[fanfic] SPN "Do Dandelions Roar" Chpt 7 Title: Do Dandelions Roar: Chapter Seven Author:kuwamiko Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, John, Bobby Rating: R-NC17 Spoilers: nothing major (set in pre-series AU) Summary: Two years ago Dean disappeared. Now John and Sam have gotten him back. But how will the three of them deal with the unexpected changes his trials in the time between have effected? Warnings: Nongraphic references to non-con sex and underage prostitution. Violence. Language. Incest (duh). Author's Note: This is AU, utter self indulgence, and has massive Dean!whumpage. Will contain Wincest eventually. Set about a year before the pilot, with some major differences. [chpt 1] [chpt 2] [chpt 3] [chpt 4] [chpt 5] [chpt 6] [chpt 7] [chpt 8] [chpt 9] [chpt 10] [chpt 11] [chpt 12] [chpt 13] [chpt 14] [chpt 15] [chpt 16] [chpt 17] [chpt 18] [chpt 19] [chpt 20] [chpt 21] [chpt 22] [chpt 23] [chpt 24] [chpt 25] [chpt 26] [chpt 27] [chpt 28] [chpt 29] [chpt 30] [chpt 31]
"Do Dandelions Roar"
- Chapter Seven - by KnM
"All right, now pull back and hold your lips just at the tip. You've got a pretty mouth on you, boy, and you want to let them see it."
He whimpered, squeezing his eyes tightly closed, but that just made Engram lean in more closely, breath hot and fierce, fingers of one hand pinching at his chin painfully, thumb tugging his lower lip down.
He waited for Engram to stick it in his mouth, hard and hot and demanding, unwelcome... and then he realized that if Engram was there behind his closed eyelids, then the man wasn't really here at all and he was either dreaming or lost in his yesterdays again.
He forced his eyes open and the bruising grip on his face faded to a phantom pain and then vanished, and he was shivering in bed, warm under thick covers, wrapped up in a pair of powerful arms that he thought he remembered from a completely different yesterday. They were real, here in this now, not imaginary.
"You're only good for one thing," Royce whispered in his ear. "Dirty little whore." But Royce was dead, he remembered that, and he closed his mind to that insidious declaration; not able to refute it, but for once able to ignore it.
He squirmed, freeing a hand to grip the covers and pull them down off his face. He was overheating and the clothing he was wearing constricted about him, strangling him so that he couldn't breathe.
He remembered these arms around him, this broad chest beneath his cheek, and he knew that he had been here before... even though he couldn't remember who it was that held him. He wasn't afraid, now that Engram was gone from his head and Royce wasn't whispering in his ear. It was an impossible sensation. He'd been afraid all the time for as long as he could remember, and longer, because there was so much that his head couldn't hold all at one time. Maybe he hadn't been afraid before... before Her. But he couldn't recall anything before Her, before the deep sea that curled around his neck and pulsed down his throat, clogging his lungs with salt and pain.
He bit back a whimper, remaining silent through long practice, as the collar of the top he was wearing twisted, choking him. He had to get out, he had to, it was like being trapped at the bottom of the ocean all over again, and he was going to die... or worse, he wasn't going to die, was going to drown over and over again, twisting, writhing, unable to breathe....
Squirming only made the arms around him tighten, and he stilled instantly despite the panic beating against his breastbone. Craning his neck, he peered through the darkness that filled the room, examining the sleeping features of the man holding him so closely.
It was a face he knew but didn't know. The man who had once been a baby... but all men had been babies once, right? Only this one he had known, had held, had taken care of, had watched grow up....
And then this faint memory slipped away into his yesterdays, lost from his mind, and he was all alone with people that he didn't remember.
Carefully, moving slowly, he wriggled free, sliding over the edge of the mattress, his bare toes sinking into the fibers of the thin carpet, reassuring him that he was standing in this room, not bogged down in silt, smothering under the deep-dark salt water.
It was the work of mere moments, getting out of his clothing, despite all the buttons. Suddenly he could breathe again, and he inhaled and exhaled several times, filling his lungs in appreciation. He could breathe; there was air and he was breathing it.
Bare-chested but leaving on the boxers for now, he wandered into the shadows, leaving a puddle of blue material on the floor behind him.
The room was wide and open, but not as big inside as the church had been. He liked the darkness that filled it; it hid him, and he didn't feel as though there were eyes watching him. The two men in the room were sleeping, and he didn't have to bear the pressure of their expectation, the burden of their constant disappointment. He still wasn't sure what they wanted from him, but whatever it was, he knew that he was unable to supply it.
The night air was chill against his chest and arms, but he didn't mind. He was still overly warm from being swathed in the binding clothing, locked up in strong arms, and covered over all with a thick blanket. The cool atmosphere was bracing, helping him to feel wakeful when too much of his life for as long as he could remember had seemed like nothing so much as an endless dream.
