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Thinking about a version of John who maybe sought out relaxation and/or an escape in weed during Vietnam, and never really had to drop it completely because Mary’s hippie van wanting ass definitely didn’t care. After Mary’s death, John smoked less frequently because it brought up thoughts of her, and alcohol had his full attention for the time being. But when Dean is 17, and back from his first solo hunt, and is clearly having an anxiety attack, John has some on him. And he thinks that maybe the kid could use the help coming down from this. Or at least a distraction.
Dean is sort of just anxiously rambling to him about the hunt at this point, so he just cuts him off. “Hey, I’ll be right back. Stay here.” So he walks off to ruffle through his bag to get it. Dean’s eyes widen a bit when he sees what John has, but John just sighs. “C’mon.” He leads the way out onto the balcony of the slightly nicer hotel room they’re staying in (he figured the hunt would affect Dean at least a little bit, so there was no harm in splurging on the extra comfort and security) and takes the only seat at the tiny ass table that’s out there to roll them a joint. Dean is standing in the doorway awkwardly, beneath the motion activated light that illuminates the balcony in the night. He’s still breathing a little hard and his eyes flicking around nervously, but his gaze eventually focuses on the motion of John’s hands. Anyone else would think that maybe he was trying to remember this for future reference. But between Dean and God, he was really just interested in the familiar sight of his dad’s steady fingers.
John brings the joint up to his mouth, and inhales as he lights up with a black Bic. He holds for a moment, then exhales, and reaches to hand it to Dean. “Have you ever smoked before? Cigarettes, anything I don’t know about?”
The poor boy is still shaking as he takes it from John. “No, sir.”
“Good. God, I’m glad to hear it. Now, wrap your lips around it. Not too tight, leave a little room for air to pass through. And breathe in. Then hold it for a minute.”
Dean thinks he does what he was told. He even tries for a second hit. But john can tell just from looking that he’s not really inhaling, he’s just holding it in his throat. “You feelin’ anything?”
“Uh. Not really.” Dean flushes, seemingly embarrassed about it.
John chuckles. “That’s what I thought. Try again. And, uh, suck on it, Dean.” He takes what John said a bit too literally, and he sucks on the damn joint. He immediately pulls off, coughing a lung up in the process. John jerks it from his hand. “God damn it, Dean. Look, just—” he lightheartedly sighs, “Come here.” Dean looks at him like he’s off his rocker, and John snorts. (Well, at least one of them is feeling it.) “Would you quit that? Get over here. Closer.”
So Dean hesitantly shuffles up closer to John. “This is called shotgunning. I’m gonna take a hit, and then I’m gonna blow it into your mouth.” Dean somehow manages to pale even further, despite already being white as a sheet from the anxiety attack. Then his face goes red again. “It should make this easier. And all you have to do is breathe. I would hope you can at least do that. Okay?”
“…Yes, sir.” So john takes a hit, and holds it in until he gestures for Dean to lean down to him. His right hand holds the joint, resting on his leg, and his left comes up to cup the side of Dean’s face. When John gently blows the smoke to Dean’s mouth, the personal space is nonexistent. Their noses are nearly touching, and the eye contact is tense enough to kill him. He’s more than thankful that as Dean inhales, his eyes flutter shut. He can feel dean’s jaw relax in his grip.
John smiles softly, full of unspoken affection. “Any better?”
Dean opens his eyes, and that fear that was buzzing behind them earlier is gone. His voice is almost a whisper. “Yeah.”
And they repeat the process. With dean looking like this, getting more and more pliant and giggly each second, John himself is feeling loose. Like the substance, or maybe the kid in front of him, has temporarily taken that drill sergeant attitude out of him. He’s feeling like a person, like just some regular dude, for the first time in a long while. So if Dean slips down to straddle John’s lap for the next hit, who is he to complain? Somewhere in between one exhale and the next inhale, his left hand has slinked around to sit at the small of Dean’s back. But he doesn’t think to move it. He’s too absorbed by his son sitting on his thighs, with his hands on his shoulders. He goes to blow out again, and maybe Dean’s arm has slipped or something, because the next thing he knows, Dean’s lips are on his. After years of doing this with Mary, he kisses back on instinct. John thinks that’s why he does it. But either way, Dean is kissing him between sucking in the smoke in little breaths. And they both groan into it. And maybe John’s brain is more than a little foggy, because he doesn’t stop. He just pauses for one more inhale, and reaches past Dean to put it out in the ash tray. But he comes right back to him, maybe even a little more involved than before. Dean gasps when John goes to deepen the kiss. He licks into Dean’s mouth, and marvels at the feeling of his boy’s tongue against his own. This is just to make sure Dean is really getting the smoke in him, right? Just to make it easier? That’s what it was at one point, anyways. But Dean is moving into that calmer, sleepier side of being high. So John eventually pulls away. And Dean just looks at him. Just lazily stares. Until John pulls him rest against his shoulder. And Dean lets him.
And maybe they just stay like that for a bit. John holds Dean until he dozes off. For the first time in years, he carries Dean to bed. His own bed, so as not to wake Sammy, who has been out for a few hours now. Yeah, that’s why he does it.