring if he leaves bruises, subconsiously even wanting to leave bruises. "You never speak to me like that again. You better damn well show me some respect or you are going to regret it." He shoves his hip harder against Dean, wanting to make him flinch a little. Wanting to hurt him bad enough to shock him out of whatever foul mood he's in.
Dean fights him for a moment longer, throwing all his strength into it like a trapped animal, before stilling completely, breath coming in pants. He looks at him for a moment, before letting his head drop, falling against John's shoulder if it is close enough. He goes limp, quiet.
He keeps a firm hold of him while he struggles, his fingers digging into Dean's wrists until he stops moving. When Dean falls forward against him, he almost pulls back in surprise. But he stays, loosening his grip on Dean and shifting his hip back to unpin him. "You done?" he whispers, closing his eyes as he feels the energy start to drain out of him.
"Yeah. I'm done." He says the words quietly, into his shoulder, and does not move. He just wants to stay here, held up by him, for a moment or a year. Until this trip is over and the world's back to normal and he can go back to shrugging all his problems off with a smirk.
Carefully, John lets him go, accepting his dead weight as Dean leans against him. He wraps an arm around Dean's waist to support him, his free hand gently resting against the back of his neck. "I gotchya..." he sighs, wishing to hell this wasn't all so damned complicated.
"I'm really fucked up," he admits in a barely audible voice, meaning more than just this. He lets himself stay against John's chest, trying not to think, because if he thinks he will get embarassed and have to pull away.
"You and me both, boy." He wants nothing more than to just... hold Dean for a while. Sooth him, comfort him. Kiss the pain away. And he hates himself for that. So he allows himself to hold Dean, just like this, until he calms down enough to let him go.
He wants to tell him everything, but he stops himself, biting his lip; it turns out that's a stupid idea that makes him hiss in pain. It shocks him out of his misery, and he quickly straightens up, rubbing the back of a hand across his eyes quickly.
"Are you going to be alright?" John asks, softly, stepping a way from Dean a little. He's not sure he's quite alright, but he has to be. Has to pretend to be, at least.
"I'm fine." He pauses a moment, then amends, "I'll be fine." He places his hands on John's arms, unwilling to let him go completely. He wants to ask him to go to his room with him, even though he has not earned it, not even for that but just - to have him for a while. He does not say anything, just looking up at him.
John feels his heart break and he presses a gentle kiss to Dean's forehead, feeling deeply guilty for having put all of this -- this life on his son. He wraps his arms around him in a careful hug, minding the fresh wounds on his back. "You should rest..."
Dean's heart skips a beat, and then starts again at doublepace. God damn it, he is still higher than a kite and he knows it, and it is messing with everything about him, but somethings are clearer than daylight and, well- hell, he can always blame it on the acid. He kisses John, as hard and demanding as his shove had been.
He should push Dean away, he knows it. Shove him off and tell him this can't happen. But Dean's kiss feels too good, and John can taste blood on his lips. So he tangles his hand in Dean's hair, pulling him close and returning the kiss as harshly as it's given.
Dean clenches folds of John's shirt in his hands, pulling him against him, back hitting the wall. He kisses him until he has to stop for air, taking a deep breath and licking his lips.
"See? Fucked up. I mean-" He chuckles at himself, without any real humor. "Dads want to screw their kids all the time. It's always in the news, books, whatever. Messed up, but fairly normal. Sons wanting to fuck their dads? I'm just special, on that one."
"Wanting to -- Jesus Christ, Dean," John groans, kissing him again, licking over his lips. Literature or no, John knows this isn't 'fairly normal'. Can't be. It can't be fairly normal to want to kiss your own son like this, or turn him around and -- fuck him against the wall. He breaks the kiss, breathing hard, eyes shut tight. "I'm no better."
Dean moans into the kiss, gasping when he breaks it. "Yeah you are. You at least- probably feel guilty." He cannot stop talking, twisting his fingers further in the fabric of John's shirt. "I don't. That's not normal. Fuck, not that I'm ever fucking normal. I can't even be a normal hunter."
"You're a fine hunter." Though that's so far from the point it's ridiculous. "You know we shouldn't do this. But it won't stop me from wanting it, guilt or no." He presses a kiss to Dean's cheek, then his temple, trying to think clearly. "I'm not gonna stop you, if you want it, too."
Dean does not even try to explain what he meant, closing his eyes and trying to steady himself. "Then- when - when I do well, will you- please?" He hates the sound of his own voice, pleading for this. He feels like a little kid asking for ice cream.
And Dean begging like that nearly makes John's heart stop. He bites at his own lip and nods, skimming his fingers lightly down Dean's chest. "When you do well, I'll do this for you. Every time."
Dean closes his eyes as John touches him, murmuring an "Okay." It does not solve everything, but it makes him feel better, like he has something to work for.
Reluctantly, he steps back, dropping his hands. "Your brother should be home, soon. You should probably get yourself cleaned up." He reaches up to touch Dean's cheek, lightly, brushing his thumb over his lower lip.
"Should sleep," he mentions, looking up at John for permission. He straightens up, realizing for the first time how much everything hurts.
"Good idea. Want me to wake you for dinner?" Jesus he feels awful, wishing he could take back everything he'd done today. He just needs to -- sit, alone, quietly for a while. Think things through.
"Yeah." He is not really sure if he will be up to it, but no reason to refuse food without knowing. He rubs his eyes firmly and lets John go, moving towards his bedroom.