Author's Note: Written in two different times - meaning I started writing this a while ago but didn't get around to finishing it till now, so blame any inconsistencies on that. Partially inspired by the wonderful Martin Isaac stories. Many thanks to bttf4444 for being so supportive.

Disclaimer: I don't own Marty or his dad or Back to the Future in any way. That honor goes to Bob Zemekis and Universal. Lucky sods.

It's late. George knows Lorraine went to bed any hour ago, but something about the stormy weather makes his brain and fingers itch with inspiration. He's sitting at his computer, relishing the lighting crashes that compliment his action-y laser fight. A bolt strikes nearby, making the windows shake. John quickly leaped out of the way, missing death by inches…

The tree next door snaps and crackles dangerously. Carol continued to tug at her chains as the laser pointed at her slowly powered up and prepared to fire…

The rain pounds at the house in sheets, like a car pile-up against solid concrete. John delivered a quick, stunning punch to his adversary, running towards his fair companion after the evil fiend had fallen…

The loudest strike yet causes the entire house to tremble. The gun was fully powered up, and began firing as Carol cried out –

"DOC!!"

George jumped, the scream haven thoroughly shaken him out of his reverie. A few shakes of his head cleared his thoughts enough to determine it had come from one of the bedrooms…

Carefully creeping down the hallway, his cat-like sense of hearing picked up soft whimpers that seemed to come from the room at the end, the one that belonged to his teenage son.

"…Marty?" he called out quietly, venturing a guess as to the origin of the cry.

A bolt of lightning discharged once more, roaring angrily with the wind and the rain. George started, putting his hands out to steady himself against his still-slightly awkward balance.

The yell came again; this time George was sure it came from Marty's room. "DOC! HERE IT COMES! HURRY!"

George, letting his action hero alter ego fill him, quickly strode forward and opened the door.

Another, less violent bolt illuminated Marty's window, but the effect was just as severe. The teen's entire body shook, trying to bury itself further in the twisted sheets. As George entered silently, yet another crash of thunder and electricity caused Marty to stiffen and turn his face toward his father, and in the flashing light, George saw his son's face. It was awash with perspiration, frozen with fear, and it became clear that he was caught in the throes of a terrible nightmare.

"NO! Don't fall! I can't catch you…"

"Marty…" George called, reaching out reassuringly. "It's alright, son, you're only dreaming…"

But it was at this point that the strongest strike of them all shook the house to its very core. George toppled forward onto the edge of the bed as Marty sat up, screaming.

"DOOOOOOOOOC!!!"

"Marty!" George snared the youth's hand and squeezed.

At last, a few moments of quiet. Marty, now awoken, stared through dilated pupils into the darkness, breathing heavily. George breathed as well, staring hard at his son to make sure he was coming back to reality.

After a while, Marty spoke. "…Dad?"

George sighed with relief. "Are you alright?"

"Y-yeah. I think so."

There was a period of silence, during which George was unsure of what to do. He barely knew his youngest son, as much as it pained his paternal instinct to admit. Then, without thinking, George carefully gathered him into his arms like the child he used to be. Marty gently rested his head on his father's shoulder, trembling slightly. George couldn't remember a time Marty had allowed such intimate contact since the teen had been five. He brought a hand up to smooth Marty's hair.

"May I ask what you dreamed about?" He guessed it had something to do with Marty's friend Dr. Brown, but what of beyond that?

The teen tried unsuccessfully to his face in his father's shirt. "Can't tell you."

"Why not?"

Marty shook his head. "Just…can't."

George conceded defeat without words, content enough to hold his son close until he slept peacefully once more. Carefully laying him down and bringing the sheets over him, George wondered what sort of secrets his son held back, but decided not to dwell on it. Everyone was entitled to some privacy. He filed the notion in the back of his brain, right next to the nagging sensation of familiarity that he felt when he was around his son.