you should have raised a baby girl (i should have been a better son)
read on ao3
summary: John has never been a good father to his sons, but especially when he still thinks he's got a daughter and only one son.
or: what if dean had the colt and john told him to shoot? (1x22)
tw: transphobia, deadnaming, misgendering, canon-typical violence
Every time John said it, Dean wanted to punch him in the mouth. It had been years, at this point, yet John still refused to change or at least be less of an asshole. Dean could hear Sammy scoffing in the back of his head, even though it had been eight months since he'd last seen the kid.
'He's never going to accept it,' Sam had told him. That was before he left, before he abandoned Dean on his own with John, to face the consequences of losing Sam.
'He might,' Dean had tried. 'He's still friends with Bobby!'
'You honestly think Dad's observant enough or even cares enough to know about Bobby? And you would really call what they are "friends"? It's more like Bobby has been our drop-off babysitter for the past few years while Dad's been too obsessed to care about even putting us up in a motel,' Sam argued.
Dean sighed and rubbed a hand across his forehead, pinching his brow. 'You never know-'
But now, Dean does know. Sam had left and Dean no longer needed to be the punching bag in the middle of John and Sam's biggest fights, so he told John.
'It's Dean, now.' His voice had been so shaky and so quiet, beer bottle so close to his lips it's like he was whispering to his liquor instead of coming out to his father.
'What?' John asked, all gruff and already closer to drunk than Dean, having started earlier and being three more drinks in. 'Speak up.'
Dean cleared his throat and swallowed, moving the bottle only a few inches away from his mouth. 'My name. It's-'
"It's Dean."
"What?"
"I said, my name is Dean." He takes a deep breath, eyes still locked on the Colt in his hands. He scoffs, "You can't be fucking proud of me if you don't know my name. And Dad would never be proud of me for wasting a bullet, he'd be fucking furious." Dean looks up, then, making eye contact with John and raising the Colt. "You're not my dad."
"Xxxx, it's me."
Dean runs his tongue hard against his lower lip to keep from grinding his teeth. "I know my dad better than anyone." He shakes his head, cocking the gun. "And you ain't him."
"What the hell's gotten into you?" John seems astonished. Dean takes it as more proof that this is not John, because this is far from the first time Dean has ever leveled a gun at his father.
“I could ask you the same thing.” Dean takes a step back, not taking an eye off of John. “Stay back.” Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees Sam return to the room.
“Dean? What the hell’s going on?” Sam doesn’t sound scared, just confused. After all, he’s seen this scene play out a hundred times.
“Your sister’s lost her mind,” John says, and damn if the demon isn’t good at making those words hurt even worse.
“He’s not Dad,” Dean says, quick on his words to cover up John’s voice, talking over Sam’s indignant, “What?” “I think he’s possessed. I think he’s been possessed since we rescued him.”
“Don’t listen to her, Sammy,” it says, the words cutting deeper still.
“Dean, how do you know?” And in this moment Dean couldn’t be more grateful to Sam, giving him a chance and still forcefully trying to correct what Sam believes might still be their dad.
“He’s-” Dean stumbles over the words that try to trap themselves behind his lips. “He’s different.”
John’s lip twitches, the start of a snarl as the demon inside shakes his head and looks to Sam. “You know what, we don’t have time for this. Sam, you wanna kill this demon, you gotta trust me.”
There’s silence, and Dean flicks his gaze to Sam’s face. He’s watching them both, thinking it through. The father he’s never liked, let alone trusted, or the brother he’s spent the past year hunting and fighting on the road with, the one who pulled him away from everything he loved. Dean returns his gaze to John, chewing on the inside of his lip.
“Sam,” the demon prompts, too close to a command rather than a request, even for John, and Sam’s mind is made up.
“No.” And it’s so quiet, Dean almost doesn’t hear him. “No,” Sam speaks again, just a little bit louder this time, and Dean tightens his grip on the Colt as Sam makes his way over and behind him, and if the look in John’s eyes could kill, they would’ve both been dead a long time ago.
“Fine. You’re both so sure, go ahead and kill me,” and there’s a bite to his voice, so much venom it could drown someone twice over. He flicks his gaze back and forth between Dean and Sam, Dean and the Colt, before he looks down, almost in submission, and Dean can’t bring himself to be sure enough to shoot.
