Chapter Text
Dean remembers being twelve. He was a scrawny kid who loved watching old movies after school. It was the closest thing to fun he had, especially since dad had decided by then that Dean could take good enough care of Sammy that he could leave Dean alone at shady motels for weeks on end.
He didn't mind it, and honestly, he thinks of that period of his life with awe. It was quiet and he didn't worry as much as he did when he was seven, and he didn't worry as much as he did at seventeen. His memories of that time are calm, and perhaps, that’s why he remembers them vividly.
One particular memory seems to be resurfacing more frequently recently. A dark room, another unnamed abode that they would leave in three weeks, greeted Dean and his father in Oregon. Dad had seemed to be hunting something new. Something he hadn't encountered before. John had seemed rattled, a little less concrete. Was it possible for his tall father to look smaller? Look as worn as Dean felt now? That night had been one of the first times Dean had noticed how his father was slowly chipping away—almost brittle in the darkness.
Dean had entered the motel room with Sammy's hand in his, a duffel bag on his shoulder. Routine. But John grabbed his empty palm, rough hands swatting him and Sam behind him as he jutted into the room with a gun at ready. It wasn't very unusual, nothing to do with guns was unusual to Dean. But it was John's desperation, the way he slid on quietly.
Gazing at the darkness with a shard of fear, a piece of worry that Dean thought didn't exist. John had turned the lights on, looked at the ceiling with something like dread. And then the very next moment, he lowered his gun, as if burying some old fear away. Locking it inside to become the father Dean knew.
It was as if his father was reliving something. Like when Dean would watch a movie he’d seen already, knowing the words and saying them before even the actors could. But maybe, his father was worried because the creature they were hunting was one that could have been waiting for them in this dark and empty room.
He had decided it was a worthwhile question to ask. If his father was worried the creature could find them in the random ramshackle room, then it was Dean's duty to keep a lookout.
He'd need all the facts, especially if Dad was going to leave him to take care of Sam.
"Dad, are you worried that the monster can come here? In this room?" Dean asked finally, after waiting for Sammy to fall asleep. It was almost twenty minutes past midnight when Sam finally closed the book he’d been reading and fell asleep.
At Dean’s question his father drew his eyes away from a local newspaper, with a soft smile, he said, "No, Dean. Whatever we're hunting is an outdoor creature, it's definitely not going to climb stairs and find it's way here,"
Dean nodded.
That was good, Sammy and he could be alone here while their father hunted. They'd only have to take the usual precautions, nothing more than some salt lines would be needed.
He should've let the matter drop at that, but Dean was cautious even back then. The way his father had reacted meant he was scared, or maybe just worried about something else. He didn't like the idea of something scaring his father.
If dad was worried, then Dean couldn't imagine how dangerous this creature was. That’s why despite knowing his father wouldn’t like to be asked twice, Dean sat down next to his father, his toes barely touching the floor. Keeping his posture straight, he asked again, “But you looked scared, dad. You looked up at the ceiling and pushed me and Sam behind you.”
For a moment, he didn’t make eye contact with his father, expecting his father’s anger. After all, he’d just said his dad looked scared, and dad never wanted to Dean to be weak so what would John think of Dean calling him scared?
He steadied his hands by keeping them stiffly on the table in front, when his father spoke, “Dean. You have nothing to worry about, it’s just that I sometimes see monsters everywhere,”
“Everywhere?”
“It’s not that simple to understand, Dean, but think of it like this,” John paused, “The first monster I ever saw is still out there, and until I find it, I’ll always think it’s comin’ for us.”
Dean swallowed and nodded. That didn’t sound too good, and now Dean felt even more worried, “Is it the monster that almost killed Sammy?”
He knew his voice was loud now, and his hands were shaking again so he hid them behind his back, folding them unnaturally. He almost said the “monster that killed mom” but even Dean knew that it was easier to call that monster the one that “almost killed Sammy”.
His father didn’t get up and console Dean, he barely nodded and looked up again. He didn’t stop staring at the small stain on the ceiling that night, and Dean went to bed without another word. Looking up, confused but determined never to bring it up again.
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Dean was twenty-six when he realized why his father’s eyes had been so haunted every time he looked up at those white ceilings. He saw that same haunted look when Sam went to bed every night.
This time Sam's empty eyes aren't a puzzle to Dean, so he doesn't ask. After all, he remembers the white-hot flames that blazed above Sam's head, a cloud of loss looming so close over his head. It doesn't take a genius to finally see.
Dean doesn't say anything this time around. There's nothing to say, except to see that John and Sam have had always had a little too much in common anyway.