He slipped into the bathroom, which was almost pitch black; no windows. By touch, he searched out the toothbrush still sitting on the sink, its bristles damp under his questing fingertips. The toothpaste tube was cool and slick next to it, and he found a hairbrush, spiky like the toothbrush but dry and larger in size. There was a mirror above the chill porcelain basin of the sink, he knew, but he couldn't see himself in it. He couldn't really see anything, here in this night struck room.
The hairbrush reminded him.... Reaching up, he touched his hair. It was shorter now, especially in the back, the tips catching at his fingers, prickly instead of soft. His yesterdays might be all jumbled and confused, but he was certain that his hair was different now. It made him feel different... like he was a different person now. And that was a good thing, he thought. The man who had cut his hair knew who he was, knew who he had once been, even though he didn't know anymore. And maybe the change might help him to become that person again.
He wanted a drink of water but he couldn't think of any way to get one that wouldn't disturb the men sleeping out in the other room, so he exited the bathroom, padding silently on bare feet. He knew how to move quietly, but manipulating anything other than his own body wasn't the same thing, and there were so many things that he couldn't do without making noise.
He made a wide circuit of the room, staying close to the walls, his eyes sharp in the darkness, fingers tracing over random items. He'd been in several different places after Her... while in the hands of Rodgers and the others... but he'd never been able to explore like this, had always been under watch, kept in one spot, not allowed to move about of his own will. This was new and exciting, a little scary because it was so forbidden, but he wasn't disobeying any direct orders, not really, and he couldn't sleep, couldn't stay there in that bed with the man who had once been a baby he had held.
There was a carving of an animal standing on its hind legs in one corner. He examined it, running his fingers over it wonderingly. It was made of wood, shaped like a creature with a blunt snout and beady eyes. It looked friendly and harmless, but he knew that in reality this animal had fangs and was dangerous. He frowned deeply. He ought to remember what this animal was. She had taken away more than his name and memories, then; She'd also stolen away some of the knowledge he had once held. He had only bits and pieces now.... He was only bits and pieces now.
Tracing the grooves in the wood, watching his fingers splay pale over the dark surface, he suddenly had the overwhelming urge to hit the carving. But he swallowed that down, as he always stifled any violent impulses. He wasn't allowed to cause harm to himself or any other property, couldn't damage anything that might be of value to those who held him.
Bruises were only allowed when They hurt him... or the men who paid to use his body. He wasn't allowed to mark himself.
Suddenly disconcerted, he couldn't stand still any longer. Spinning and pacing in spiraling steps away from the carving, he went back the opposite direction he'd been traveling before and found his way to the door.
He placed his palm against the thick wood, but the night wasn't calling to him through it, so he passed on without hesitation. The window beside the door was high, a heating unit in front of it, but when he stood on tiptoe and tugged the curtain back, he could see outside.
The glass was frosted and there was an anemic glow of artificial light caught in its edges, pooling at the corners. He remembered being out there, not that long ago. The men sleeping behind him had been yelling again and the older man with the cap and the kind eyes had taken him outside. They'd sat down, he remembered, and the man had spoken to him, soothing his tangled mind with soft words.
He had spun tales of a boy, a man; one who'd had a name, a life, a purpose. He thought that this might have been who he had been before She had stripped everything away from him. The stories had slipped through his mind, streaming like flowing water, and he couldn't hold onto them no matter how hard he tried. But he could still feel the warmth of it, the feeling of safety, knowing that someone held the knowledge of who he had once been, that he maybe wasn't lost forever. It made his skin ache, his heart thump in his chest, and he wondered, if he died of this, would he be reborn as the person he was supposed to be?
He wanted more; with a hunger he wasn't used to experiencing any longer, he desired something for himself. It was forbidden, he wasn't allowed to want, but he couldn't help it, he needed it as he needed his next breath.
He wanted to know who he was.
Falling back down onto the soles of his feet, he let the curtains slide shut again before the sliver of light could rouse the men behind him. He felt wrong inside his own skin, as though he was trying to wriggle free the way he had shed the clothing just now, because there was someone else he was supposed to be. It hurt, like having one of his arms twisted the wrong way by Rodgers, sinew and bone grinding together, muscles crying out.... Only this pain wasn't physical.
It had been easier to just be. To obey and do as was ordered. He hadn't liked it, had hated it with everything in him. But he hadn't been so confused, so lost, and it hadn't ached like this. These men knew him but he didn't know what they knew. They wanted him to be what he had been before, but he didn't know what, who, that had been. It was as though there was a different person hiding under his skin, pushing at his mind, writhing and fighting, and he couldn't find any way to release the pressure. The memories were jumbled and lost and he couldn't hold onto his name, couldn't hold onto the memories the older man with the cap had offered him. He couldn't find any way to get back to the person he had once been, and they wanted that person back, and it all just jumbled together and it HURT.
The world had gone away while he agonized, and he clawed his way back to the night, this now, to discover that he was on his knees on the thin carpeting, his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking even though he wasn't crying.
Taking a deep breath, he straightened. He had remained silent, because They always wanted him to be quiet, and he hadn't awakened anyone. He was still in the room, the room was still here around him, and the night still enfolded everything outside the closed door and window.
