i wasn't the type of kid who wanted to be a teenager.
there's almost a bottle of whiskey in john's belly, and a lit cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. "y'weren't," the ash falls when his lips move to speak. he crushes it against his shirt.
"hell, y'didn't wanna be a kid." john doesn't sound like john. he sounds fond. just as well he doesn't remember it in the mornin'.
dean's quiet. in the silence, john takes a final drag and slots the butt into an empty beer bottle. he blows the smoke towards the closed window before he entertains explainin' himself.
"kids don't go shootin' on their birthday." they ain't tuckin’ their brother in every night, either. but sammy's too sore of a subject for dean. sometimes, john thinks dean's takin' his absence harder.
"deadeye, even then," he muses to himself. dean's ears perk up anyway. "i don't think i ever told you this. if you'd been a man, by my side, back in the marines— wouldn't have been me who made corporal."
john lights up again. dean pours him another whiskey.
"i'm damn proud of you, boy."
