Riding the Fence - Part 11B
Part Eleven B:
It was the cool rush of air and the finger tracing up his bare foot that woke Dean. He jumped with a hiss, pulling his feet up and away from the attack, tucking them back beneath the warm blanket. Rolling into an upright position, Dean scowled up into the bright morning light and the man shadowed there in the doorway.
“Oh, you are awake,” Bobby teased.
Dean groaned his disagreement and let his head fall against the seat back, eyeing Bobby with only one eye slit open.
“You wanna try helping your old man into the house?”
That woke Dean up. He took a deep breath, yawning and stretching, his blanket falling down around his waist which he instantly regretted. The cool moist morning air rushed across his skin and he shivered visibly before pulling the blanket around his bare torso.
Dean slid across the seat, stepping out of the vehicle and wrapping the blanket around his chilled back. Bobby already had John’s door open and was leaned into the car talking softly.
“Gonna help you up and out, okay? But you’ve gotta walk for us.”
Bobby pulled John’s feet free of the car, turning the eldest Winchester in the process. John seemed to vaguely recognize what was going on and on the count of three, Bobby pulled the man to his feet, wrapping a strong arm around his waist to support him.
Dean joined them, ducking under his father’s uninjured arm and also wrapping his arm around his dad, clasping a hold of Bobby’s arm to solidify the support.
Slowly and very carefully, they walked John up the walk and stairs and into the house. Bobby directed them to the library sofa, cautiously lowering the injured man onto the seat.
John sank into the sofa, letting himself slide down the back until he was lying prone. Dean lifted his father’s feet and with a light tug, had the boots pulled free and John’s legs stretched over the length.
“Here,” he said, handing Bobby the blanket to lay across John. “I’m gonna go check on Sammy.”
Dean hobbled up the stairs, trying to remain as quiet as possible, not wanting to wake either his dad downstairs or his brother upstairs. Opening the door to their shared bedroom, he smiled lazily and trudged to the bed where his not-so-little brother was splayed out on his belly; face buried in Dean’s pillow and feet hanging off the end like he hadn’t managed to climb all the way into it before falling asleep. It wasn’t even his bed, for crying out loud, it was Dean’s, but having done the exact same thing just a couple nights before, Dean understood that subconscious need to reconnect and he silently promised that he wouldn’t even tease Sammy about it. Not much at least.
Dean climbed up into the single bed with his brother, slid up until his back met the wall, and just sat there, watching Sam sleep and doing a visual once over for injuries. Sam had said that he wasn’t hurt, but one could never be too careful with a Winchester. They had all been guilty of hiding injuries at one time or another.
But looking Sam over now was like a shock of cold water. The kid brother who lay sprawled out over the bed wasn’t so much kid as he was man. Lean legs that had grown impossibly long and were still growing. Taut, sinewy arms that carried the light feathering of dark hair that Sam had inherited from their father. A frame that grew broad at lightning speed, threatening to and quite possibly succeeding in overtaking Dean’s own frame by the end of the year and all of this packaged in hand-me-down underclothes that-like magic-had grown two sizes too small for the kid in just a week’s time. When had this happened? Dean wondered, absentmindedly carding his fingers through the overgrowth that Sam called hair.
Sam had always worn his hair a bit long. When they had been much younger, both Sam and Dean had had curls. Natural, soft, round curls; Dean’s had been the color of wheat, where Sam’s had been a rich mahogany and their father had secretly loved their curls, idly running his thick fingers through the spongy tresses while reading to one or both of the boys before bed.
Dean’s curls had grown out and he had grown up, adopting a shorter cut which was utilitarian and simple; one John had favored.
“Now that’s a good haircut,” John would boast, messing the fringe at Dean’s forehead, proudly.
Dean could live on the approval of his father. He could eat it up and sustain himself for weeks on just one ‘good job, son’, but there was always a downside to the praise he received.