Dragging his hands free of his hair, he stayed a moment, still kneeling, his hands resting on his thighs, struggling to still the shuddering of his breath inside the close fetters of his ribcage. He felt as though he was wrapped in chains now, and he wasn't sure if it was better or worse than being trapped in the ever-tightening coils of Her hair.
If awakening was so painful, maybe he should have remained dreaming....
But that wasn't right either. He had to find himself again, had to reclaim what She had taken from him. He hadn't, he still wasn't close, still couldn't remember his name or who the men in the room with him were, but he at least knew that there was knowledge there, memories buried deeply, that he might be able to reclaim at some point. She hadn't take everything away from him. He hadn't been erased; he was only lost. It was a good thing to know.
As he brought his breathing under control again, he noticed a cool gleam of silver on his hand where it lay atop his leg. He didn't remember anything like that from his yesterdays....
There was a ring on his right thumb, circling it just above the swell of his knuckle. It was a little loose, and he toyed with it with his left hand, curious, distracted from the angst and confusion of just a moment ago. It was thick and flawless, and it gave him a warm feeling of safety for some reason. He touched it reverently, and then he could remember; the man who had once been the baby had given it to him, just earlier in this today... right?
But hadn't he always had it? Even when it hadn't been on his hand?
Rodgers had had a ring, a big ruby and gold thing that had left huge, spreading bruises on his jaw and cheekbones, had split his lip more than once while the man had been training the rules into him. He shuddered at the memory, but Rodgers was gone, there had been blood and salt and fire, and he was safe now, and this was his ring. Cool and smooth and silver, not gold, with no stone to break the perfection of it circumference.
He felt better now, reassured somehow, and he rose to his feet. Padding away from the door, he crossed to the closer of the two beds. Not the one he had been in. He knew... he knew the man who was sleeping in it, but he couldn't remember how he knew him.
The man was laying on his back again, hand on his chest. He had a ring too, smooth and harmless. It had meaning; it meant love and sorrow, he knew, without knowing how he knew. He reached out before he realized, but held back before he could clasp that hand. He didn't want to wake the man.
The man was damaged, lower lip swollen, bruised and bloody, like his own had been so often. He knew that pain, the sudden sting of splitting flesh, the bitter salty taste of blood, and then the steady pulsing ache that lasted until the split finally healed. He bit at his own lower lip, hurting because this man was hurt. He didn't like it; it made him unhappy. Even though he wasn't entirely sure why.
This man looked different than he had seen him the first time... only it hadn't been the first time and he didn't look different now, he looked the same....
It was the beard, he realized suddenly, dipping into his jumbled yesterdays. The beard that shouldn't be had gone, and he knew this man. He was....
But he couldn't remember, and frustration drove him a step back. He hated this, hated not knowing, being on the verge of it but unable to break through that finally wall into Being. Who was he? Who was this man?
Biting back a whimper, he hugged himself tightly. He was cold now, the chill of the air reaching into the center of him. He wanted to crawl in bed with the man, soak in the heat of that body, feel sheltered, feel safe, because even though he couldn't remember, something in his heart spoke to him and said, "home". But he didn't. He didn't want to wake the man and feel the full weight of his expectation, the force of his disappointment.
It was there, waiting, he knew. Dissipated now, underneath the curtain of sleep. But waiting, ready to burst forth in full force, as soon as the man roused. And he hated that he couldn't remember, couldn't be what the man wanted him to be.
"Dean?"
There was a rustle behind him, and he turned, startled, defensive. He was being Bad, had risen without permission and removed the clothing he had been put into. He deserved punishment.
"What're you doing up?" the man who had once been a baby murmured. He was propped on one elbow, shaggy dark hair falling into sleep-heavy eyes, his lips soft and gentle. He looked safe... he felt like "home" too.
A large hand was extended, palm up. "Come back to bed. It's cold out."
He chewed on his lower lip, hesitating, but there was no point in delaying. He'd been given his order, he had to obey it. He found that he wanted to, recalling the warmth under those covers, pressed up against that larger body. Before, he had felt as though he was being throttled. Now, he only wished to feel sheltered again.
Crawling back under the covers that were raised for him, he settled into the broad expanse of the man's chest, pressing a hand to the steady, comforting beat of his heart. He'd been Bad, but it was okay. It was okay, it really was.
"You need to stay in bed, Dean," the man murmured into his hair, cheek pressed to the crown of his head, one hand rubbing warm spirals over the bare muscles of his lower back. It was a reproach, but delivered in a tender tone of voice. He wasn't in trouble, even though the man holding him was troubled. "Don't go wandering off, okay? I can't lose you again."
He nuzzled closer, seeking to delve more deeply into the heat that bloomed between their close pressed bodies, sinking into the safety and the gentle touches. This was something he hadn't experienced before. No hurting, no demanding, no taking... this man was only offering, giving freely to him, comfort and protection. He was choked suddenly on salt-wet, but he realized it was his own tears, not ocean water, and he swallowed them down, letting the warmth of the arms encircling him melt it away into a memory.
