Sure Got a Dirty Mouth Chapter 47: Cat's in the Cradle

[justinedelarge]

Title: Sure Got a Dirty Mouth Chapter 47: Cat's in the Cradle
Author: justinedelarge
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Warning: Wincest
Word Count: 1500
Disclaimer: I don't own what I don't own. But I DO own the parts that I own, such as the original characters.
Summary: John faces the harsh truth about himself.

Bobby rubbed his eyes and hung up the phone. Another notebook filled with leads on Azazel and possible reasons he’d taken a chillingly personal interest in Sam Winchester. Nothing concrete or actionable.

He hadn’t seen John in hours, since he’d pushed him bodily out of the library and commanded him to get some sleep. “You’re no good to anyone half-dead from not taking care of yourself. Get some shut-eye. I’ll wake you if I hear anything.”

“Or if Sam calls.” John’s eyes were bloodshot.

“Or if Sam calls.” Bobby let his voice drop into the calm and soothing tone he used for abused strays and snot-nosed children.

Bobby poured two fingers of Gentleman Jack into a tumbler and walked slowly up the stairs favoring his right knee. He cracked John’s door open. He wasn’t inside.

Bobby dropped his head forward, closing his eyes, then turned and walked to the boys’ room

John sat on the bed leaning against the wall, a bottle of whiskey in one hand, a wooden plaque in the other. Dean’s football lay next to his hip.

“That doesn’t exactly look like sleeping to me,” Bobby muttered.

John closed his eyes for a moment and took another deep pull on the whiskey bottle. He breathed out, long and slow. “I was looking for photos of them. You know… just. I wanted to see them. But there aren’t any. A few of when they were little. I guess I never took pictures of them.”

Bobby adjusted his baseball cap. “I’ve got some in the den. I’ll get ‘em for you.”

John looked around the room at the possessions Sam and Dean had left behind. “Mary was always the one who took the photos. I guess I never… picked that up from her.”

“I took plenty when you’d drop ‘em off with me.”

John winced. He looked down at the plaque in his hand. “Sam used to do these… acting competitions.”

Bobby sighed and finished the whiskey in his glass in one gulp. “If you’re telling stories, I’m sitting down.” He pulled a chair up next to the bed, and extended his tumbler. John filled it halfway, hand moving clumsily, spilling some on the comforter.

“The kids would do scenes from plays and monologues. It was a big deal. You know?” John looked at Bobby. “All the high schools in the region competed. They’d drive there from all over. Stay overnight. The whole nine yards.” John traced the lettering on the front of the plaque. “Sam’s drama teacher invited him to go. He said he was going to do a monologue from Taps.”

“That one about the military boarding school?”

“George C. Scott. Yeah.”

“I love that movie.”

John took another drink. “He memorized the one where Tim Hutton is talking to his friend after the little boy got shot. Used to hear him practicing it when he thought we couldn’t hear him.” Sam in the garage, saying his lines: Were they just words? Honor, duty, country? I loved that man. Being in his presence made me feel privileged. But there had to be something missing in all that he taught us, or this wouldn't have happened.

Bobby just sipped the whiskey and let John talk.

“I gave him shit for it. ‘You don’t have time for that crap, Sam. You need to practice field stripping your weapon. Need to spar with your brother. Need to get your run in.’ I told him he couldn’t spare the time for something frivolous like that.” He shook his head. “I was always so hard on him.”

“Yeah.  You were.” Bobby’s voice wasn’t barbed with blame, intended to wound, but he didn’t lie to John. And that was the thing John valued most about Bobby. That and his dogged loyalty.

“He kept practicing, though.” John gave a little laugh. “So much like me. Stubborn to a fault.”

Sam in the folding camping chair, sorrow etched on his face, sorrow that should have been far outside his comprehension at that young age, as he practiced the monologue: When I knelt next to Charlie, I tried to find some justification. But honor doesn't count for shit when you're looking at a dead little boy.

“He snuck out, went to the competition anyway. I freaked out. Gave Dean holy hell for letting him go.” John’s face crumpled. “I was going to drive down there and drag his ass home, but Dean…” John rubbed his mouth. “Dean begged me. To let Sam have this one thing.” Dad, he’s really good at acting. I mean, really good. And it means so much, please, Dad, let him do this.

Bobby had to turn his face away.

“And when Sam came home, he was so proud. ‘Dad. I won!’ He had this plaque.” John traced the words on the front. “Outstanding Achievement in Acting—Monologue: Sam Winchester.” John’s voice cracked. “And I… he showed it to me, and I said, ‘While you were off play-acting, I cleared out a vamp’s nest. Saved a woman and her daughter. And I didn’t need an award for doing it.”

Sam’s face, so proud and happy, crumbling under the weight of the shame and disappointment and bitter anger. Dean’s face falling, the adoration of his father the hunter visibly eroded by his cruelty to his Sammy. Sam pelting up the stairs, Dean following behind slowly.

John took another deep pull at the bottle, and squeezed his eyes tightly shut, rocking in place. “Bobby. I’ve lost my boys.”

Bobby shook his head. “You haven’t lost them.”

John’s eyes flew open. His expression was anguished. “They hate me. I saw that in Sam’s face. He couldn’t stand to even look at me. And Dean too. He tried to hide it. But he hates me too. And…they’re right to.”

“John—“

“No. It’s the truth.” John looked down at the football. “Even before the… before. I was a terrible father. I just thought… there was so much more important work to do. I had to find the thing that killed my Mary. Had to kill the monsters. I’d go to their football games and plays and all that later. It just seemed so unimportant compared to the job. What we do. Who we are.” He traced the tips of his fingers over the seam of the football. “But none of that matters without my boys.” And suddenly John crumpled, as though whatever was holding him together was slashed away. Bobby managed to grab the whiskey bottle before it spilled all over the bed, and set it on the end table. John curled up on his side, clutching the football and the plaque, and simply broke down.

Bobby sat next to him, and put his hand awkwardly on John’s head. “There, there.” John gasped and sobbed in a full-on whiskey-fueled crying jag. Bobby stroked John’s hair. “Get it out. There you go.”

John cried like a man who had lost everything he ever loved. When he had cried himself dry, Bobby went to the bathroom and came back with a glass of water, a wet washcloth and a wad of toilet paper. “Blow your nose.” He shoved the paper at John. John obeyed. “Wipe your face.” John took the wet washcloth and wiped his eyes and face with it. Bobby gave him the glass of water and he drank it down. “Thank you,” he whispered. He looked at Bobby like he was his last hope. “I have to get them back. How can I get them back?”

Bobby saw the earnestness in John’s face, the resolve, the agony of his love for his sons whose love for him he’d so badly damaged. “The first thing you have to do is climb out of that whiskey bottle.”

John’s eyes went wide.

“You want to be a better father? A better man? Prove to them you deserve another chance? Quit drinking.” Bobby leaned forward. “It’s been a hell of a long time since Sam and Dean saw you sober on a regular basis.”

John let his head drop forward, the truth of it, the shame of it too great to bear. “You’re right.” He pulled himself up to a seated position. Sam, not knowing that John was watching him from the partly open door with tears in his eyes, delivering his monologue to the empty air: You don’t think of the Book of Remembrance or bugles or flags or gun salutes. All you think about…is what a neat little kid he was…and how you’re gonna miss him.

“I’ll do it. For them.” For Sam.

Bobby’s face creased into a giant smile—then the smile faltered.

“What? You…you don’t think I can?” John looked stricken.

“No, that ain’t it. I just realized that means I gotta quit drinking too.” Bobby looked at the bottle of whiskey mournfully. “Balls.”