Work Text:
“This doesn’t make any sense, Man. I’ve called Dad’s number like, 50 times…” Sam says, voice strained with frustration.
Dean doesn’t respond, instead focusing his attention on punching in the numbers. He mechanically brings his cell to his ear, and he feels like there’s something stuck in his throat when he hears his Dad’s voice for the first time in months.
“This is John Winchester. I can’t be reached. If this is an emergency, call my son Dean: 785-555-0179. He can help.”
The message shuts off just like that, almost clipped at the end, finishing with finality.
Dean shuts the phone mechanically without saying a word, trying to avoid Sam’s eye.
Sam, who’s 22 but has the same look of anger and hurt on his face that Dean has seen hundreds of times on him from the age of five, every time he realized as a kid that their Dad wasn’t going to be home when he said he would be.
They both climb into the car silently.
They drive, and Sam is angry. That’s very clear. It always is very obvious when Sam is mad—especially with their Dad. Dean remembers all too clearly the years of rage and screaming fights between John and Sam, himself stuck in the middle—often trapped in the car and miserable as he was forced to endure their short, clipped sentences snarled at each other, the tension between them palpable and stifling.
Now Sam leans against the passenger side door, looking pointedly out the window, pensively biting at his thumbnail.
Dean for his part, is already trying to work it out—already starting to try and figure out the hidden message of his Dad’s words.
Dad would have called us if he could, he tells himself.
There’s a reason he can’t.
There’s a reason.
Sam has been fidgeting for the last five minutes, and while Dean dreads it, he knows his little brother is about to open his mouth and spill out all of the resentment he feels inside.
“That son of a bitch…” Sam finally says. His voice is bitter, and his eyes no less glassy than they were immediately after the message played. “He can’t call us when we’re worried sick about him… but he can still take the time to leave some message on his fucking phone, dumping all of his excess work on us.”
Dean feels a twinge of annoyance with Sam’s probable oversimplification of the situation—with him blaming John for the fact that people still need help—for calling saving lives ‘work,’ like it’s not that important—like he was telling them to mow the lawn.
“Hey.” Dean looks pointedly at his brother, his voice taking on the tone it always has when John’s character is in question. The tone he has always taken on when Sam has doubted. “If he could call us, he would. It must not be safe. He probably left the message for our benefit, so we would still know he was okay even if he can’t directly talk to us.”
Sam chuckles, and it’s bitter, biting. “Really, Dean?” He says, looking at his brother with hate in his eyes—hate for their Dad. “Are you saying that because you actually believe it, or are you saying it to convince yourself?” He snaps.
Dean fights not to swallow, keeping his eyes on the road.
"If he’s not calling because it’s not safe, why would he paint a fucking target on our backs by giving every person who calls him our number?"
Dean tightens his hands on the steering wheel, and tunes his brother out as he continues his verbal assault on their Dad.
Because that’s just it, isn’t it? A small, bitter part of himself whispers—one that seems to grow every day that his calls and texts are ignored.
It’s not “our" number.
Not “our” backs.
Not dumping excess work on "us."
‘...If this is an emergency, call my son Dean: 785-555-0179. He can help.'
And that’s how it’s always been, hasn’t it? Sam kept anonymous, kept safe, everybody meant to depend on Dean in his Dad’s absence…
Dean can help. Dean can save everyone. Dean can solve everyone’s emergency, can protect Sam, can shield him from everything with his own body, can starve himself so Sam has food to eat.
‘...If this is an emergency, call my son Dean: 785-555-0179. He can help.'
Dean tunes Sam out, waiting for him to run out of steam, and tries to take solace in the fact that at least… at least this means his Dad trusts him. It’s… it should be a nice thought. Yes, it’s a nice thought that his Dad believes Dean can handle whatever life throws at him.
It’s… It’s a nice thought.
It is.
He’s hiding it from Sam as best he can, but he just…
Jesus, he’s fucking falling apart. He hasn’t been to Lawrence since he was four years old, and he can’t… the idea of something being in their house… in the only home Dean ever knew… tainting it…
Dean swallows, steps behind the building and pulls out his phone, trying to keep his hands from shaking as he dials his Dad’s number, fighting the way his stomach twists in knots.