This was safe... this was coming home. He was where he wanted to be, even if he didn't know where that was....
Even if he couldn't remember who he was.
***
Sam hummed, burrowing deeper into the covers, tucking Dean's compliant form underneath his chin. He was sleepy and comfortable, and even though Dean's skin had been chilled from being out of bed, he was rapidly warming. Sam felt as close to contentment as he had since... well, since before Dean had been taken... since before he himself had left for Stanford... hell, since he had been a child wrapped up in his older brother's arms.
It was a little different now. But the warm spicy scent rising off of Dean was the same. And their shared body heat was as familiar to him as the sound of his own breathing. Dean's back was satin smooth under his fingertips. He was on the verge of falling back asleep when he heard movement in the other bed.
"Dad?" Sam raised his head, blinking blearily. Their father was sitting on the edge of his mattress. He didn't look sleepy at all. "Whatcha doin'?"
"Shh." John stood, moving to tug on a pair of jeans and a heavy leather jacket. "Go back to sleep, Sam."
"What's going on?" Instead of doing as he had been told, Sam levered up onto one elbow, jostling Dean, causing his brother to roll more closely against him.
"Nothing. I'm just.... I can't sleep. I'm going for a walk."
Sam frowned, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. "Dad?"
His father looked over, a small, crooked smile on his weathered face. "Really, it's all right, Sam. I'm just going to walk for a while. I'll be safe. And I'll be back before sunrise."
"Okay...."
Sam didn't really like it, but there wasn't much he could say or do. John was his father, a grown man who could make his own decisions.
John didn't pay Sam any further attention, instead grabbing his keys with a jingle and leaving the room, locking the door behind him.
"God." Sam flopped back down onto his pillow and scrubbing his eyes with the hand not trapped beneath his brother's body. "I hope he at least took his cell with him," he grumbled, stifling a yawn and wishing that his sleep hadn't been interrupted; first by Dean and now this.
Speaking of his brother....
Tangling a hand in Dean's hair, he tilted the boy's head back, searching his face, his dark eyes. Dean didn't look sleepy, but then, he had just been up, roaming around. Hell, that was probably what had awakened John. Dean had been silent in his wandering; Sam had only roused because he had missed the warm press of his brother's body against his own. But John was a Hunter and a father. It was more than likely to have been Dean's wakefulness that had caused John's own, even if he was unaware of this.
"You okay, Dean?" Sam wasn't sure what he was looking for in his brother's eyes, but at least Dean was meeting his gaze, not glancing away immediately as he had been doing ever since they had rescued him.
Sam tried not to flinch as Dean reached up a tentative hand, touching his cheekbone, just below his bruised eye socket. Sam had forgotten about the punches thrown in the rush of anger, and the resultant damage. Dean was being careful not to brush the actual black eye, but it was clear that he was focused on it and was disturbed by it.
"S'okay, Dean," he murmured, and it really was. He'd hit Dad, Dad had hit him back, they'd both apologized.... Maybe this was what they had needed, something cathartic and cleansing, because Sam didn't think that they were going to be fighting anymore. Arguing... well, probably. Scratch that; definitely. They weren't ever going to be able to stop arguing. But not out and out fighting. And not just because Bobby had laid down the law.
His black eye would heal, and he felt as though his relationship with their father was on its way to healing as well.
Now they just needed to figure out how to heal Dean.
Dean's fingers had strayed down to brush over his lips, and then he yanked his hand back as though he had been burned. Sam fought to swallow a grimace. This just... wasn't right. And in more ways than one.
"S'okay, Dean," he assured his brother again, even though this time he knew that it wasn't. Dean's face was sharp in the dim light, lost in shadows, and his eyes were liquid, his own lips parted, plump, his tongue flickering out to trace over the swell of his lower lip. Sam realized that he was staring in fascination, and dragged his gaze away. That was just weird... not right. Dean had been and certainly was a pretty teenager, but Sam was his brother; he wasn't supposed to notice things like that. Especially not now that Dean was a kid again and Sam was an adult. It was already weird enough; that made it even weirder. In fact, he really couldn't think of any way this situation could be weirder, more awkward.
Well, maybe if their father was still in the room... which might well have been the reason that John had left.
Burrowing more deeply under the covers, Sam tugged Dean up against him, trying to ignore the fact that his brother was almost naked, closing his eyes resolutely. Time to set strange thoughts and stranger feelings aside until the morning. His father and Dean weren't the only masters of repression. Sam might blast against that manner of dealing with things, but he never had claimed to consistently practice what he preached.
"Sleep, Dean," he instructed, hoping that it would work like it had before, that Dean would do as he had been instructed. He hated using his brother's new obedience like this, hated that Dean had been molded into a creature that did as he was told without question, without argument. But if it gained them both a few hours of peace in the middle of the night....
He could feel Dean's back rising and falling beneath his palm as his brother breathed softly. Could feel the puffs of warm-moist breath breaking against the thin cloth of his teeshirt, filtering through and teasing against his skin. Dean's lashes were tickling the flesh of his collarbone where his top had been tugged down. All these little distractions, and yet Sam was close to drifting off despite them.
