The Father We Never Found by Epigone (PG-13)

[brynnmck.livejournal.com]

Fandom: SUPERNATURAL
Pairing: none (gen)
Length: 5700 words
Author on LJ: likethesun2
Author Website: Epigone's full-length fic on LJ
Why this must be read:

I still think that the end of S1/beginning of S2 was the most powerful emotional arc of the road so far, and this story makes beautiful use of that. Canon dealt wonderfully with the aftermath of John's death, but I love this version, too; this is Sam and Dean in the hours afterward, trying to figure out what the hell they're supposed to do now. Epigone makes excellent use of the painful mundanities that families have to deal with after a death, and the boys are of course very busy not saying what they're feeling, but the confusion and anger and regret and depth of grief are all right there under the surface, waiting. And John gets his due, too, flawed and fucked-up but loving his boys so much, even when he doesn't have a clue what to do. I particularly love the role Sam takes in this story, keeping life moving when Dean just can't quite yet; it's a gorgeous balance between them, a subtle shifting of roles, and it's something I wish the show had stuck with a bit longer. It's a quietly beautiful portrait of all the characters.

An excerpt:

Low and flat, Dean says, “I dunno what you’re gettin’ at, Doc. Like you said, it was a mortar fragment. And you can’t get a Purple Heart for, y’know.” His back is to them, but they can see him cross his arms over his chest. “Doin' it to yourself.”

“Self-inflicted injuries after the war,” says Gillis quietly. “A lot of vets, especially those who were wounded in combat, come back and turn up with self-inflicted injuries years later. And a lot of them end up dying when they shouldn’t, when the injuries shouldn’t be fatal.” He clears his throat. “Your father also had a gunshot wound on his right leg—a fresh one, no more than a few days old, and one that was inflicted at close range. So, I’m sorry to have to ask this, but it’s—you know, given the circumstances—did you ever know him to suffer from PTSD or depression? Were there ever any—”

And then Dean’s saying, in a loud, level voice, “Fuck. You,” and his coffee cup’s exploding against the floor, and Sam’s rising from his chair to intercept Dean in case he does something stupid. But by the time Sam’s on his feet, Dean’s already stopped. Stopped halfway there, staring at the coffee stain trickling along the grout of the gleaming tile, the Styrofoam cup rolling to a stop against Sam’s chair leg. Sam looks down at it and feels his stomach curl, like he’s going to lose it, but then he looks back at Dean. There’s absolutely nothing in his face. He’s just insensible mass, just a body halted by a terminal blow, and Sam’s seen enough of that for one day.

So he doesn’t lose it; he goes over to Dean, takes him by the arm, and says, “Okay, time to go.”

Find the story here:

The Father We Never Found