Work Text:
It took a long time for John Winchester to burn.
It wasn’t their first pyre, wasn’t even their first pyre for someone they cared about. Once, when Dean was sixteen, he and Sam had built a pyre for Tim, one of Dad’s oldest hunting buddies, one of the first people Dean remembered at all, outside of Mom, Dad, and Sam. Dad’s back and chest were torn up by the same claws that punctured Tim’s heart, so Sam and he had been forced to do most of the heavy lifting.
Dad was still the one who lit the pyre, though.
Now, as Sam huddled as close to Dean as he dared--he always wanted to give Dean a hug, or wrap an arm around his shoulder when deep shit went down. Usually Dean let him, because he knew it made Sam feel better, and, maybe, he felt a little better too.
Tonight though, Sam seemed to know to stay away, as much as he could at least. Dean didn’t miss how Sam’s elbow accidentally brushed up against his arm every couple of minutes.
This was worse, so much worse than anything Dean could have imagined in his most panic-stricken nightmares, worse than watching a hunter buddy burn, worse than knowing they’d lost another, nameless civilian, worse even than Dad dying. God knows they’d come close enough before that Dean had wondered what Dad’s death would feel like.
Tonight was worse than anything else he could have imagined, not just because Dad was dead, not just because the demon was gone and apparently had the damned Colt, not just because they all knew Dean should be on that pyre.
No, tonight was the worst night because John’s words (his last order) were still ringing in his head, and Dean knew they would never stop hearing him.
Save Sam or kill him.
Dean wished he could just ignore the words, chalk it up to stress, or morphine, or his head not working right because a reaper had been after him just hours before, but this was Dad. Dad never misspoke. He never gave orders without a reason. He never made mistakes. He was never in the dark.
. . . Except with Sam.
Sam’s eyes were fixed on the burning pyre, his face glimmering a little with tears, and despite everything, Dad’s death, his brush with the afterlife, the looming threat of the demon, and the suddenly not-so hypothetical questions about Sam, despite all of that, all Dean could think about was how John Winchester never knew that Sam’s first kiss had been with Jayden Richards in Mississippi all those years ago.
It shouldn’t matter now. With Jessica, the demon, Dad, the ever darkening world around them, Sam would be the first to say that his teenage angst over his sexual preferences was too low to even register on either of their lists of concerns. Yet Dean couldn’t help but think of Jayden, of their glitter-themed prank wars, and of Sam’s cute, eager monologues about yet another perfect boy in whatever high school he was in that week.
It shouldn’t matter, didn’t matter. Dean didn’t know why he was thinking about it, why as the flames slowly shrank to embers, Dean couldn’t stop thinking about the only real secret he’d kept from his Father.
He wasn’t even sure how he felt that his Father never knew the truth about Sam’s love life. Triumphant? (Fuck you John Winchester, you don’t even know who Sam likes to be in bed with, how the hell would you know if he’ll turn evil?) Regretful? (Fuck you John Winchester, if only you’d really known who your son was, maybe you two could have had a real conversation) Pissed? (Fuck you John Winchester, if you spent ten minutes learning about your son instead of that damn demon, you’d know how dumb-ass stupid it is to think you’d ever have to kill him).
So Dean Winchester watched in silence as his father slowly turned to ash, thinking of all the things John Winchester never knew.