The jacket smells of old leather and the sweat and sulfur that comes with years of hunting Demons. It's still big on him even now, and he remembers how big John purposefully kept it so he could hide a whole freaking army of weapons in its folds. He remembers his father sneaking something out of the inside pockets of his jacket many times, but rare are the memories he has of being folded into that jacket, his dad's arms almost crushing him. Indeed, except for the times John had feared he'd lost him and his little brother, he hardly ever hugged him.
But when he slips into his father's jacket, Dean can still feel his arms wrapping around him. The man was always a pain in the ass, but somehow, every time he put his arms around him, he felt safe and secure despite knowing he wasn't. His childhood, his very life, have never been secure. His life still isn't today, and his childhood, what little there was of it, is long gone.
He doesn't bring out his dad's jacket very often, but there are times, like tonight, that he needs to remember despite the pain that comes with his memories. There are times, like tonight, when he wants to remember his dad and Bobby and the makeshift family they had. There are times, like tonight, when he just wants to shut his eyes, ignore all the bad, and remember only the good. There are times, like tonight, when he yearns to again his father's arms around him and remember what love he held for him.
He's told himself before that John loved him, that he only needed him to protect Sammy, but older now and wiser, too, Dean realizes those were always lies. His father did love him; he just didn't know how to show it. He was far too busy tracking down the yellow eyed Demon who killed his wife to remember to also being a father to the boys who were left behind.
Dean's hand clench into fists against the grungy, hotel bed. His childhood is a long string of memories of being left behind, but he never let himself, and specifically Sammy, be left behind for long. There were many times his father pulled them out of messes Dean had allowed them to get into by just wanting to be a normal teenager, but there were times, too, when he'd pulled his father out of places he'd had no business being with young boys to raise.
He slings back whiskey, enjoys the burn of the liquor on his tongue and down his pipes, and shoves away the memories of going into bars hunting his dad. He doesn't want to remember those times. He wants to remember the good. He misses his father, and today was his birthday after all.
He hears the shower stop running and looks up as Sam walks into their bedroom. He still has one towel wrapped around his waist and is using his second to dry his shaggy, brown hair. Dean grins at him from around the mouth of his bottle. He notes how Sam's eyes widen slightly as he sees their father's jacket hanging on Dean's frame and slowly puts his bottle down. Sam drops the one towel after finishing his hair and crawls into bed beside Dean without bothering to get dressed.
Dean's arms wrap around him in a way his father's never did. Their dad tried hard, both boys know, but he was never the father they needed. Dean tried to be the father Sammy needed and deserved, but he was just too young and there were too many temptations on the road for a young boy like him to become involved with. He needed to be young, but he had never really been a child after their mother had been killed. Life, and their father, had never let him.
Dean/Sam: Winchester Memories 1/2
Contains (W)Incest
The jacket smells of old leather and the sweat and sulfur that comes with years of hunting Demons. It's still big on him even now, and he remembers how big John purposefully kept it so he could hide a whole freaking army of weapons in its folds. He remembers his father sneaking something out of the inside pockets of his jacket many times, but rare are the memories he has of being folded into that jacket, his dad's arms almost crushing him. Indeed, except for the times John had feared he'd lost him and his little brother, he hardly ever hugged him.
But when he slips into his father's jacket, Dean can still feel his arms wrapping around him. The man was always a pain in the ass, but somehow, every time he put his arms around him, he felt safe and secure despite knowing he wasn't. His childhood, his very life, have never been secure. His life still isn't today, and his childhood, what little there was of it, is long gone.
He doesn't bring out his dad's jacket very often, but there are times, like tonight, that he needs to remember despite the pain that comes with his memories. There are times, like tonight, when he wants to remember his dad and Bobby and the makeshift family they had. There are times, like tonight, when he just wants to shut his eyes, ignore all the bad, and remember only the good. There are times, like tonight, when he yearns to again his father's arms around him and remember what love he held for him.
He's told himself before that John loved him, that he only needed him to protect Sammy, but older now and wiser, too, Dean realizes those were always lies. His father did love him; he just didn't know how to show it. He was far too busy tracking down the yellow eyed Demon who killed his wife to remember to also being a father to the boys who were left behind.
Dean's hand clench into fists against the grungy, hotel bed. His childhood is a long string of memories of being left behind, but he never let himself, and specifically Sammy, be left behind for long. There were many times his father pulled them out of messes Dean had allowed them to get into by just wanting to be a normal teenager, but there were times, too, when he'd pulled his father out of places he'd had no business being with young boys to raise.
He slings back whiskey, enjoys the burn of the liquor on his tongue and down his pipes, and shoves away the memories of going into bars hunting his dad. He doesn't want to remember those times. He wants to remember the good. He misses his father, and today was his birthday after all.
He hears the shower stop running and looks up as Sam walks into their bedroom. He still has one towel wrapped around his waist and is using his second to dry his shaggy, brown hair. Dean grins at him from around the mouth of his bottle. He notes how Sam's eyes widen slightly as he sees their father's jacket hanging on Dean's frame and slowly puts his bottle down. Sam drops the one towel after finishing his hair and crawls into bed beside Dean without bothering to get dressed.
Dean's arms wrap around him in a way his father's never did. Their dad tried hard, both boys know, but he was never the father they needed. Dean tried to be the father Sammy needed and deserved, but he was just too young and there were too many temptations on the road for a young boy like him to become involved with. He needed to be young, but he had never really been a child after their mother had been killed. Life, and their father, had never let him.