Quality Time
Disclaimer: So, just an FYI, camping out in Kripke's backyard...not a way to get on his good side. Adding the boys to my Christmas list as you read.
A/N:I plan on makingthis is a series of oneshots that take place between the years where Sam is off at school and it's John and Dean hunting together. Don't worry though, Sam'll be in them too. You'll see. But I would appreciate your thoughts about continuing with this idea.
1. Rounding the Bases
The thick, humid air reeked of alcohol and sweat. Loud, slurred voices ravaged the midnight hour accompanied by the clanging of dark bottles and the deafening crack from the pool tables. Southern rock blared from the old jukebox's speakers and a sea of drunken bodies swayed dangerously to the pulsating rhythm.
The elder hunter rubbed a worn and tired hand over his stubble-laden jaw and shifted his attention away from the crowd and back to the mess of papers and news clippings that held the information to fix the community of Jesuha County. His eyes blurred, whether from the bourbon he'd downed throughout the evening or the stress coupled with the lack of sleep because the last months hadn't been easy, not by a long shot.
His youngest had left. He didn't just walk out the door either, he slammed it, stormed out in a rage determined to forge his own existence. John understood, to a certain extent, although he'd be damned to admit it. Sam was like him, that much was sure. Stubborn to the core and one who liked to give orders, not take them. But he was still dad, leader of the mess that was his family and his authority wasn't going to be usurped not if he could help it.
While it hurt, John knew he would recover from the longing desire to see both his boys fighting over who got the bed in the cramped hotel room and who got the floor. He would move on from hearing the door slam and expecting to see his youngest dragging his feet behind his oldest. Eventually, hearing a high pitched laugh wouldn't jar him, and neither would seeing a random young man whose dark tousles of hair needed a pair of scissors taken to it.
John lifted his head from his mound of paperwork and turned his attention to the bar where his eldest was leaning on his elbows, face entirely too close to the blonde haired, big-chested bartender's for the father's liking. Not to mention the fact his son was whispering in her ear.
It was times like these that John wondered why he worried about his eldest so much. When he was in his favored element, Dean seemed to be coping just fine with his little brother's furious exile. The father sighed deeply at the knowledge of what his son did when he wasn't.
When he'd first heard thebanging sound from the side room of their borrowed living establishment, John had thought something had found its way in, something had breeched the salt barriers that protected them, and something was going to try and take the last remnant of his family. But this attack had come from within their ranks.
He was speechless and horrified by the image that had met him when he'd cracked the door, rifle aimed and cocked. The red that trickled down the wooden walls and quiver that shook through each panel as his eldest's fist connected with it again and again pounded in his head. John had treaded slowly into the room, keeping his distance as he circled to take in his broken son's pain. He was more than astonished to see Dean's face bearing watery lines that freely stemmed from his eyes and dripped liberally from his chin.
John shook his head at the memory, willing it away. Dean hadn't even recognized his presence that evening and if he had, the boy hadn't mentioned it. Not that he'd talked about it either. Certainly not when he bandaged the bloody and bruised fingers or when his son stumbled back into the apartment stone drunk and muttering apologies to a brother that no longer held residence in their "home". It wasn't how they dealt. Not the Winchesters.
Work. Hunting. That was how they coped, their favored drug that rid their world of pain and misery. It kept them alive, kept them focused, and gave them a reason to wake and not end it all. Revenge fueled them onwards. The idea of living with the knowledge that their quest had ended and justice had been served warranted the miles of endless highway they wandered.
The oldest Winchester rubbed the back of his sore neck and then proceeded to gesture his son to get his ass back to the table and his head in the game. He was more than slightly annoyed when he got nothing more than a side-glance and a smug grin before once again viewing his son's back.
John ran his fingers through his hair and contemplated a course of action. Try as he might, he just couldn't get Dean to focus when the boy was around anything female. A small smile crept onto the father's face as he thought of what his Mary would say to that. Back in the day, he'd been quite the charmer, well damn near stalker when it had come to her. But this was different. This wasn't downtime, they were on a job. A paying job, no less, so that left no time for his son's antics.
The father cleared his throat, a sound drowned out by the massive crowd, but one a sharp-tuned ear would pick up. But if the younger hunter heard, which John was sure he had, he ignored it. Dad was done messing around.
Methodically slow, John scrounged through his notes and placed them in their respective order before maneuvering his way over to long bar and his son deep in the realm of flirting. With a swift side step, John brushed up along the wooden edge and positioned himself between Dean and his entertainment.
"Son, it's after midnight." The father stated firmly, eyeing his son for a long moment before turning and staring down the scantily clad bartender.
"So?" The girl chirped, batting her eyelashes as she flitted her baby blues from the older man back to the younger.
"We have a job to do in the morning." John added sternly, his face bearing the signature "no nonsense" look every parent on the planet has down to a science.
"Can you hold on just for one sec, uh…"
"Tara" The girl drawled sweetly.
"Tara." Dean grinned, his eyes bright with anticipation. He so had this chic, "I'll be right back, I swear."
John raised an eyebrow at his eldest's insistence that he would be returning to the recent object of his rabid state of lust, but allowed himself to be strong-armed by his son a little ways back from their current location. The father bit his lip to keep from laughing as he watched Dean's face morph from playful to incredibly serious.