“See, Sammy. That’s how you cut hair. Why can’t you be more like your brother?”
Dean didn’t know how or why the rivalry between his father and brother had started; but he knew it had started early on, and that most of the blame could be placed on his father’s shoulders. John had, for as long as Dean could remember, tried to convince Sam to do things his way.
When they were real young it was, ‘Stay here, be quiet, don’t move,’ but as they got older and Sam came to understand what was really going on, John’s instructions changed. They became, ‘Move faster, fight harder, do what I say’. Dean just figured it was John’s way of protecting them. If he did as his father asked, everything would turn out okay, but Sammy didn’t see it that way. Sam had to be different, had to buck their father’s system at every open opportunity and his longest standing ‘screw you, Dad’ was his hair.
“Well, at least this didn’t change while you were gone,” Dean said beneath his breath, still combing through the sleep tangled mess. Dean grinned shamelessly, knowing that his brother would be livid if he was to catch Dean ‘petting’ him, but he didn’t care. “Always gonna be my little brother. No matter how big you get.”
Sam chose that moment to sigh deeply, his chest filling to capacity and then emptying quickly. He adjusted position, turned onto his side and reached out to wrap a long arm around Dean’s still bare lower legs, hugging them to him and burying his face in the warmth between the mattress and the side of Dean’s calf.
“Dude, get off me,” Dean complained, struggling, but only a little, to free his legs. But the scissoring of Dean’s legs, merely encouraged Sam to hold on that much tighter and Dean heard and felt a muffled objection vibrate against his skin.
“Aw, does widdle Sammy wanna snuggle? Ouch!” Dean yipped, his legs jumping under Sam’s touch. “Did you just pinch me?”
“Mmmhmm,” Sam’s chest rumbled. He pushed away from his brother and rolled up into a sitting position, socked feet touching down lightly on the bare floor. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and rubbed a hand roughly through the hair which Dean had just combed out.
“How’s Dad?” Sam remembered suddenly, looking over his shoulder at his brother still sitting against the wall.
“Still sleeping. Bobby and I brought him inside a little while ago.”
“S’good. He needs some real sleep. How’s his arm?”
“Bobby’ll see to it.”
Sam nodded silently, his head dropping until his chin touched the thin cotton of his t-shirt.
“How are you?” Dean asked hesitantly, recognizing the tension that was stretched tight across Sam’s shoulders when he shrugged his reply. Dean knew that feeling; had been in that position plenty of times before. “Whatever happened out there…you know it’s not your fault, don’t you?”
“You sure about that?”
Sam angled his face back toward his brother, but didn’t meet his eyes, choosing instead to glower down at the mattress, picking at the frayed edges of the top sheet and pulling a stray pale yellow thread from the weave.
“You don’t know what happened, Dean. How can you be sure it wasn’t my fault?”
Sam’s words were a challenge. A challenge without bite, but a challenge none the less and Dean understood that feeling too; the overwhelming responsibility of being Dad’s second. Oh yeah, Dean knew that one well. Not bothering to gauge Sam’s body language, Dean slid across the bed until he sat beside his brother and bumped shoulders.
“Cuz I know you, Sammy. Better than anybody. You‘re a pain in the ass most of the time…” Dean couldn’t help but smirk when he felt Sam’s bitchface focus sideways at him, “but you never miss; not when it really counts. S’nobody I’d rather have at my back than you. Not even Dad.”
“He’d have been better off with you there.”
“Well, yeah, Sammy,” he snorted. “Now we’re just stating the obvious.”
“S’not what I mean, Dean. Dad was…”Sam looked back down into his lap, feeling like he was tattling on his father, but it had to be said, “distracted…the whole time; edgy, moodier than normal and drunk almost every night…and once during the day. It sucked and I didn’t make it any better. I could have, but I didn’t. ”
Dean’s eyes dropped into his own lap at Sam’s divulgence, feeling a new wave of guilt wash over him. Just one more way he’d failed his family.
