mickeym | New Fic: [ In Thine Eyes ]

Title: In Thine Eyes
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~2600
Spoilers: Very vague for S1; takes place between Dead Man's Blood and Salvation
Warnings: Incest
Disclaimer: I don't own them; that honor belongs to Kripke, et al.
Notes: I originally meant this to be for

destina, for her birthday. Then I didn't get it done in time, and then it didn't end up being what I'd originally planned. So, um, Des, I'll try again :) Many thanks to

pierson,

synecdochic,

nu_breed and

poetdiva28 for reassurance and handholding, and huge thanks and kudos to

janissa11 for the fantastic beta. *hugs* I hope y'all enjoy the story.

Summary: John makes a discovery he really didn't want.

It's quiet out; John doesn't know how long he's been out here, walking aimlessly around the mostly empty motel, circling the building over and over, trying to work off some of the restless tension knotted inside him.

It's good to be back with his boys, but there's fear lurking in him that he can't push down completely. Fear of the fight to come. Fear of losing his boys. Fear of failing--them, himself, Mary. John doesn't pray very often; he lost his hope and belief the day Mary died. But he finds himself fingering the rosary beads in his pocket, brief snatches of prayers and half-formed thoughts skittering through his mind. He comes back to one, over and over, and lets it go.

Just let them be safe. Please...keep my boys safe.

Something rustles in the wooded area out beyond the dimly lit parking lot, probably a raccoon or possum shuffling through the underbrush, and John blinks back to awareness. It's getting late; a glance at his watch shows it's past ten, and when the clouds draw away, pushed by the slight breeze, the moon shines down brightly. Nights like this, quiet and soft, John could close his eyes and imagine he's on a porch swing, Mary finishing up tucking the boys in. She would join him, snuggling up close, body sweet and warm against his.

Soon. It'll all be over soon, and maybe then he can rest, just a little bit.

That's the thought that carries him back to the motel room, gentle breeze bracketing him, blowing the hair lying against the back of his neck.

The curtains are partially open in the window to his room, and John pauses to look inside, getting used to the feel of knowing someone else is in there all over again.

If he thinks about it, John might say he figured he'd see Sam sprawled across one bed, and Dean across the other, either asleep or watching TV.

What he actually sees, in flashes from the flickering light from the television, is Dean sitting up against the headboard of one bed, with Sam kneeling over him, leaning in toward him, head angled down.

It isn't until John focuses, sees Dean's hands slide from Sam's waist up under his shirt, that he really realizes what he's seeing. Focusing is a mistake; it allows him to see other details, like Sam's hands cupping -- cradling -- Dean's face. The soft way they seem to blend together. Fit together.

He blinks, then blinks again; shuts his eyes for a moment or two, hoping the images will change when he looks again. They don't; his boys are still--

Jesus. They're kissing.

It's not a flying-by-the-seat-of-your-pants impulsive-moment kiss, either. This, what he sees, what he's watching, is different. It's the slow, deep kind of kiss you share with someone you love. Someone you're in love with. The kind of kiss you share when you've shared it before, when you've spent time learning the taste and feel of someone.

John knows what those kisses look and feel like; he shared them with Mary.

And now his boys...his sons....

He watches, frozen in place, as the kiss deepens, their body language screaming familiarity, need, and love. Dean pushes Sam's shirt upward as they kiss, exposing the clean line of Sam's back. There's a muffled sound, barely audible through the partially-open window, and John takes a step back as Sam draws away from Dean to pull his shirt up and off. There's another low sound, and John hears "Dad" and "shouldn't," though he can't tell who said it.

There's a long moment when his sons hold still, forehead to forehead, no movement beyond one of Dean's fingers rubbing lightly at Sam's shoulder. It doesn't last, though; Sam ducks his head once more, large hands holding Dean's head like it's something precious, and then Sam lies back, pulling Dean with him, mouths moving against each other.