He refuses to lower the gun, though.
“I thought so.” Then John’s looking up — and, oh, Dean has never felt so sick to his stomach about being right. There’s yellow eyes and a sickening sneer and all of a sudden there’s a force and Sam and Dean are flung back into a wall of the cabin. And the Colt- Dean loses grip of it on impact and it clatters to the floor. The demon walks over, slow as can be, and picks up the gun, turning it over in his hands. “What a pain this thing has been.”
“It’s you,” Sam struggles out, “isn’t it? We’ve been looking for you for a long time.”
A grin. “Well you found me.”
“I’m going to kill you!” Sam shouts, and he’s struggling, trying desperately to fight the invisible force keeping them pinned.
"Oh, I think not, but we’ll deal with that sentiment later,” and with a flick of the demon’s wrist, Sam’s out like a light. “You, on the other hand…” and he turns to face Dean. “We’ve got some talking to do.”
“Fuck you,” Dean spits, straining against the demon’s powers.
“Oh, Dean,” it tsks, and fuck, that somehow hurts worse coming out of John’s mouth than his deadname. “So much anger and vitriol. Y’know,” it places the gun down, and it’s so close Dean can almost- “he’s still alive in here, your dear old dad.” Dean’s blood turns to ice.
“Let him go.” Dean’s not proud of the whine in his voice, but he told Sam earlier and he meant it - love or hate or not, he will fight to protect his family. “You let him and Sam go!”
“I don’t think I will, actually. Not yet, at least. This is just getting even for you killing two of my own and trying so desperately to ruin everything for me. I think, instead, I’ll let John here have a taste of what it feels like to cut into his own son and watch him bleed.”
And for a second, a split second, Dean thinks he’s about to hurt Sam, because even though it’s the demon talking for sure now, Dean has never heard John call him his son. But then the pain starts, right in his chest, down to the skin beneath the bandages around his chest, and a scream erupts past Dean’s lips without his permission. There’s a pause in the pain, and Dean catches the demon’s yellow eyes.
“You know, it’s funny,” it says. Dean doesn’t answer, just spits blood at his feet, trying to catch his breath and ignore the pain and the slick blood sliding down his abdomen and soaking his shirt. “You fight and you fight for this family, but the truth is, they don’t need you. Not like you need them. That’s why Sammy left, and he was doing great on his own before you showed up. He was planning to propose, y’know?” The demon looks over to Sam, hanging unconscious from his pinned position on the wall. “He’s clearly John’s favorite, and it doesn’t even have to do with the whole-” it gestures to Dean’s body without looking- “thing. No, that’s not even the smallest part of why John favors Sam. Even when they fight, that’s more care John shows Sam than he shows you. Isn’t that right, Dean?”
And again, there’s a pain in his chest, but this time it’s more than physical. Dean grits his teeth, trying not to hang off of the demon’s words as it uses John’s voice to finally, finally see Dean as he is instead of as he was. This pain burrows itself so deep that when the physical pain comes again he can’t even bring himself to scream.
“Hm, disappointing,” it tsks again, and though the physical pain stops, ‘disappointing’ carves another wound across Dean’s heart. “Maybe I’ll switch to Sam, then. I’ll keep him alive, of course, but he’ll be more fun.”
“Don’t you dare,” Dean spits. The demon still isn’t looking at him, wandering over closer to Sam, examining his face. “Don’t touch him!” Dean shouts, and he pushes through every bit of pain coursing through his body and he’s up and the next thing he knows, he’s got the Colt in his hands aimed at the back of John’s head. “You touch him and I promise you it will be the last thing you ever do.”
It turns slowly on its heel, eyes locking on the Colt. “Really? You do remember that kills the meatsuit, too, right? Especially if you shoot it where you’re currently aiming it.”
“I know what I’m doing. Let Sam and my dad go or I’ll shoot.”
The demon grins and the yellow in its eyes flickers out briefly and for a moment, there’s really John. “Xxxx, do it, do it now!”
And before Dean can think, he pulls the trigger and the bullet hits dead center, right between his father’s eyes, and his body falls loudly to the ground.
