Like Father

Like Father

Like Father

For Ethan

The only boy who's ever looked sexy…

in suspenders.

John peels the tops off of a beer bottle, tipping the cold liquid into his throat. At Dean's look, he reaches into the cooler at his feet and tosses his son a bottle. Dean arches his eyebrows. "I was hoping for something more along the lines of, say…a beer."

But John simply props his feet up on the table and leans backwards. "No alcohol while you're on watch," is the reason he gives-but they both know that he really wants Dean to remain cohesive so that he won't forget tonight, so that he'll have to feel every emotion that the mission wrought on his tired heart. Perhaps other would see this as cruel; but John knows that the sooner you allow yourself to numb, the longer you must live in this condition.

He learned that lesson the hard way.

"Then why are you drinking?"

John tips a light toast, gulping down the beer with pleasure. "I'm not on watch."

Dean doesn't argue, simply pushes the soda away and opts to remain thirsty. John conceals a sigh; his mind flashes back to the preceding week-to the ten dead children, to the demon's fist expunging all signs of health from Dean's face and neck, to that rip of despair as Dean had closed his eyes and waited, almost readily, for death.

"Let's not tell your brother about this one," he suggests, and Dean snorts in disgust.

"As opposed to all the others that we tell Sammy," his son mutters to himself as he shakily rakes a hand through his hair. At a look from his father, Dean rolls his eyes. "You don't need to say it anymore, Dad, I know, okay? I know which ones to sweep under the rug."

John thinks of Sam-at school, in a committed relationship, successful. Happy. Four adjectives that will never describe Dean; Dean, who was chosen to follow his father's path; Dean, the sacrificial lamb.

He knows better than anybody that too much has happened to ever patch things up with his oldest son; he had hoped, selfishly perhaps, that Sam would be more forgiving. Sam, whom he has always kept shielded. Sam, whom remains to this day sheltered from the worst of the dangers and demons that Dean is exposed to.

He looks across the table at an expressionless Dean. So similar. His son would deny this truth, but they are more alike every day. Fearless, confident, driven, on-their-feet thinkers . . .

Alone, angry, repressed, and secretly praying for the end.

Like father like son.

Such is the life he has chosen for this son. It is a double-edged sword, and John has pressed it through Dean's chest without a second thought because he can't save the world and look after Sam at the same time; he needs someone, anyone, and Dean is more than capable.

"Dad?" Dean leans in, squinting as he studies the older man. "You okay?"

John manages a flat grin. "I'm fine, son. Just thinking."

For a second, neither speaks. "About Sam?" Dean asks then, and his voice is small. John wants to tell him no, that he was remembering the sight of his son, his best and only friend, on his knees as his blood stained the floor. Wants to give him what Dean is looking for - no, son, about you.

But the booze and his half-pissed mind answer, "Yes. Sam."

There are words that he wants to add. He almost says, "I know that you're the good son." He almost says, "I'm so grateful for what you've given up for me, for Sam."

He almost says, "It's not your fault that I love him more. It's just that I've always wanted what I can't have."

But he says none of this. One look at Dean, and he knows he doesn't have to.

This, John thinks, is the truly tragic thing.