John turns away from the window, away from his boys, his stomach churning with sour heat.

~~~~~

It's still quiet out, though the air hangs heavier than it did earlier. It mutes the sound of the truck door shutting, when John grabs the bottle of whiskey he keeps stashed behind the passenger seat.

The moon is playing peek-a-boo with the clouds, casting streaks of light with streaks of shadow all over the ground; silent beauty that hides death.

Once upon a time, John loved the night. Camping in the woods with his dad and uncle during the summer, hayrides and bonfires in the fall, hell, even night-fire exercises when he was at Lejeune.

Nighttime was when he and Mary made love under blankets in their bed, or sometimes out under the stars, in the backyard. He can still picture her with those same streaks of moonlight and shadow sliding over her body.

Nighttime was when he walked a squalling newborn Dean, colicky almost from day one and impossible to soothe. When he took baby duty so Mary could snatch a couple hours of sleep, worn out from too little rest, and nursing, and housework, for far too long. Later, when he would take Dean on his lap and read him bedtime stories.

Later still, when he and Dean would tuck Sam in together, and then go on to Dean's room to read and wait for Mommy to come in.

John hasn't liked nighttime since the night it took Mary away from him, and he misses that, that innocence, almost as much as he misses Mary.

He feels like he lost the last, remaining piece of innocence he had, tonight.

The whiskey burns going down; it's the only heat he feels inside himself at the moment.

~~~~~

John slips silently into the room, then stands there in the shadows, looking. Observing.

At first he thinks they're both asleep. Dean's still leaning up against the headboard, body relaxed and loose. Sam's curled up beside him, head resting against Dean's leg. If it weren't for what John saw an hour or two ago, he would think it was just another night, his boys crashed out on a bed. Except he did see it, and now that he looks, he sees Dean has one hand tangled in Sam's hair, his fingers curled, stroking gently through the tangles.

Soothing. Comforting.

When he forces his eyes away from that, back up to Dean's face, John isn't surprised to see his eldest son looking at him. Watching him, gaze steady and even.

The words come out before John realizes he's going to say anything, and he's surprised by the rasp in his voice. "How long?"

Dean shifts on the bed and Sam sighs in his sleep. "Dad--"

"I saw you, Dean. Earlier. Now. How.Long." He can't keep the anger from his voice; doesn't even try.

There's a slight movement, like Dean's shrugging. The motion is awkward, uneven; John thinks maybe Dean's trying to not wake Sam up. When he speaks, his voice is pitched low, almost soft. "Couple of months, maybe a little longer." He hesitates, then adds, "You weren't--. We didn't mean for you to see."

There's something else there, something unspoken that makes the hair on the back of John's neck rise, but he ignores it. Tries to ignore it, and the burn in his stomach, the flare of icy heat that screams wrong and stop them, stop it, what would Mary say?.

Dean might be trying to be quiet, to let Sam sleep, but John can't. Won't. The words come out loud, angry, full of indignation.

"It's wrong, Dean. He's--you're brothers, for Chrissake. How could you even let something like this start?" The anger lies along his skin like a layer of ice, burning deep inside him. "It's wrong, and it's--it's sick."

"No. It's not." Sam's voice is rough with sleep, but the words are clear.

John takes several steps further into the room, flipping the switch on the small lamp as he goes by. He'll be damned if he does this in the dark. He's not the one who should be hiding his face. He stares at both boys; watches Sam shift and sit up, though he doesn't move away from Dean.

"Excuse me?"

Dean opens his mouth, but Sam beats him to it, mouth curving into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "I said no, Dad. It's not wrong. Not for us." He glances at Dean, once, then back at John, eyes hot. "It's about the only thing that's right in this fucked up mess we've got going on here. Sir."

It's amazing, in a twisted way, how much sarcasm Sam packs into that one small word.

"Sam--" John drops into the nearest chair, glad it's there, actually, because he thinks he might've just landed on his ass otherwise, since his legs are buckling under him. He rubs one hand over his face, wondering where he went wrong. What he did or didn't do that led his boys here, to this. Not for us. The hell did that mean, anyway?

"What's wrong with you--with the two of you? You don't--do this. You don't, brothers aren't supposed to…fuck each other." The word is hot and bitter on his tongue, and John regrets saying it the minute it's out, because now his mind can fill in the blanks he'd been ignoring.

"It's more than fucking each other," Sam says calmly, though his voice is tight. He's shifted away from Dean just a little; they're not touching now, just sitting side-by-side on the edge of the bed, like it's any ordinary night. But there's something palpable there. It practically shimmers in the space between them. "And it's no one's business but ours."

"What the hell else could it be?" Even to his own ears John sounds bewildered, and he catches a look between Sam and Dean, a look that makes him feel ashamed and confused, which makes him angry all over again, because if anyone should be ashamed, it sure as hell isn't him.

Some of that must show in the way he watches them, because Dean meets his eyes before looking sideways at Sam, like he's deferring to him. It strikes John then that while his eldest son is not afraid to face anything head-on, he's clearly out of his element here.