“M’sorry, Sammy. I shoulda been there. It shouldn‘t have had to be you. ”
“What are you talking about?”
Dean looked up to find his little brother staring at him earnestly, his eyebrows tucked together high on his forehead and his hazel eyes looking almost brown, completing the “puppy dog eyes of doom” look that had forever been Dean’s downfall; John’s too, for that matter.
“Dean, you were hurt and you needed to be here, to heal. Man, it’s not your fault that Dad has no coping mechanisms, what-so-ever,” Sam emphasized every syllable, rolling his eyes. “I mean, I missed you too, but you don’t see me stumbling in at nine o’clock in the morning, blitzed out of my mind, do ya?”
“Missed me?” Dean frowned at his brother, blanching at the idea of his father on a week-long bender because he missed his son.
“Yeah, what did you think I meant?”
For a long time, Dean didn’t say anything. He leaned forward, propped himself up against his knees and rolled Sam’s words around in his head.
Sam too, leaned forward again, with his face tilted in Dean’s direction, watching and studying the thought processes played across his brother’s face and in his posturing.
“Stop thinking so hard,” he finally said to his brother and knocked shoulders with him. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”
“Shut up.” Dean bumped him back. “I just can’t…you know…wrap my head around the idea of Dad missing me. He never actually said that though…did he?”
“Sure. Dad talks about his feelings all the time,” Sam answered sarcastically. “Duh, Dean. Of course he didn’t, but you don’t need to be a mind reader to figure it out. And the drunken mumblings about you were a pretty big clue.”
“He was bad?”
Dean swallowed hard against the lump forming in his throat. Sam wasn’t a little kid anymore, but still, Dean had always tried to make it so his little brother didn’t have to deal with their father when he was blind drunk and sick. It didn’t happen all that often, Dean told himself, just often enough for him to become real good at soothing the loud, boisterous outbursts that always seemed to accompany John home from the bar.
John had trained Dean to always be alert, even in sleep, just in case something came after them and Dean had taken to that training well. He’d lived it; one hand buried beneath his pillow, curled around his weapon of choice, one ear turned towards the room, listening for the slightest noise, be it witch or ghoul, cop or child services, or even John himself.
Those nights that it was John, Dean would rise quickly and quietly so as not to wake his brother and go to his father, talking in low, gentle tones. He’d bring three aspirin and a glass of water, strip the man of his boots and help him to the bathroom and then to bed or sofa, whichever promised the least hassle and chance of waking Sam. It was a job at which Dean excelled; taking care of his family. It was a job which should never have been thrust upon him to begin with and now, in having been injured, Dean had thrust that same responsibility on Sam without even giving the kid a chance to read the operator’s manual. He’d practically set his little brother up for failure and it made Dean’s head and heart hurt to think of what Sam had most likely had to put up with over the last week because of his own absence.
“Hey, don’t get like that,” Sam said, breaking into Dean’s self-deprecating thought process.
“Like what?” Dead stood and limped away from Sam.
His brother had the uncanny knack of being able read him. It was a skill that annoyed Dean to no end. It was bad enough that Sam always wanted to talk out their feelings, but Sam being able to read them put Dean at a serious disadvantage.
“Like you did something wrong. Dad’s an adult, Dean. It shouldn’t be on you or me to take care of him like that. We’re not always gonna be there to pick him up, you know.”
Dean spun around, leaned into the cold plaster wall and crossed his arms over his bare chest, looking sour. “Where is it, that you think I’m gonna be? I haven’t got some geek scheme like you to run off to college. I ain’t never had a job, no real world skills and no intentions of pursuing either. Hell, I couldn’t even manage to take a week off to follow doctor’s orders; I had to go drum up a case on my own. This is the only thing I know; this job and this family. So tell me, Sammy, where am I ever gonna be, if I’m not with Dad? God, don’t look at me like that, Sam.”
