Title: Monday: doesn’t it explain, doesn’t it?
Pairing(s): Dean/Sam; Dean/John.
Warning(s): Incest (Wincest); Sexual Situations.
Word Count: 1020
Summary: No Spoilers. Dean copes with Sam’s leaving, or rather he doesn’t cope. Good thing his father is around to try and pick up his pieces.
A/N: Unbetad. To anyone who spots the Tegan and Sarah lyrics interwoven into this piece- you get cookies.
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Monday: doesn’t it explain, doesn’t it?
“What’s wrong with you?” Asks the father to the son.
“Monday.” Comes the reply, smoke curling grey from smirk-twisted lips as fingers drum a drummity-drum beat on the steering wheel, a flick of ash falling to a jean-clad thigh, carelessly brushed to the floor of the impala before it can settle and burn and he laughs suddenly.
“Monday!” He laughs again, louder, like it’s some big joke only he has heard and knows the punch line to.
“Monday.” The father repeats the word, again, again, his voice a grumble of ignorance as he reaches over and plucks the half-smoked cigarette from his son’s fingers and puts the butt to his lips and inhales, holds in a cough till his eyes water and Dean is laughing harder and he is trying not to until he’s choking and coughing and laughing and he can’t breath and Dean can’t breathe and there are tears in their eyes and they don’t know why, but they’re laughing, laughing and that’s all that matters- all that matters, now; because it’s Monday.
“Where do you go when you’re broken?” Asks the son to his father as they sit slumped on rickety bar stools in some run down shack that has the audacity to call itself a pub, selling horse piss as bear and charging obscene prices for the peanuts Dean likes to crush with the bottom of his half-emptied glass-
(because everyone knows, you don’t eat the peanuts)
-looking into the swirl of beer as if it holds all the answers he will ever have questions to.
“I don’t know, son.” Comes the reply, John’s picking at a hangnail, leaning worryingly to one side and laughing at something only he is privy to the funny side of. The bartender is a portly man with a dirty rag and a greasy comb-over- he watches them with beady eyes, John can taste the suspicion in the air and it makes him grin, makes his heart beat faster and the thrum of alcohol in his blood soar. He slings an arm around Dean’s shoulders, hugs his son to his chest and rumbles in a deep voice-
“Let the good go.”
-and Dean twists and stares and his eyes are wide and glazy and forlorn.
Where do you go when you’re leftover and useless, unneeded now- the good gone and you’re left to rot in the dark?
Nowhere, son, you just pick up the pieces of your own heart and keep on breathing. That’s the trick, don’t you know- just keep breathing.
“Just breathe.” John says, one hand on Dean’s shoulder as his son hurls that horse-piss right back up, christening the toilet of their motel room with bouts of dry-heaving and liquid sickness till he’s shaking and pushing back, slumping to the floor with a moan, stomach cramping till he can forget with a sigh as his father presses a cold flannel to his face and props him up, plying him with water and painkillers. He really should eat something first, he knows, but that would be sensible and he just wants to sleep.
John’s fingers are running through his sweat-dampened hair, stroking, soothing. Dean likes it- mumbles incoherently into his father’s chest as John lifts him and drags him to bed- strips and tucks him in.
The lingering press of lips to the side of his mouth has him smiling in the dark. He whispers another’s name as John wishes him a goodnight.
“I love you,” Says the brother to his brother as he leans against Dean’s car, hands shoved into deep pockets, his shoulders drooping into a half-hearted shrug as he doesn’t quite meet his brother’s eyes.
“I love you but I just can’t stay.” Sam smiles lopsidedly at him, his eyes large and beseeching. That flop of hair that falls into his face gives him a look of such young innocence that Dean almost feels bad for trying to keep him caged. Keep him close. Almost.
“Fuck you, Sammy.” He curses, kicking at dirt and pulling a battered pack of cigarettes from his jacket. He won’t look at Sam, can’t really. Not until Sam’s arms are around him and there are sweet-soft kisses being pressed to his neck, the tick in his temple eased as Sam circles him- hot mouth pressing to his on an exhale and there is smoke between them, and tongue and Dean forgets for a moment that his brother is leaving. His brother. His brother.
It’s Monday. Dean isn’t there when the bus comes to pick Sam up, to take him away. He’s left an hour ago; burning wheels and fury, smoke rising and he’s driving like Satan himself is after him.
Bye, Sammy, Sam-Sam, Sam…
“What’s so bad about, Mondays?” John wants to know but Dean won’t tell him. They’ve pulled over, parked the impala to the side of this empty road as they stretch their legs and empty their bladders- Dean is in one of his surly-go-lucky moods. It irritates John something awful.
Dean is moping, leaning against the hood as his father finishes up and jogs on over. There are tears-unshed in his eyes and John knows they will never be allowed to fall. Never.
“It’s all about Sam, isn’t it?” And Dean can only nod, there is acrimony in the air between them, and it’s so very bittersweet when Dean all but crawls into his waiting arms and burrows his face against his neck. There is musk and sweat and man between them and Dean tastes so very good to his parched lips as their mouths meet in a dusty kiss and they make it all better. All better.
Dean looks so very debauched and shameless as John takes him over the hood: his son’s hand fisting-sweat into nothing, scrabbling for purchase as he is rocked and pounded and he can only moan-
(sir, yes sir, please dad- yes, yes!)
-it’s the only way to let it all go and forget, for a little bit, for a little while.
Dean remembers to call his father’s name when he comes.
John knows Dean is thinking about his brother.
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