It makes sense, because Dean has always pushed down his emotions; shoved them to the side the way John tried to teach both boys. Emotions were dangerous and would only hold them down, create problems for them. He loves his boys, and he knows they love him. But the words don't get spoken except on rare occasions, and even then, seldom do they say 'I love you' -- any of them.

Sam studies him for a minute, mouth twisted into a frown. "It's knowing--we're not alone. That someone else gets it."

"Gets--it?" It's been a long time since John felt slow and stupid like this, and he doesn't like it. Resents that it's his boys creating this feeling in him. "What is there to get?"

Sam hisses faintly, impatience bleeding out of him. "All of this," he gestures, taking in him, Dean, John, the weapons strewn about, and the scraps of paper and books and maps all around them. "Sewing up a stab wound, or a cut. Or the hours of research, only to have something dead end. The stench of rotting bodies. Never knowing what's going to jump out at you, or if the next time you do a job might be the last time you see--" He cuts himself off, and John closes his eyes when Sam leans a little toward Dean.

Yesterday, he wouldn't have thought twice about it. His boys have always been close to each other, relied on each other; John spent their lives drilling into them that family -- the three of them -- was all they could depend on.

Now he sees other things in that tiny gesture; imagines so much in what he doesn't see.

There's a noise, a snort, and John opens his eyes to see Dean staring at him. "We're not gonna--" Dean licks his lips, and sighs. "You weren't supposed to see anything. Or know. It's not like we're walking around holding hands or shit like that. We're not gonna shove it in your face." His face tightens, mouth drawing down in a frown that matches the one his brother's wearing. "We've spent most of the last year with no one but each other, Dad. Most of that time, in between jobs, we were chasing a cold trail trying to find you, and Sam was dealing with his shit, and I almost died--and it just. He's always there. I'm always there. I dunno, it just works." Dean shrugs again, a careless gesture, but his eyes show fear, need, uncertainty.

It just works.

"I can't--this isn't anything I'm ever going to be okay with," John says slowly, the words painful to form, to push out. "I can't, boys. Do you understand?" He stands up to pace from the small desk to the bathroom door, and back again. "Whatever you say, about how or why it started or that it works for you, it's. It goes against everything -- everything -- I was ever told or taught."

The anger from earlier rolls through him, mixing with sadness, with his own sense of uncertainty and failure. It's a roiling, unsettled ball in his stomach, and John wishes he could treat it like he'd treat too much to drink: throw it up, swallow some aspirin, and move on.

"I still--" He stops for a minute, eyes moving from Dean, to Sam, and back to Dean. Both boys are standing now, shoulder-to-shoulder; Dean looks vulnerable, and Sam looks grim. Ready to do battle, if necessary. John shakes his head. "You're my boys. I love you; I'll always love you. But I can't--see you together. Like that. I can't."

Dean nods; Sam is slower, hesitating like he's still expecting John to throw a punch at one or both of them. "What're you saying, Dad?"

What is he saying? John sighs, feeling every one of his years, and then some, and sits down on the side of the other bed. "Just be brothers. Okay? Nothing more, while we're. While I'm around."

"Not a problem," Sam says, Dean echoing the words. Then Sam is right in front of him, and John's too tired to fight about anything with him, especially this; opens his mouth to tell Sam that, barely stopping the words when he realizes Sam's talking. "…never meant to hurt you. You really weren't--supposed to find out."

He blows out a breath, glancing up to see Dean standing still, face still young and vulnerable, like he's waiting for John to change his mind, to yell or throw them -- him -- out. He smiles at both boys, but talks to Dean. Sam will do what he thinks he needs to do and never mind what John thinks, but not Dean.

"I know," he says, voice as gentle as he can manage. "It's--It'll be okay. We'll be okay."

It's worth the bitter taste in his mouth to see Dean relax a little, tension disappearing from his shoulders.

John doesn't have a clue in the world how they'll be okay; he's never going to be able to accept that his sons are lovers. But one battle at a time. First the demon, then they'll worry about the rest of this. He stands up, heading for the phone to call the office and ask for a rollaway bed.

One battle at a time.

"Let's get some rest, boys. We got a lot of planning and prep to do in the morning."

Their voices chime in together, "Yes, Sir," and John can almost pretend nothing's different. Just another night, getting ready for another hunt.

~fin~