Sam had turned and pulled himself up onto the bed, crossed his ankles and wrapped his long arms around his knees, hugging them to his chest. He sat there looking five years younger and worse, he looked ready to cry, his eyes glassy and his forehead, creased in an upside-down V.
“Look, man, I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you or anything, okay? I’m just being realistic. I’ve had a lot of time this week to really think about things. It was kinda like I had a chance to live on the other side, ya know?”
“You did live on the other side, Dean. You had school too, ‘til you dropped out. There were real people there too, ya know. Things…they could’ve been different, Dean.”
“Aw, Sam, come on. I’m glad you like school, I really am. And I’ll even admit that I’m proud of you for being so good at all that math geek stuff, but that’s not me. I was never gonna fit in there and that’s that.”
Sam let out an impatient breath.
“It could’ve been you, if you’d let it. I’ve been following you around my whole life, Dean and I know you. You’re smart; you could’ve gone to college, could’ve done anything, but instead you chose-”
“That’s right, Sammy. I chose. This…hunting…is what I’m gonna be doing for the rest of my life. These last few days…being forced to sit on my ass, waiting to hear back from you, while you were out doin’ my job…it damn near killed me. Then this job dropped into my lap and…it was like I started breathing again.”
Sam huffed irritably. “This is all you know, man, if-”
“It ain’t all I know,” Dean cut him off, “like you say, I’ve done the school thing, I’ve worked dead-end jobs sometimes to make ends meet, and this week…it’s been kinda eye opening. Shown me another option too.”
“What option?”
“This thing,” he circled his finger around the bare bedroom as if it were full of promise, “what Bobby’s got going on here…it works. He gets to do the job; gets to help people but he still has a life at the end of the day. It ain’t for me though. Not yet.”
Dean pushed away from the wall and made his way back to the bed. He sat down on the edge and then flopped back, folding his hands beneath his head as he looked up at the ceiling. “Maybe when I’m old and gray like Bobby,” he said, “but right now, I don’t wanna be tied down. I wanna be on the road…drift in to town, slay the monster, get the girl, ride off into the sunset-”
Sam snorted. “My God, you’re actually a hopeless romantic!”
Dean reached up and smacked the back of Sam’s head. “Shut up, bitch!”
Sam sniggered. “Jerk.”
He kicked his legs out and lay down beside Dean; found a spot on the ceiling to focus on and together the brothers laid in companionable silence for a moment and then Dean said:
“Did you know Bobby’s got a girlfriend?”
“What!?” Sam jerked his head to the side to stare wide-eyed at his brother.
“Josey,” Dean sing-songed with a sly grin and then he sighed. “God, Sam. You should see her. She’s something’; beautiful, funny and she don’t take no shit off Bobby,” he grinned.
“You got a crush on Bobby’s girlfriend?” Sam laughed.
“Nooo,” Dean shook his head, emphatically. “No. No. God no. I just…I don’t know. I don’t really remember a lot about Mom, but I’ve got this feeling of her, ya know? This image in my head of what she was like and Josey just sorta reminds me of her. It’s stupid.”
“I don’t think it’s stupid, Dean.” Sam said, looking at the ceiling once again. “I wish I had even just one memory of Mom.”
“Yeah,” Dean added quietly, “I know you do.”
They were silent again for a moment, both staring up at the ceiling, studying the cracks in the old plaster. Then Dean felt the bed move; the slightest vibration and he looked at his brother to find the kid with a hand over his mouth and his eyes screwed shut tight…laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” Sam said, trying to still his giggles. “It’s just…Bobby’s got a girlfriend?”
“Yeah,” Dean chuckled, “well, that’s not even the best part.”
“What?” Sam asked, turning onto his side, propping an elbow underneath him to look down on his brother.
“I guess…“ Dean said with the straightest face he could muster, “from what I can figure out…Bobby’s some kind of sex God.”
“What?!”