Warmth was soaking him through, Dean's body radiating heat where they were pressed closely together, and Sam could feel his consciousness beginning that slow, steady slide to the underneath of oblivion, wedging deeper into the covers and slipping beneath the curtain that slumber was tugging over his mind. He would have yawned, but he was already too far gone.
Sam was suspended in the hazy place between waking and sleep, and so he barely notice when Dean's leg slipped up over his hip. The bare flesh of Dean's thigh was soft and vulnerable against the exposed flesh where his own top had ridden up and his pajama bottoms had gotten tugged down. He could feel Dean's calf pressing against his rear, and the beginnings of unease, a growing sense of danger, began to filter through his sleep-dazed thoughts.
"Dean?" he grunted, unconsciously fitting his brother more closely against himself instead of pushing him away, as slender arms ringed his neck. "Whatcha doin'?"
It was a silly question, he figured, as he slitted his eyes open and tried to peer down at Dean through the darkness of the night. Because not only would Dean not answer, but Sam already knew the answer; he just didn't want to admit it to himself.
It was with a bizarre sense of fatality, no real horror, no violent recoil, that he felt Dean's mouth press against his own in a warm, heavy kiss. He comforted himself, if that was the right way to put it, in noting that it wasn't a passionate kiss. No tongue, not even much friction, just Dean mashing their mouths together, their chins bumping beneath. It could have been explained away as being the sort of kiss that siblings often shared between themselves... except for the fact that the Winchester males had never kissed each other -- not since Sam had been a toddler, anyway -- and certainly never on the mouth like this.
Sam knew damned well what their father would have had to say about this. And he knew that he ought to push Dean away, should not encourage this. But he didn't want to hurt his brother any more, didn't want to reject him when it hadn't been that long ago that Dean had cringed away from even the most circumspect of touches.
Of course, it also hadn't been that long ago that Dean had tried to give him a blow-job in the shower....
But Sam wasn't going to dwell on that. As far as he was concerned, it had never happened. Never. Happened.
Raising his head, he broke the kiss without having to push his brother away, licking his lips nervously and tasting Dean; he tasted like tears and sex and toothpaste.
"Dean, don't," he husked, one hand clasping over Dean's bony shoulder, holding him still. "Okay? Just... don't."
Dean looked confused, and Sam thought that this was going to kill him. But there was nothing he could do but forge onward. He didn't have any way to cope with this, had never been put into this sort of situation before, and certainly Dean had never been this broken, this vulnerable before. But Sam was going to have to learn to deal with it, figure things out, because there wasn't any choice. Dean was his responsibility and Sam had to take care of him.
"No more.... We need to sleep, Dean," he said, hoping that he didn't sound as piteous as he thought he did. If Dean were his normal self now, he'd be teasing Sam about whining.... But if Dean was his normal self, then they wouldn't be in this position at all. Dean's leg wouldn't be slung over his hip, Sam wouldn't have the taste of his brother on his lips, and Dean's hand wouldn't be -- oh, holy fuck! -- wouldn't be sliding down between their close pressed bodies to grasp at his dick again!
"Dean -- no!"
Dean started, freezing immediately and holding so still he was nearly quivering. Sam huffed, resting his mouth against his brother's forehead, collecting himself for a couple of breath-sucking moments, before he reached down between them and retrieved that errant hand.
He doesn't know me, he doesn't know me....
The mantra should have been a relief, should have made him feel better about this whole mess, and yet somehow it only made things worse. Because as bad as it would have been to find that Dean was willing to do this with his brother, it was even worse that he was making moves like this on someone that he didn't know, someone who was a complete stranger to him.
Sam stifled a small whimper, his throat swelling as though he was going to weep, even though he had no intention of allowing himself the weakness of tears. It just hurt so damned much, all of it, and there was no one who was going to step in and make it better. They were still at least another day's drive away from Lawrence, Kansas, and even when they got there, he just couldn't imagine that this Missouri Mosely would be able to do as much as his father clearly counted on her to do.
The night was dark and it suddenly seemed endlessly bleak. He was weary but he couldn't sleep. He ached deep in the heart of him, and he thought that it was selfish to be only focused on his own pain, but it was so large inside him that there wasn't room for anything else.
Plump lips pressed to his again, and he felt Dean's fingers trailing through his hair, tentatively petting his head above his ear. Sam opened eyes he didn't know he had screwed closed, and stared down at his brother through the shadows in their hotel room. Dean looked back up at him, his eyes wide and dark, seeing him and absorbing, no longer glazed over or skittering aside. Dean's brows twisted and his hand was still on Sam's head.
From somewhere, Sam dredged up a smile that didn't hurt his face too much. "S'okay, Dean," he assured his brother for a third time. And this time it wasn't the truth or a lie; it was somewhere in between, a little of each. "We're both going back to sleep now. Or I'm getting up and moving to the other bed. Understand?"