The phone rings, and all he can do is hope, pray that for once—for once—his Dad will answer. He will help Dean.
The phone rings and he remembers every time he has ever called his Dad for help, since he was just a kid. How nothing going wrong in Dean’s life has ever been enough of an emergency for John to drop everything and come to him. How even broken bones, dried up food money, and pneumonia were never enough—never enough of a reason for John to come help Dean growing up.
But even if those weren’t emergencies to John… this… this should be. Because it’s not even really about Dean, right? It’s about whatever killed Mom, and even if Dad won’t come when Dean needs him, he’d come for this, right? He’ll… he’ll help Dean. He’ll come… and even if he’s not doing it for Dean that’ll be okay, because he’ll be here...
As always, the phone goes to voicemail after just a few rings.
“This is John Winchester. I can’t be reached. If this is an emergency, call my son Dean: 785-555-0179. He can help.”
Dean closes his eyes against the pressure behind them, frustrated because Dean can’t call Dean when Dean has an emergency. Who the hell is he supposed to call if he needs help? What is he supposed to do?
“Dad…” Dean’s voice shakes, and he hates it—he hates how weak it will make John think he is. "I know I’ve left you messages before. I don’t know if you even get ‘em. But I’m with Sam, and we’re in Lawrence, and there’s something in our old house…” He swallows against the overwhelming tightness in his throat. "I don’t know if it’s the thing that killed Mom or not, but…” He swallows again, feeling tears come to his eyes. "I don’t know what to do.”
I have an emergency. I need help. I can’t do this. I can’t.
"So, whatever you’re doing, if you could just... get here…” Dean takes a shaky breath. “Please,” He says, feeling like a worthless dog begging for scraps. "I need your help, Dad.”
He hangs up, already knowing that just like always… John won't spare the time for him.
Not for Dean’s needs.
Dean is on his own, and he can’t afford to fall apart.
After the case is over, Sam grumbles that they probably should’ve called Dad, but that he wouldn’t have picked up the goddamn phone anyway.
He must catch Dean by the look on his face.
“Oh my God.” He says, voice accusing. "You did call him didn’t you?”
Dean doesn’t say anything.
After a pause, Sam says resentfully, “Let me guess… He didn’t answer?” He looks at Dean a moment longer, then scoffs, shaking his head and muttering under his breath, “The fuck did you expect?”
Dean feels the weight of disappointment and shame in Sam’s voice, and numbs himself to it.
They drive on in tense silence.
The hum of the engine vibrates through him, occasionally lulling him off to sleep, but he’s awake right now, staring out the window. He can feel his heart struggling to pound, and concentrates on expending as little energy as possible, slumped so fully into the seat and the door of the car that he might as well be a part of them. He feels cold, and tired, and its an effort just to sit up. His heart flutters weakly in his chest, and he doesn’t know exactly why he feels so terrible—if it’s all a result of being electrocuted, or if there’s something else making him feel so damn weak—face so slack and emotionless.
The outside world seems muted and grey.
“I called Dad,” Sam says suddenly—carefully.
Dean freezes briefly, before his failing heart twinges with pain and he clenches his jaw in annoyance. He told Sam not to call.
He’s not a fucking idiot.
But of course Sam called. Of course he did.
He just doesn’t know why Sam feels the need to bring it up—why he feels the need to burden Dean with this shit even now, when he’s weak and cold all of the time, and he just can’t.
He takes a big breath, trying to keep his blood flowing, and turns more toward the window, hating the way he already knows what Sam’s waiting to say.
There’s silence for a good 40 seconds, while Sam throws him glances and he doesn’t respond. But if there’s one problem with Sammy, it’s that he’s never known how to take a hint and shut the fuck up—especially not when it comes to their Dad. “…He didn—“
“Shut up.” Dean interrupts. He glares resolutely out the window, and his lip trembles. He stares at the fields they’re passing by, avoiding everything that is Sam, just like he avoids recognizing the way his voice shakes. “I know, alright?”
He closes his eyes, takes another deep breath, trying to hold everything in—keep it contained. "Just… Just don’t say it. I don’t… I don’t want to hear it, Sam. Please."
Thankfully—thank fucking god… for once in his life, Sam actually listens to Dean about something involving their Dad and shuts his fucking mouth. For once, he shuts his trap, sparing Dean the need to defend their Dad—to come up with an excuse for his absence. Dean’s too tired to do it right now, and too hurt.
