gone in the morning;
John Winchester/Dean Winchester, (Sam);
He’s gone. Gone. And Dean wants to cry, he wants to curl up and just blubber his torn little heart out. But he cant, he won’t- be strong, my boy, be strong with me. And so he sits, with empty bottles scattered about his feet and unshed tears in his eyes, waiting for his daddy to come home, to come home and just be home- I need you with me, dad; please, just stay with me, please. He’ll beg if he has to and John in drunk enough to comply as he stumbles in through the door, trips over his son’s curled up corpse of a body as he lies slumped and waiting by the front door.
John is cursing and Dean is whimpering as his father tugs him up with slippery fingers and they drag each other to a bed- any bed, the closest bed, Sammy’s bed- falling with sloppy-lipped kisses that aren’t supposed to mean anything- aren’t supposed to be there in the first place but somehow are- but they do.
Somehow it makes sense, and doesn’t, as they tug and kiss and touch to make the hurt go away- because he’s left, dammit. He left to be normal- whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean, why normal- why normal?- Dean wants to scream; he covers the sound of his keening cries by meshing his mouth with his father’s; tongue and teeth, this doesn’t have to be good,- feel and taste good,- just so long as it’s there, and here, and not gone- not like Sam; Sammy, you son-of-a-bitch, you-…
But this. This is- it’s enough to make the hurt go away. For a little while at least, if they’re lucky. If they’re good. If they drown themselves in alcohol and allow themselves to forget for even a little while that they’re all they have now (even if they’re not what they need).
They fall asleep before they’ve even managed to undress each other- mouths opened with loud snores and drool spots and the smell of booze and sweat heavy and stinking in the air. The garish brightness of sunlight stings their eyes in the morning, and they pretend like nothing happened. Nothing. Not a damn thing. And somehow it’s all his fault- all Sammy’s fault- for leaving, for not staying, for not being there with them anymore- Sammy, you bastard.
[ end. ]
[ written as part of Caspe-Wri-Mo ]