With one look at the horrified expression on Sam’s face, Dean was laughing loudly, clutching his stomach. He raised a hand and held up his fingers and said, “Three times in one night, dude.”
“Bullshit!” Sam said, slapping his hand down on Dean’s chest.
“Ow!” Dean cried, covering the reddening mark on his bare peck. He rocked up off of his back and moved off of the bed and out of Sam’s reach. “I swear to God,” he laughed.
“Crap!” Sam exclaimed. “I can never look at Bobby the same again. Why did you tell me that? I think I’m scarred for life.”
He fell over onto his back, covering his eyes in the crook of his elbow and joined Dean in laughing.
“Hey!” came the bellow from the bottom of the steps and the boys froze at the sound of Bobby’s voice, eyes wide and mouths clamped shut to hold in the peals of laughter. “If you two girls are done giggling,” Bobby called, “you got company.”
Dean ran to the window, pulled back the curtain and looked out on the drive.
“Clive’s truck,” he said and then whispered, “Mira.”
He grabbed up a pair of jeans from the floor and scrambled into them while pulling a day old shirt over his head.
“Who’s Clive?” Sam asked, grabbing a change of clothes from the duffle that had been brought in sometime that morning. “Who’s Mira? Dean?” But Dean was already out the door and on his way down the stairs.
Leaning heavily against the stair rail, Dean hobbled down the steps, but pulled up short when he was met at the bottom by Mira.
“You’re limping,” she stated simply.
“Only just a little.”
“D’you do this yesterday?”
Dean frowned. “Do you even remember the first time we met?”
“Yeah,” she stalled, “of course.”
Dean was about to argue the point with her when she cut him off and rushed into a well-practiced speech:
“Look, I came out here to apologize to you. What I did yesterday…deceiving you and convincing you to help me…it was reckless and inconsiderate of your circumstances.”
“Whoa.” Dean stepped down off the last step, his hands held up in surrender. “That’s way too many big words, too early in the morning for me.”
He set his hands on her shoulders, squared himself up with her and waited for him to look at him before saying, “I thought we got this all sorted out last night.”
“We did, but my uncle insisted I drive out and apologize to you and your uncle.”
“You talked to Bobby?” When she nodded, he continued, “Was he pissed?”
“Not really. He said that it was a lost cause to stop you once you got an idea in your head and I think he called us ‘idiots’.”
“Idjits. We’re good,” he said, breathing a sigh of relief, “If that’s the worst term he can come up with for us, then we’re fine.”
“So.” Dean looped his arms around her back and pulled her toward him, until he was leaned back against the railing. He let his head tip back so that he was looking down on her with lidded eyes and smiled.
“So,” she repeated.
“Was there…I don’t know…anything else you wanted to talk to me about?”
“Not that I can think of,” Mira replied, shaking her head and batting her big brown doe eyes at him.
“Cuz, if you were hoping to…you know…I can tell you that I’m not too banged up to-”
“Not too banged up for what?” Sam interjected, leaning over the rail¸ practically on top of them. He jogged the remainder of the way down the steps and rounded the corner, looking as sweet and innocent as a sixteen year old boy could possibly manage.
“Hi. You must be Mira. I’m Sam.”
“Oh, this is your brother?” Mira asked Dean excitedly. “Dean told me a little about you. It’s nice to meet you.” She reached over Dean’s arm and stuck her hand out for Sam to shake, but Dean beat Sam to the punch.
He snatched ahold of her hand and stammered, “Sam, Mira. Mira, Sam. Let me walk you to your truck.” Then he steered her toward the door, flashing a desperate look over his shoulder at his little brother; a warning not to follow.
Sam crossed his arms over his chest, shook his head and rolled his eyes, grinning after his brother. When the screen door slapped shut, he turned on a dime and headed into the library in search of Bobby and an update on his father.
