John rolled his neck, looking skyward as he reached for a bottle, staring sightlessly at the sky. "Wish I could tell you no, that it passes, but it doesn't."
It was blunt, and part of him didn't want to say it, to instead be the father and tell his son that everything would be better. But even when Dean was a kid, he hadn't been able to always be that guy, because of the way the world was. He could make promises, but he couldn't make everything better.
But he knew right now what Dean needed was a soldier in arms, someone who'd fought the battle, had the scars of war and understood, like someone who'd never been in that war could never understand, what it did to a person. Someone to help him feel he wasn't alone. It was something John knew he should have done sooner, but he hadn't thought it was this bad for Dean yet and, truthfully, he couldn't bring himself to face the weight of it, that his son had suffered the way he had. Now, he needed to.
"I still remember more every damned night, every day. You've been back longer than I was," he said, and Dean had been, by several months, but there were triggers that drew this out and he guessed Dean hadn't had as many in those earlier months. It was only in the last few months that bad things happening to people, worrying about being sent back, fighting demons from their worlds – all of it had increased. "But it's different for everyone, I'd guess. I didn't think you'd remembered much, not until recently."