Chapter Text
The room is filled with the whir of the air conditioning and the quiet tone of Joni Mitchell from the stereo. I’ve looked at life from both sides now… this is what happens when you put it on shuffle, Pete had warned. You risk bringing down the mood, and hard.
Eventually, Rusty lifts his head from the bar and grumbles as he takes his drink in hand, staring into it like there’s a solution at the bottom.
“I shouldn’t have told you…” Dean repeats, swirling his wine glass, gazing down with the same lost, regretful look. It’s almost startling how they echo one another so perfectly. And now, it makes even more sense.
“No…” Rusty takes a generous sip, and Pete and Billy wince to see his throat bob as he gulps. Maybe this is a mistake… “It’s not your fault.”
How rare, that kindness. It hollows out a pit in Pete’s chest. Like pity, sympathy. It makes him reach for Billy’s hand and squeeze. If ever there was something they are not emotionally equipped for, this is it. They can barely, ha, say I love you right out loud.
“Rust...let’s go sit down. We’ll uh...talk it out, a’right?”
Billy nods in agreement, swiftly finishing his drink. Promptly he refills his glass from the bottle of wine that Dean pushes around with his skinny, nervous fingers. One drunk Venture is bad enough. Someone has to be responsible, he figures, watching as Pete and Rusty amble over to the couch, arms lazily draped over one another’s shoulders, Pete doing the bulk of the work.
And a poor job he does, because as they descend the few stairs into the sunken lounge, Rusty stumbles, trips, falls without any grace at all. Onto his knees, and were he not hammered, it might have ended there. But he gives up and let’s his upper body fall flat against the carpet.
“Aw jeeze Rust—“ Pete mumbles, kneeling down to try and help him.
“Just leave me!” Rust shouts, muffled by the carpet.
“Not a chance, fella. Can...can you guys help me out?” Pete asks, turning just his head to look desperately at Dean and Billy. But Dean, he stumbles, staggers, flops already onto the couch. “Billy?”
“Nice job, Pete,” he scolds quietly, shuffling over to help Pete lift Rusty onto the couch. He fights them a bit, squirming to try and get back on the floor as if he belongs there. The couple exchanges another of their communicative glances and they nod, promptly sitting side by side on Rusty’s back and legs. There.
“Cruel and unusual punishment!” he protests, weakly holding up one finger like he can do a damn thing.
“Just hold still, Rusty,” Billy insists, trying to make himself heavy, sturdy. They aren’t the most effective paperweights, the two of them. Impossibly short and light as a feather.
“Dean, ya gotta tell us what’s goin’ on here. How do ya know your father’s a...clone?” Pete whispers the word as if it’s not already too late. Maybe he’s more drunk than he thought…
“Found out from Ben’s robot husband,” he says, as if that ought to be sufficient.
“Okay well now I just have more questions,” Billy says. With a sigh he turns his head to the pathetic sight of Rusty burying his face in throw pillows. The other questions can wait. “I mean...is it so surprising? You did it with your sons, too.”
“But…” he trails off, turning his head. Pete and Billy can tell that Rusty’s eyes land weakly on his son. “I had my reasons…”
“Pop…” Dean whines softly, burying his head in his hands. “Not this again…”
“My father never loved me like I love you boys! He just did it to...to force me to keep living like he knew…”
Pete and Billy wince in unison.
“Knew what, Rust?”
He stays quiet, closing his eyes like a dam against what they are sure is a cascade of tears. Dean chimes in, quieter than ever, hands gripping his wineglass like an anchor.
“Knew that...if pop had the choice, he’d have just stayed dead…” Even as a kid. Living was just too hard, wasn’t it? And maybe, now that it’s easier…
“Aw c’mon Rust…” Pete offers no comfort, because he’s too tipsy to lie. Your father loved you, he just was bad at showing it. Bad like me… Sighing, he reaches around Billy’s back to press a hand between Rusty’s shoulders. “You’re still... you , ain’t ya?”
“Whoever that is,” Rusty says, his voice hidden once again by a pillow.
“Oh alright, Bob Dylan, take it down a notch,” Billy says, suddenly stern despite the subtle trembling in his voice. “Did you sons go on a bender when they found out? No, they didn’t.”
“Yeah, exactly!” Pete agrees. Maybe tough love is the answer. He softly squeezes the fabric of Rusty’s speedsuit. His back is so bony, more than ever…
“No, Dean just became a goth ,” Rusty corrects. “And not the pastel kind like you, White…”
Dean, seeming dejected, groans and lays down on the couch in a defeated huff. If it wasn’t such a sorry sight, Pete would almost feel good about himself that he’s less of a mess than these two are right now. He bites the inside of his cheeks, utterly at a loss. He’s never been good at fixing these crises. He could stub his toe and turn to booze or coke, at one point in his life. And he’s not much better now. And poor Billy, seeing his childhood hero a deflated, hollow man.
The stereo plays soft, still. God Only Knows. Of course.
Pete leans his head back into the couch, ready to give up. But despite that, still he reaches for Billy’s hand to hold again. Reassurance, solidarity.
“...I need another drink…” Billy says, falling into the crook of Pete’s arm.
“Oh!!” Dean sits up suddenly, eyes wide, a finger pointing across the coffee table at them. “You two!! I knew it!”
“Wh—“ Pete stammers, as if this isn’t like, the tenth time this has happened to them.
“I gotta call Hank…” He reaches into his pocket, but immediately fumbles with and drops his phone. “Oh well…” Despite the mood, he smiles, bringing his knees to his chest, hugging them tight and resting his chin in between. “I’m...glad.”
Rusty twitches beneath them with the start of a drunken sleep. Relieved, they carefully climb off of him, settling a weighted blanket over his inert body instead.
“I’m gonna get more...drink…” Dean says, passing by his sleeping father to press a palm to his head. “I gotta talk to you guys. I gotta tell someone…”
“Don’t tell me we’re clones too, kiddo,” Pete jests. Dean snorts and shakes his head, grabbing for gin and tonic. He’s just like his brother.
“No it’s...something I couldn’t tell my dad. So the clone thing came out instead.” Somber, he grips the bar to keep himself upright. Pete and Billy know it’s bad, know they should stop him, make him go to bed, but since when were they good role models? They can’t deny him this rare rebellion. He’s always been such a goody two-shoes.
“What is it, Dean?” Billy asks, dragging Pete back over to the barstools.
“I...I think I have a boyfriend?”