Dean hitched a little closer, his leg tightening where it was slung over Sam, and he drew in a breath, prepared to leave the bed if need be. But then Dean laid his head down against Sam's shoulder again, snuggling closer, and Sam breathed out a silent sigh of relief. Evidently it had worked?
He wasn't so sure he liked the thigh pressing against his waist, but at least this position kept Dean from realizing the fact that his brother was more than half hard.... Now, if only Sam could forget.
Ignoring his insistent erection, he tried to relax back into the bed. His mellow, peaceful mood from earlier had fled, his nerve ends tingling, and for more than one reason.
And yet he still fell back asleep before Dean did.
***
It was the glorious smell of coffee that brought him up from the depths of slumber into the waking world.
Bobby tried to say something as he tossed back his blanket, but he wasn't sure what it had been, and his tongue tangled itself between his teeth anyway. He glowered at the amused look on John's face, but he didn't really mean the expression. There wasn't much room for resentment when there was coffee to be had.
"Good morning, sunshine," John rumbled, shoving the steaming cup in Bobby's direction as he untangled his legs from the covers.
Bobby yawned widely, scratching at his scalp with one hand and taking the proffered beverage with the other.
"You shaved," he observed mildly, quirking a brow. John Winchester also looked like he was running on fumes, deep circles under his dark eyes, but his shoulders were relaxed, and aside from his haggard appearance, he seemed more tranquil than Bobby remembered seeing him since before Dean had been taken by the Melusine.
John reached up with his free hand, his own coffee cup cradled in the other, and rubbed at the newly exposed skin of his chin. "Yeah." He frowned faintly, mouth drawing down at the corners. "The beard confused Dean."
Bobby didn't have anything to say to that, really, so he sipped at his coffee. After a moment, he quirked the other brow at John. "Not to seem ungracious, since you were sweet enough to bring me my morning cuppa," he said, tilting his head curiously. "But is there a reason yer hangin' out in my room instead of yer own?"
John shook his head decisively, but his eyes were less certain. "No reason."
"You sleep last night?" Bobby asked, letting the lie slide for the moment. If Winchester wanted to fib at him, he wasn't gonna call him on it. Not first thing in the morning, anyway, before he'd finished his start-up cup of coffee.
"Not much." At least in this John was honest. "Dean was up again. He didn't leave the hotel room this time, but he still woke me. Couldn't fall back asleep, so I went for a walk."
Bobby's brows twitched at that. "Di'jya now," he drawled, burying his nose in his coffee cup for a moment and peering at the other man over its rim. "How long were you out and about, John?" A glance at the clock beside his bed declared it to be a quarter to six; evidently John wanted to get an early start today.
John shrugged uncomfortably. He still had his jacket on, and Bobby could swear that he saw little spots of dew glistening on the dark leather. "Couldn't sleep," he repeated. "No point in bothering the boys."
"Yer gonna regret it later today," Bobby pointed out mildly, finishing off his coffee. He was ready for more, now, and if he recalled correctly, there was a coffee pot and complimentary grounds and filters in the kitchen area of the Winchesters' room. "You might have to let Sam drive for a while."
John shrugged again, still nursing his brew. Bobby got dressed, slightly disconcerted when John didn't vacate at that point, just stood there, sipping his coffee and staring into the distance. What he was seeing... well, Bobby really had no desire to know.
"You gonna go and wake yer boys?" Bobby prodded as he planted his cap on his head and zipped up his duffel. He was ready to go, but he really wanted to go into the other room and brew another pot of coffee first.
John sent him a haunted look, causing Bobby to blink. "Don't think I can, Bobby," he replied, his tone light, almost conversational, but his eyes hard and dark. "Can't... don't quite think I want to see them all coiled around each other like... like...."
"Like they ain't got anything else to hold onto?" Bobby grunted, giving John a not unsympathetic look. There wasn't much else he could say. There were several different ways he could read John's words, his reluctance, his concern... but he wasn't going to pursue any of those. Because at the beginning and the end of it, and at all points in between, this was none of his business. He didn't want it to be.
John hunched into his heavy leather jacket and crushed his empty coffee cup in one hand. Without meeting Bobby's eyes, he tossed it into the garbage basket.
"All right. No problem," Bobby said, grabbing his duffel and striding across the room. They weren't his sons, and he wasn't disturbed, much, by the way he had trouble telling where one started and the other ended even after he had turned on the light. And it didn't bother him that Dean was close to naked under the blankets. Nope, not at all.
"Get up and get dressed, boys," he said cheerfully as he dropped his duffel and tromped over to the kitchen area. "I'm making some coffee and then we're getting on the road."
Sam sat up, yawning fit to bust his jaw, and Dean squirmed over the edge of the mattress, padding into the bathroom. Bobby watched him go with a sense of mild surprise. Aside from the midnight wandering, he thought that this was the first time he had seen Dean go somewhere of his own will since they had gotten him back. He decided to take it as a good sign. Even if the boy did leave the door ajar while he was taking a leak.
"Shit!" Sam started up off the bed, his eyes wide. "Dad! He went out last night and--"
"Right here," John grunted, entering the room.