“Sorry about that,” Dean said quietly as they walked slowly down the walk to where Clive’s truck was parked. “Sammy’s a sharer. If I’d let him get started, you’d be stuck here for days, know all my dirty secrets.”
When they stopped at the truck, Dean stuffed his hands down into his pockets and leaned back against the box. “A man’s gotta have some mysteries…to keep the ladies guessin’.”
“Of course,” she smiled, “I’d hate to find out that you were an easy lay or something.”
“As a matter of fact, I am an easy lay,” Dean laughed.
“Me too,” she said exaggeratedly, placing a hand over her chest and smiled when Dean laughed even louder.
After a minute of laughter, Mira sobered “You’re leaving aren’t you?”
“Probably. Dad’s not one to sit around too long, even if he is hurt.”
“God, we’ve got really lousy timing,” Mira sighed, leaning her hip into the door beside him.
“Pretty much,” Dean answered, but quickly added, “But not yesterday. We made a good team, you and me.”
“Yeah, we did. Let’s never do that again. Okay?”
“I don’t think that’s gonna be a problem. I’m pretty sure my Dad is gonna hand me my ass when he finds out. What we do…it’s pretty much an exclusive club. If people found out…it’d be real bad. They’d take Sammy away from-”
“Hey,” she stepped closer and laid a hand on Dean’s arm to stop the look of panic that flashed in his eyes, “I’m not gonna say anything to anyone about this. I’m so sorry, Dean. Honestly, if I’d known that I was putting your family in danger…all because I…”
“Because what?”
Struggling to find the words, Mira faltered. Her hand slipped further up his arm, latched onto his bicep and pulled him toward her.
Oh this is a bad idea, Dean thought. His mind raced, battling between his attraction for the girl and his concern for Bobby and his friendship with Clive; all the while his eyes fought for focus on the pink tongue that swiped across her soft lips. Pushing all rational thought aside, he followed her lead, leaned in and captured her kiss.
-X-
John came back to himself late the same morning of his and Sam's return. He awoke slowly, his long, dark eyelashes fluttered and then flew open wide when he realized something important had changed. There was no longer the rumble of his beloved Impala beneath him, or the grumblings of his angst-driven sixteen year old beside him. Sammy!
Jarred awake, John made to push himself up on the sofa but found he wasn't able to move his left arm and in that moment he panicked; a flail of limbs followed immediately by a restrained cry of pain.
"Whoa, whoa, easy there, tiger."
Bobby was there in an instant, soothing with gentle words and coaxing him back down on to the sofa with firm, warm hands and John eased beneath Bobby's insistence.
“You know where you’re at?” he asked the eldest Winchester and then raised his hands, conceding, “Alright, alright,” when John cast him a dark glower.
“Help me up,” John croaked, his voice raw from disuse. He offered his hand and Bobby grabbed hold just past the wrist and pulled him forward until he was sitting up, resting one elbow against his knee. “I feel like Hell,” he admitted, panting lightly.
“You look like it too. What the Hell happened out there?”
Taking a deep breath, John straightened in his seat and then sank into the sofa back, letting his head tip backwards, where the sun cast it’s warmth across his face. He closed his eyes and let out the breath, slow and purposefully, letting it extend into a low, vocalized groan.
“I fucked up, Bobby.” Bringing his good arm up, John shaded his eyes from the bright morning light that tipped off his eyelashes and reflected off his cheeks; too bright and cheery for John’s mood. “I let myself get distracted,” he continued, “Such a rookie mistake. God! I got myself hurt. I almost got Sammy-” his head popped up off of the back of the sofa, “Sammy. Where is Sam? Is he ok?”
“He’s fine, John,” Bobby assured, taking a seat on the arm of the sofa, “I sent the boys into town to scrounge us up some grub. Wasn’t really plannin’ on the two of you poppin’ in at 3am. Ain’t got nothin’ here to feed y’all.”
“Yeah, well, Sam got a bug up his ass and decided he was gonna drive straight through. He’s so damned stubborn; it’s like buttin’ heads with a bull. Dean was never like that,” John complained.
