It's truly such a ridiculous notion that it doesn't even cross Dean's mind how wrong it all is. It doesn't feel it, anyway, probably because they're both piss drunk, but oh well.
The little abandoned church comes into view as they're fleeing town after a job well done. It's the first good job after a string of bad ones and the bad luck had left them with black eyes, bruised knuckles, a sprained ankle to tell the story.
Tonight there isn't any of that, they killed the werewolf, then spent what should've been cash for another night at the motel in beer at the local bar, until the barman got grouchy and told John to piss off because he was being a lousy drunk.
Dean had been draped all over the pool table and he had been making bank, which he was forced to leave behind to grab at his belligerent drunken father, barely managing to grab a handful of the notes and planting it on top of the counter, before wrapping his arms around the older man and staggering him for the door.
This is why he's driving tonight, despite the fact he's got enough liquor in him to make the road signs blurry.
It's John who pats at his thigh and tells him to pull over, so initially Dean thinks he's going to redecorate the side of the road, but instead the man plants his feet on the wet grass and stares at the church for a solid minute, before looking over his shoulder and opening a smile that looks sorta like a grimace, "let's check it out."
Check out what, Dean isn't sure. This church hasn't been used in a couple of years, but not more than five. The place is dusty, smells like humidity, but it's far from rotten. John stumbles in, makes his way to the altar and then pauses, falls to his knees before the small wooden cross planted on the wall on top of a creaky table.
It's not decorated, anything fancy the church stored has been stolen a while before. Dean collapses down one of the seats, letting out a dizzy laughter and throws his head back, staring at the ceiling.
Plain wooden beams, nothing painted. It feels better this way, he's always been freaked out by the painted angels on the fancier churches. Little judgmental pricks looking down on him and all his failures. Or better yet, reminders in plaster that his mother had been a naive fool and there were no angels watching over them.
"Pulled your mom into one of these once," John says after a while and Dean realizes he had been nearly dozing off. He rubs at his stiff neck, sitting up to look at the old man.
His father is sitting on the step of the altar, fidgeting with his wedding band, legs spread apart, one shoved ahead of him, the sole of the muddy boot up.
"I'd assume so, dad," Dean's laughter is loose and he clicks his jaw, "otherwise how'd you get that ring?"
John snorts at that, then rolls the metal band and removes it from his finger with some struggle. It's always in place, it leaves behind a white mark from where sun and grime didn't touch. Dean stares at the naked mark, then scrambles up as his father says "here" and throws him the ring.
"The fuck am I supposed to do with this?" Dean blurts out, nearly falling from his seat in order to grab it. He stares at the gold band, tries to imagine his mother's. He can't remember it. His father keeps it in a box, the same place he locks away his journal, the type of box that's none of his business.
John shrugs, "it's not the ring," he says after a minute, "the marriage, it was never the ring. Or the church. It's just the promise."
Dean rolls his eyes, ducking his head so his father won't see it. He doesn't want to hear another speech about family, responsibility and their duty to kill the evil son of a bitch who destroyed their family. He doesn't need this, the fresh wound of Sam leaving hasn't even remotely started to heal. He doesn't think it ever will.
"When you say your vows, you promise to take care of each other. To love one another, through whatever. That's the marriage part, the rest..." John scoffs at the end of his sentence and Dean starts to chuckle, hand darting up to muffle it in a manner that is unlike him.
He doesn't need a black eye for laughing at his father's romantic endeavors, it's just-
"Nothing," he all but giggles, drunkenly, then forces his voice to steady up, "nothing, sir. It's just- If that's your definition of a marriage, then I guess we're sorta married, uh? You take care of u- Of me," he corrects himself quickly. Not us, Sam left. "Through everything."
He expects his father to tell him to shut the fuck, but he overestimated how drunk John is, because after a split second of hesitation, the man lets out a chortle. He chokes a little on his laughter, then runs a bruised hand - the ring hand - through his dark hair, fingers dragging down his face and over the prickly beard, concealing a smile.
"I guess," he concedes, shoulders still shaking, "I guess we're sorta married, yeah."
"And I don't even get a fucking ring," Dean teases him, "no dinner, no candlelight, no nothing-" his heart is hammering away, "no kiss."
John grins at that, gets up from his spot and walks closer, all drunken sway that Dean thinks is swagger. That man carries himself like there's an iron bar between his shoulder blades, Dean always tries to mimic it when he's alone on a job and needs an older adult to listen to him. Iron bar, that arrogant stare, the side smile that is all disarming charm.
He doesn't quite have it like his father, but he's gonna get there.
"I can fix one of these," John says and Dean's air stops right in his lungs as he thinks is the last item listed, only for his father to remove one of his silver rings. He's always wearing these cheap jewelry, though lately he's more and more strict. No longer they have the time to go out shopping for food, let alone anything else.
Accessories and individuality, it all gets lost and washed away in their line of work.
Still, John removes his last cheap silver ring and holds it up, chuckling to himself as he says, "give me the hand" and Dean turns some horrible shade of red.
He lets his father slide in the ring in his left hand and then pulls back his hand as if it's burning. He couldn't speak if he wanted to. John stares at the band, then nods to himself as if saying: job well done. Then he reaches for his wedding band - the other one, the gold one - and Dean pulls back his hand for a second, finding balls he didn't know he had as he says, "let me."
John raises his eyebrows, doesn't say shit as Dean slides the ring back into its rightful place, concealing away the whiteness. He turns his hand from side to side, as if inspecting it, and Dean waits for the cross to catch one fire or for him to burst into flames...
Nothing happens though. John just clasps his shoulder, squeezes his neck and then pats his cheek, "C'mon. I wanna reach Durant before the sun is up."
That's at least four more hours of driving. Dean nods, jumps up, feeling his head float away, tethered only by the ring anchoring him down.
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