He just can’t.
He’s dying, and his Dad can’t even be bothered to help him with that. Because Dean is not an emergency.
He’s never been an emergency to his Dad.
Something cold twists inside Dean’s dying heart, and for once, he doesn’t shove it away. He doesn’t have the energy. He lets it settle inside him—wash over him.
He barely notices that his cheeks are wet as he slumps even further into his seat.
He’s dying, and he’s not going to protect himself from this right now. He’s certainly not going to protect Sam.
For the first time in his life, he just… lets himself hate his Dad.
He lets himself hate John for a little while.
“Something like this happens to your brother, you call me,” John says harshly, looking at Dean with familiar, exasperated sort of annoyance and disappointment.
Dean has seen that look thousands of times. It shouldn’t hurt so much. He should be numb to it.
But the comment rubs so harshly against the still raw and gaping wound Dean has felt daily since he was electrocuted.
Hearing his dad basically confirm that he is far more concerned with Sam’s visions than he ever was with his older son’s failing heart… Recognizing the undercurrent of fear in John’s eyes—the thoughts of what could have happened to Sam—what could be happening to Sam with these visions and being reminded John has never had a look like that for him… that instead he just gets… disappointment...
It’s like being slapped in the face. The range and the hurt and the… the jealousy he feels is unbelievable.
The small part of Dean that’s been stewing inside him since the faith healer rises and coils through him along with the self-hating tirade he’s been subjected to since early childhood. It’s much quieter than the voices telling Dean he is worthless and unwanted, but it tells Dean in no uncertain terms, You don’t deserve this.
It begs that he blow through the self-doubt and hurt and explode with violence—that he yell at his father.
But the other voices always have been and still are so much stronger—whisper that he can’t make John mad. John is just and good, and Dean is the one who is wrong. So instead of coming out a roar like part of him wants, his voice is forceful but steady as he turns around. “Call you?”
John will tell him in a moment that he doesn’t approve of his tone.
All Dean will be able to think is that he wishes he could've put more rage behind it. He’ll wish that his instinct to always respect and yield to his Dad didn’t make it too damn hard just to say one word in opposition.
“Dad, I called you from Lawrence. Sam called you when I was dying. Getting you on the phone?” His voice trembles, and he bites it back, because sounding hurt makes him look weak, and that will make John think even worse of him "...I got a better chance of winning the lottery.”
He wants to say more, but he knows he can’t, even if what he’s already said isn’t nearly enough.
It doesn’t say enough.
But it’s all he can manage to say right now, so it will have to do for now.
Maybe… maybe he’ll have a chance later to scream.
Maybe later he can finally work up the courage.
Maybe one day he can actually yell at John.
Dean stares straight ahead, slumped in the front seat of the wreckage of the Impala.
He absently reaches for the beer sitting in the cupholder, ignoring the way his hand shakes as he brings the beverage to his lips.
His phone sits in his other hand, his thumb settled over the call button.
He takes another sip of his beer, and presses down.
“This is John Winchester. I can’t be reached. If this is an emergency, call my son Dean: 785-555-0179. He can help.”
Dean huffs a ghost of a dark, resentful laugh, clenching his jaw tight as he takes another sip, because doesn’t that say it all?
Don’t those words say everything about John Winchester?
John Winchester can’t be reached.
John Winchester is too busy to be bothered by your problems.
But his son Dean…
Oh—no, excuse me.
His soldier, his “business associate,” his underling… that Dean.
He can help you with all of your problems.
He can kill all the monsters.
He can save your family from destruction.
He can keep Sammy safe.
He can… he can kill his brother.
He plays the message again.
“...If this is an emergency, call my son Dean: 785-555-0179. He can help."
Dean takes another sip, remembering Sam’s words when they burned the body.
“Did Dad say anything… about anything… before he…?”
“No.”
Dean plays the message again.
“...If this is an emergency, call my son Dean: 785-555-0179. He can help.”
When Dad had come to see him in his hospital room… Dean had almost believed for one instant, that he was receiving genuine care.
For a single moment, he had allowed himself to believe that his Dad was apologizing—apologizing for everything.