Sam gawked at him a moment, as the coffee pot began percolating across the room. "I'm..." he cleared his throat. "I'm not gonna ask why you're coming out of Bobby's room this morning..." he said in a noncommittal tone.
"Hey now!" Bobby snapped sharply, shooting Sam a fierce look. "That ain't funny, Sam!"
John glared, and Sam scrubbed sleep out of his eyes. "Said I wasn't gonna ask," he protested, unfolding himself from the bedcovers and shambling over to retrieve his own clothes and Dean's, then heading for the bathroom where his brother was intently washing his hands. Bobby couldn't think of anything scathing enough to say before Sam had closed the door behind himself, and John certainly wasn't any great help, standing there like a mute.
"Hn. Mouthy little cuss," he grumbled.
Suddenly the door popped open again and Sam stuck his head out, his eyes wide.
"Hey, Dad! You shaved off your beard!"
John rolled his eyes as Sam goggled a moment then disappeared again.
Bobby sighed and reached for a chipped ceramic mug with a black bear painted on its side as the coffee pot crackled and sputtered to a stop. And so life went on.
***
Bobby had been right, damn his eyes.
John slouched down into the leather of his seat, fighting a yawn, not wanting to fall asleep while Sam was behind the wheel. Not because he didn't trust his son's driving; it was more the principal of the thing.... Well, okay, there really was no logic behind it, but since when did a parent need to be logical?
"You should rest, Dad," Sam offered, not removing his eyes from the windshield. "You couldn't have gotten more than two or three hours sleep last night."
John grunted but chose not to reply. He had no intention of dozing off. He intended to remain alert, he needed to watch out for his boys.
After a moment, Sam shot him a glance, then shrugged. "Whatever." He transferred his full attention to driving, and there was silence in the truck cab for a while. There was no music, because John and Sam couldn't decide what to play, and both agreed they didn't want to disturb Dean.
John had ceded the wheel to Sam at the last rest stop, finally admitting defeat when he had found himself nodding off twice. The safety of his sons was more important than his own pride, after all.
Dean was curled up beside John where he slumped on the passenger side, his head resting on John's lap, sound asleep. John tried not to think of it as a relief, but this was a lot better than earlier, after he and Sam had switched spots, when Dean had fitted himself up against John's side as though they'd been wearing the same shirt and planted his palm on John's thigh. He hadn't made any more bold advances, but it had still been more than enough to throw John wildly off.
To have Dean napping on him was one hell of an improvement so far as he was concerned.
John decided in this moment that he would let Sam do most of the holding and cajoling from here on out. Dean had been an independent toddler and a self-possessed child. As a teen he'd sought out physical contact, true, but never from his father or brother. There had been the occasional hug, the ruffling of hair or back pat, of course, but John had stopped kissing the boys good-night after Mary had been taken from them. It hadn't been deliberate; it had just happened. Dean had never seemed to mind. John wasn't used to his older son being clingy like this, and he didn't know how to deal with it. Especially with the faint but undeniable undertones of sexual submission.... Thank God for the sake of his very sanity that Dean hadn't come on to John, as Bobby had implied had happened to him.
Because that really might break him. This was his boy, his son, his baby. His Dean.
Whether Dean had approached Sam, John really didn't want to know. No, he really didn't. Some things were better left unexplored. If Dean had, Sam hadn't said anything, and John was perfectly thrilled with that. Sam had always been the more physically affectionate of his boys, and that was why John hadn't been surprised to find him constantly locking his brother up in his long arms now that they'd gotten Dean back.
The parent in him had howled borderline incest at the sight. The jealous human being inside his heart had wanted to tear Dean away and hold him tight himself. But the man who had been a Marine and was now a seasoned Hunter, who understood the workings of a universe that was too often cruel and uncaring, knew how necessary it really was. Dean had been cut away from the world; first by the Melusine, and then by the men who had held him and hurt him and forced him to do things that John still couldn't give any thought to without feeling as though his mind would shatter into a myriad of razor-edged shards. His memories were apparently missing, because he didn't seem to know his father or his brother, so what did Dean have left? Only the reality of physical contact. And John wasn't really comfortable giving Dean what he needed. It was going to be up to Sam.
Not that this meant John liked seeing the two tangled together in bed every night. It should have been innocent, like his boys had been when Sam had still been smaller than Dean, cuddling up all safe and protected by his big brother. But it wasn't innocent any longer. And not only because of the things John knew that Dean had been trained to do. There were whole other levels to it that John couldn't even explain to himself, that he only recognized instinctively and couldn't describe in words.
But he wasn't going to dwell on that. Because he loved his sons and trusted Sam, and he didn't want to feel the need to rip them apart when he had just decided that he needed Sam to be the one to care for Dean. Because if Dean didn't have Sam, there was only John. And John couldn't do this alone. He just couldn't.
Swallowing down a heavy sigh, not liking the way his thoughts were carrying him, he sought to change the subject.
