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“Dea… Dean…na…” Dad huffs from the table. “ Deanna.”
Dean startles from his place, sprawled over the couch. He drops the remote. Dad hasn’t called him that in at least a few months. He cranes his head to see his dad hunched over a half-dozen books, some newspaper clippings, and other relevant papers.
“Dad?”
“Need your help with something.”
“Okay.”
It’s a translation, not a particularly hard one, but very tedious and mind-numbing. Dad has him working on that while he finishes up some research. This case has been hard on Dad. Whole families were slaughtered. More every day. He’s sure Yellow-Eyes has something to do with it. Demons and particular evils.
Dean finishes up before his dad. After looking it over, he chuckles.
“You’re smarter than you look, Deanna.”
Dean doesn’t know how to take that, so he just says, “Thanks.”
“Sorry, I…” Dad frowns. “Earlier. You don’t mind, do you?”
Dean isn’t stupid, no matter what anyone says. Dumb , sure, but not stupid. He tries for a small smile. “No, Dad. It’s okay.”
Dad places a gentle hand on Dean’s cheek. Dean stiffens. “Y’know, your mom was so happy when you were born. S’was… she knew right away what she wanted to call you.”
No words come out. Worse, Dad just keeps talking, “You’re just like your mom. You’re too good to me.”
Dean barely manages in his soft voice, “That’s my job, isn’t it? Take care of you and Sammy?”
An awful, wounded sound escapes his dad’s throat.
“I love you, princess,” Dad says, like his hair isn’t buzzed, like he doesn’t look like some hobo, swimming in his hand-me-down clothes, like he’s something beautiful and not just some fake. Maybe that’s why this doesn’t feel as bad as it should. The ugly feeling in his stomach isn’t disgust—it’s envy, for all the times his dad failed to see him as more than just an extension to his guns and knives. “Sorry you have to live like this. If only I…”
“Okay. Okay,” Dean repeats. He swallows. “It’s okay, I love you too, Dad.”
-
It’s not that Dad forgets , it’s more that he needs a little extra comfort. There are days where the grief of Mom’s death hits just that much harder and Dad needs him more than ever. Dean likes to pretend it’s an exercise in stealth, in improv, because he’s good at those. It feels good to be good at something. Especially after a rough hunt, after Dad’s been on his ass about every little thing.
Dean knows when these days come up whenever Dad starts being polite again, saying his please s and his thank you s after Dean does something for him. So, in return, Dean is extra nice back, not scowling or flinching at comparisons or stories about Mom in relation to him. Dean tries to smile a little more in hopes of keeping Dad’s attitude in check for as long as possible.
The change isn’t unwelcome, it’s just… uncomfortable at times. It’s those days, sometimes weeks, of Dad not forgetting, just— disregarding, that Dean loses more and more of himself by the hour, by every wistful look. Still, he gains something distant and fleeting too. He gains something familiar and nostalgic.
It’s a little manipulative, and at the end of it, Dean feels raw with the guilt, re-consumed by The Mission once Dad’s eyes harden on him again, but it’s…
If Dad’s going to take, Dean’s going to get a little something out of it too, at the very least.
He always makes sure it happens when the clock is nearing midnight and everything is put away and cleaned and Sam has long since passed out. When there is nothing to do but rest and Dad has finally begun to ease out the tension of this life they’re desperately trying to live. Dad approaches the fridge, Dean is about to turn in for bed—there is a science to this; a science Dean has perfected over the last two years.
“I love you, Dad.”
He says it with his full chest, doesn’t bother to try and lower the words, looks his dad dead in his weepy eyes. His heart breaks at the way Dad’s face falls, like a stone guardian cracking. Dad scrubs a hand over his face. Dean doesn’t want to know what hallucinations he’s feeding into tonight.
“I love you too, Deanna,” he chokes, one hand on the fridge handle.
Sam stopped saying I love you s to Dad when he turned ten. Dad stopped saying his to Dean after shoving a gun into his hands. He started answering Dean’s with quiet grunts soon after. Dean stopped altogether pretty soon after that.
There are brief nods, there is food on the table, there is a bed to sleep on, there are diner trips—there are no more words wasted in this family. Dean was the first to realize this in the year he went mute after their house burned down. Now, as a teenager, he doesn’t dwell on their lack of words.
Grateful revelation: This is the World of Man, in all its stubborn, stinky, bloody glory. Dean, in his lanky frame, his baggy jeans, swallowing flannel and jackets, he knows men, knows how to play them, better than any real boy could. He knows how to fit in, therefore, he is welcome. He does not complain, not like Sam, who gets away with literally everything.
After a moment where the two of them are just standing there, just looking at each other, Dean strides over. Slowly, he wraps his arms around his dad, tucking his head into his neck. Dad wraps his arms around him and Dean doesn't cry. Not at all. Not even when Dad pets the top of his head, rough fingers smoothing over the prickly, short hair.
It’s a tenderness Dad reserves for his only daughter, only for the days when he remembers Dean is that to him, only when Mary is missed more and more and he needs another reminder of her. Dean doesn’t mind. Not when it gets his dad’s eyes to soften at him, when he gets words that aren’t just barked at him, when he gets a hug at the end of a ruthless day.
Dad pats his back, easing out of the hug. He presses a soft kiss to the top of his head too—that doesn’t always happen—and Dean almost doesn’t let go. “You sleep well, sweetheart, alright? You’re gonna need it. Long day tomorrow.”
Dean nods and turns away. He heads to the bathroom, hearing the static of the TV crackling on. He hears bottles clinking, a deep sigh from Dad. He shuts the bathroom door and leans against it, slumping over his knees.
It’s a sniffle. Then, a watery cough that just keeps coming. Finally, the tears tearing apart the shortcomings of his dignity. It should feel worse, Dean thinks, being this thing he isn’t, just for his Dad, refusing himself for the comforts of everyone else, but it doesn’t. It doesn’t hurt—at least, not in any way that matters. It feels good to be needed, more than anything. It feels good to finally get something for his efforts.
Dean leaves the bathroom eventually, after brushing his teeth and not looking at himself in the mirror. He crawls into his bed, starchy fabric scratching his face, musty smell lulling him over. And just like those other nights, Dean lies awake, listening. Dad still has his beer, of course he does, but Dean listens and he knows, just like those other nights, tonight Dad only has one. Dean feels a heavy breath leave him, knowing he won’t have to deal with Blackout-Drunk Dad in the morning. This week will be better. Dean can make everything better. He always does. From the coming up short on extra cash, to defusing the bomb that is Pre-Teen Sam, Dean always knows what to do. He is his father’s daughter, after all.
Sometime from two am to three-thirty, Dad will find himself asleep on the couch. Dean will get up and put away the empty beer bottle, he’ll spare another weary glance at his father, he’ll watch Sam for another half-hour before he finally lets himself drift off.
It’s not that Dad forgets, in fact he remembers—Dean na is a good daughter, she’s his only daughter, and he’s her only father.
Dean is okay with that.