It started with domestic bliss.
That was the first sign, almost the smallest of hints that Dean was in his downward spiral into self deprivation.
Other hints followed; brief, but frequent eye contact and touches so light, they could’ve passed as accidental. He talked less and stayed up longer, almost all night.
Dean complicated everything. Giving his son what he wanted brought horrendous guilt.
The worst of it was, John thought as he pulled the napkin onto his lap and watched Dean set the casserole dish on the hot plate at the center of the table, his son never got better.
He would leave tonight, disappear for months and come back as if nothing happened. They would be fine for weeks and even months, but it was an unbreakable loop.
John scooped his food first as Sam came into the kitchen and dropped into a chair. The sixteen year old was vibrant.
He lacked an interest in being a hunter, but he had the Winchester aggression that he used on the football field.
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