"Dad." Dean started, his voice low, and then as if unable to find the correct words to voice his current state repeated the name, dropping his chin to his chest as he muttered it and placing his hands on his father's shoulders. "Dad."
"Son." John quipped, clearly amused.
"Dad, this is serious, ok?" Dean replied coolly, "Look, I know you're out of practice when it comes to women, but Dad, did you see her? I mean did you see her?"
"I saw her, Dean." John complied laughingly, but quickly stopped when he saw the fire in his son's eyes.
"Okay, so you know why I can't leave then, right?" Dean questioned pointedly, patting his dad's shoulder and turning on his heels to head back to his future score.
"Yes and no." John answered, whipping around to block his son's path once again. "What's more important than preparing for the job?"
"Daaad" Dean whined, "Don't do this."
"Do what?" the father asked playfully.
"You're embarrassing me." Dean muttered.
"C'mon, son, you have to look alive. You know this job is important and that's why we have to put a lot of time and energy into making sure we have all the bases covered." Dean looked back towards the bar and then back to his father. He knew this lecture all too well, and usually he took it. But he wasn't in the mood for sleep. He was in the mood for something else, and his father had just flung the door wide open.
"Yeah, Dad. I understand." Dean replied, fighting to keep the smirk off his face when his father nodded in return to his son's submission and turned for the exit. "But you've done nothing but research all night so you've must've covered most of the bases, leaving me to cover what? Third and Home?"
"Come again?" John asked, his brow furrowed in both confusion and fatherly intuition. He got the feeling he wasn't going to like where Dean was headed.
"Nothing. I just got the rest of the bases covered 's all." Dean retorted smugly, his body radiating cockiness.
"Oh, so you know how and where this whole operation is going down then and exactly what we're up against, huh?" John drilled, his tone all business.
"Uh…not we, dad. Just me. And yeah, wait, hold on." John waited impatiently as Dean dug quickly through his jacket pockets, laughing manically when he held a crumpled cocktail napkin victoriously in his hand, "1548 Windsor. Apartment 12"
"That's across town, son, and not anywhere near the site of the Careaux mansion." John reprimanded, struggling to grasp why his son didn't remember that detail. "And since when have you ever gotten a solo job? You're not ready for that."
"How would you know? And I've been working this gig since I was fifteen so, yeah, I think I can fly solo." Dean watched his father carefully as a look of complete understanding dawned the older Winchester's face.
"We're not talking about the same thing here, are we?" John asked slowly, his voice deep. He really didn't want to have this particular discussion. In fact, he'd thought he'd made it perfectly clear how he felt on that issue years back. Apparently, Dean wasn't paying attention during his entire "what lies beneath" speech. However short and indirect it was, but he'd thought he'd made his fatherly point in that crappy bars were no place to pick up women, especially ones that looked like they received a fee for their services.
"Nope." Dean laughed, clearly enjoying every second of his father's apprehension and panic over where the conversation was leading them. This was a John Winchester he never got to see.
"Fifteen, eh?" John sighed, and rubbed his hand through his short hair pensively. "Where the hell was I?"
"Uh…Madison. Poltergeist thing, I think." Dean shrugged, shifting a little when his father's eyebrows rose questionably as he mulled the information over.
"Fantastic." John muttered. "Friggen' fantastic."
"Oh, don't worry, Dad. It's not like I have kids or something." Dean couldn't help but flinch when his father's head snapped up quickly, fierce brown eyes boring into him, and yet he couldn't resist, "Well, not that I know of anyways. But I'm pretty sure I suited up almost every time, 'cept that one time in Jack--"
"Dean!" John interjected loudly, ignoring the side glances he was got for the remark. Silently, he wiped a hand slowly over his face and tried to regain his composure.
"What? Dad, c'mon, you can't honestly say you didn't know what was going on. House full of guys. And with a face like this, I'm telling you, dad, they practically jumped me!" John shot Dean a warning look, and this time Dean heeded it.
"Well, no jumping tonight. Or the next night for that matter." John mumbled, fiddling with his journal.
"You can't be serious!" Dean argued, gasping at what his father was suggesting. "I'm twenty-two!"
"Yeah, well, when I was your age I had a wife and a child on the way." John shot back quickly, a small smile tugging at his lips, "Now, say goodnight."
"Dad…"
"Now"
"This is friggen' stupid" Dean huffed, turning around and barely whispering a "goodbye" to the bartender before storming out, cheeks flushed, behind his father. He knew he looked like a kid who'd just got his favorite toy taken away as punishment, but didn't care, 'cause at the moment it fit.
John smiled widely as he reveled in his small victory. He'd never been the best dad, or the most around during his son's teen years. But it was nice and damn frightening to have some time with Dean. The kid had a zeal for life that was for sure. He may not have Sam for a while, or ever again, but he still had the allegiance of one son. And that would do for now.
Sinking into the driver's seat, John knew everything would work out. Somehow, this "alone" time with Dean wouldn't hurt their relationship, but make it stronger. They would cope, through hunts and wounds, and he could handle that. He was damn John Winchester. He could handle anything; the military had taught him that. Everything except what came out of his son's mouth next.
"So, Dad, if I do well on this hunt, I mean, like rock salt this ghost's ass myself, you think maybe instead of splitting some of the money, Tara could reward me?"
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Alright so lemme know if you think Ishould continue on with this idea. And dont worry I am still working on Cryptic I swear! So, tell me what you thought and thanx for reading.