"So. Anyone you particularly needed to get a hold of last night?" he asked, trying to keep his tone as neutral as possible. Sam had spent quite a while on the phone, outside the hotel room, and while it wasn't any of John's business, he was a little curious. They'd both been distracted by the fight Sam had picked the minute he'd come back inside. But John knew that it must have been hard on Sam, talking to people who cared about him, who were worried about him, without being able to tell them when, or even if he was going to be coming back.
Sam's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel until John could have sworn he heard the leather creaking, but his voice was level enough when he replied. "Her name is Jessica. And, no."
John winced, couldn't help it. He'd screwed up his boys' childhood, he'd wrecked Sam's attempt to grasp the "normal" that he had denied them, and now he had....
"It's all right, Dad," Sam interrupted his thoughts, and now he sounded quiet, calm. "It's not your fault. What Jess and I had.... I think I was falling in love with her and maybe she was falling in love with me; I was hoping. But this is about Dean. If I'm honest, he's more important to me than Jess, and that says a lot right there. And there's nothing about what happened that was your fault."
John shifted uncomfortably, running his fingers absently through Dean's gold-tipped hair. The boy sighed, his breath gusting over the material of John's jeans, and curled a little more tightly into himself. "You can say that, but...."
"Dad." Sam had that reasonable tone that drove John nuts. He'd almost rather his son was screaming at him; it was easier to deal with. "What happened at the coast, with the Melusine, didn't happen because I'm the son of a Hunter. She lured me out just like she had several other guys before me. And if you hadn't raised Dean as well as you did, I'd be gone and you'd have been lucky if you'd even found out what happened to me. There's nothing about this situation that you can blame yourself for."
John could have argued. If Mary hadn't died, or if he hadn't taken up the Hunt and had brought them up in suburbia, then maybe Sam would have gone to a different college, might not have met the people he'd met, might not have made that trip to the coast....
Heck, if he hadn't dragged the boys around so much while they were still in school, Sam probably could have gotten into Stanford a year or two ahead of schedule; he was smart and focused enough that it was undoubtedly the fact that he had changed schools several times that had held him back to the level of those of average intelligence. Then the Melusine definitely never would have been an issue.
"You can't change the past, Dad," Sam said, and John shot him a narrow look, knowing that his son had probably been following his train of thought pretty closely and accurately. "And we can't know what would have happened if things had been different. You tell yourself that if you had raised us differently, I wouldn't have run across the Melusine? Well, if that was the case, then chances are that I wouldn't have met Jess, either. You can't have it one way and not the other."
John scowled, sinking more deeply into his seat. He wanted to argue the point, but he had the niggling feeling that he couldn't. Sam was right, and they both knew it.
"Besides...." Sam trailed off, then passed a motorhome with more concentration than the maneuver warranted. "Besides, Dad. I think of living without ever seeing Jess again, and it hurts, but I'm okay with that. I'll miss her, a lot. We connected, and she understood me. But I can live without her." He drew in a shuddering breath. "But if I think about life without Dean--"
His voice crackled and he faltered, unable to complete the sentence, but John knew what he meant, how he felt. He felt the same way.
And Sam was right. John had seen this Jess, had stopped by Stanford the last time he had been through California, checking to see that Sam was doing all right. He'd seen them together, how close they had been, and how happy they were. He had thought he'd seen love, but maybe what he'd been seeing had been the potential for love. Because he could tell that Sam was speaking the truth; losing Jess and their blooming relationship was hurting him, but it was a pain that he was going to survive. It wasn't like it had been when John had lost Mary.
Of course, Jess was still alive, and that helped, but if Sam really wasn't going to be returning to college and his friends, then she was lost to him.
"I'll be fine, Dad," Sam said, after several moments of awkward silence. "Really. Now that we've got Dean back...."
John nodded. He regretted the things that Sam had left behind. He regretted the things that Sam had never had. He regretted the things that Sam now never would have. But he'd raised his son to be strong and know his own mind. He couldn't complain when Sam proved this upbringing to be successful. He might not have done right by his boys, but Sam was a testament to the fact that he hadn't screwed up as much as he sometimes thought he had.
"You should go back," he offered, keeping his voice low. "Someday. After we...."
"After we get Dean fixed," Sam mumbled, his chin dipping toward his chest. He flexed his hands around the wheel again, and slanted John a somewhat watery grin. "I don't think so, Dad. But maybe."
John understood. Jess and Stanford were in the past. It was going to be easier for Sam if he didn't hold them before himself like a holy grail; one that he was unlikely to ever be able to grasp again. Sam was being logical and sparing himself the anguish and frustration.
But that didn't mean that John didn't wish things had gone differently, didn't want something better for his son. Because Sam really did deserve to be happy. John only ached that he couldn't deliver this elusive happiness to him, to both of his boys....
But then, that had been the way it had been since that fateful night in Lawrence, Kansas. Hadn't it?
"Get some rest," Sam pressed again as the truck roared along the highway, racing toward the horizon that it would never reach, could never reach. Because the horizon always stretched ahead, elusive, just out of grasp.
John finally decided that his son might have the right idea.
"Wake me when it's my turn to drive," he grunted, folding his arms and allowing his heavy lids to slide closed.