Apologizing for Dean growing up alone and unsupervised.
Apologizing for the fact that Dean went hungry—that he had to steal to feed his brother.
Apologizing for the fact that Dean had to be the strong one while everyone else fell apart—even John.
Apologizing for making Dean everyone’s emergency contact, his good soldier, Sammy’s “keeper.”
Apologizing for Flagstaff.
For a moment, his breath was stolen away by, “I’m proud of you,” And if he could’ve believed in that apology… everything—every last bit of wrong ever done to him would have been forgiven in a heartbeat.
“I put too much on your shoulders. I made you grow up too fast.”
Hearing those words… it was everything. It meant everything to Dean.
But apparently it meant nothing to John.
Dean jerks up out of the Impala, leaving his beer and his cell phone in the car, striding purposefully over to Bobby’s toolbox.
He pulls out a wrench and hunkers down to work on the tires.
John apologized for putting everything on his shoulders, and then threw the heaviest load he possibly could have on top of those shoulders almost in the same breath.
Dean’s knuckles turn white around the wrench in his hand as he uses it to uncouple the right rear tire, rage burning inside him, consuming him in a way it never has before.
He's absorbed enough that he almost doesn't notice when Sam steps out, stalking around behind him and leaning against the trunk.
Dean clenches his jaw, because ain't that just great? The last thing Dean wants right now is to commiserate with his brother who grew up hating their father and hear again about how suddenly their Dad never made a mistake as a parent. The very thought makes him sick.
My how the tables have turned.
“You were right,” Sam says simply.
The anger cools a little with surprise, and Dean pushes the rage back. “About what?” He asks almost evenly as he tosses the wrench he was using back towards Bobby’s tool bag, picks up the crowbar he needs next to help bend part of the body back into place.
“About me and Dad.” Sam sighs deeply when Dean doesn’t respond, shuffling uncomfortably. “I’m sorry that the last time I was with him, I tried to pick a fight. I’m sorry that I spent most of my life angry at him. I mean, for all I know, he died thinking I hate him.” His lower lip trembles. "So you’re right. What I’m doing right now—it is too little. It's too late."
There’s some sort of irony in this that a cruel, recently hardened part of Dean finds funny.
Sam spent his whole life screaming at John, and now all he wants to do is please him—get him back.
Dean spent his whole life trying to please John—get him to stay, and now all he wants to do is scream at him.
And for both of them… it’s too little, too late.
"I miss him, man.” Sam says, voice quivering, eyes bright with unshed tears. "And I feel guilty as hell. And I’m not alright… Not at all…” Sam looks him straight in the eye. "But neither are you. That much I know.” Sammy shuffles uncomfortably. “...I’ll let you get back to work.”
Dean watches as his little brother goes, as he wipes quickly at his eyes.
The dark, angry feeling that settled in him when he was dying in the passenger seat of the Impala, on the way to see a healer… It burns inside him now, bitter and full of rage, now louder than the intrusive thoughts that follow him.
Dean knows that if he wanted to… if he wanted to he could scream now. He could scream at John until his throat bled.
But it’s too little.
It’s too late.
John will never hear him scream, because John is dead.
The window of the blue car shatters, and it… it feels nice, but not nice enough.
His eyes rake over the Impala next.
Over the car that he has loved since he was a little boy.
Over the car that his father has loved for as long as he can remember.
Over the car that is as much a part of him as it is John.
He can’t scream at John.
This is the next best thing.
John probably cared more about this car than he did Dean.
He probably worried more about whether or not Dean was keeping the Impala oiled than he did over whether or not Dean was safe.
An absent, still-loyal part of Dean shouts at him that that can’t be true—that his father died for him.
The bigger, angrier part of Dean shouts back that no—John just ditched him again—this time more permanently. Left him to pick up the pieces once again. Left him to take care of all the emergencies, never thinking for a moment that Dean couldn’t do it alone.
That Dean would rather have his Dad just be there for him a thousand times over than…
The first blow is struck hard enough to break bones, the iron under Dean’s palms vibrating with it.
The second one leaves a dent that would rend flesh, that would put a hole in a body caving in from a shattered ribcage.
I hate you, Dean thinks.
I HATE you.
Dean has never mattered to John.
Dean has never been an emergency.
Dean has never been anything.