“He did learn from the best,” Bobby replied dryly. “You got everything handled though, right?”
“Yeah,” John huffed, “Sam did. Are we just getting too old for this shit?”
“Who you speakin’ for? Cuz I ain‘t old,” Bobby said, pointing to himself, smirking and shaking his head.
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say.” He let his head fall back again and groaned. “Christ, I hurt. S’it too soon for more meds? Somethin’ that’s not gonna knock me out?”
“S’not gonna hurt you to get s’more sleep.”
“I’ve already slept so long, I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck,” John reasoned. And then, as if he’d come to a decision, he sat up and scooted to the edge and made to stand. “I just gotta get up…get movin’. We’ll just get my arm fixed up again and then maybe we’ll head over to Caleb’s place and restock and call Jim and see if he’s-”
“It ain’t just your arm, John.” Bobby jumped up from his spot on the arm of the sofa and stepped in front of the eldest Winchester, successfully blocking his rise. “You’re banged up six ways from Sunday. What you need to do is stay here and get healed up. Ain’t that what you told Dean?”
“You know I just said that to get him off my case about goin’,” John groused.
“Did you now?” Bobby asked, his voice infused with skepticism and the beginnings of anger. “Really? Well,” he huffed, “I’m not about to play games with you, like you did your kid. I’m telling you straight out that you’re gonna sit your stubborn ass still until I’m good and satisfied that you ain’t gonna pass out with infection.”
“What are you, my fuckin’ mother?”
“You want me to be?” Bobby challenged.
“You’re not gonna tell me,” John grunted, trying to rise again, “what to do, Singer.”
“No, but we will.”
Surprised, John and Bobby both turned toward the additional voice, to where Dean and Sam were looming in the doorway of the library. Dean stood, bowlegged as ever, looking like a rebel without a cause with his thumbs tucked into the waistband of his jeans; his not-so-little brother, guarding the rear with his arms crossed sternly over his broadening chest and his head tilted as if to say, ‘just try it, dummy’.
“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” Dean said resolutely.
John couldn’t hide the slight grimace at their unified front, whereas Bobby couldn’t help but smile, a light chuckle puffing through his nostrils. In them, he saw the formidable pair these two young men would one day become. John must have seen it too, because he sat down, frowning but not saying a word as if he were a child that had been scolded.
John felt Dean’s eyes follow him down on to the sofa; a hard, penetrating look that made him want to squirm under their scrutiny, but for whatever reason, John couldn’t bring himself to look into those eyes that we so like Mary’s.
“Ok,” Sam announced brightly, pushing past his brother into the room and bringing with him a plastic bag, stacked high with polystyrene. “We brought food; today’s special: ham roast, new potatoes and three-bean salad.”
Bobby took the bag out of Sam’s hands, popped the lid of the top white clam-shell container and let the scented steam engulf his face.
“And of course Dean had to get pie,” Sam added, shaking his head humorously and rolling his eyes.
Dean shrugged his shoulders and accepted Sam’s teasing jab. He stepped into the room fully and let the unspoken tension between him and his father float away on a scent of honey and brown sugared ham.
“It’s strawberry rhubarb,” Dean remarked, pulling a face, “that’s one too many vegetables if you ask me, but it’s all they had out this morning and it’s Gert’s, so you know it’s awesome.”
Not truly able to trust his equilibrium because of the meds in his system, John was stuck on the sofa and feeling a bit left out of the conversation. There was a small voice in the back of his head that whispered of jealousy while he watched his sons chatter animatedly with Bobby and each other over the bag of food and silently John wished he could have some semblance of the relationship with the boys that Bobby made seem so effortless.
“Who’s Gert?” John interjected suddenly before he even knew what he was saying.
It came out a little rougher than he’d intended, he could tell, because the conversation halted and all attention turned to Dean, who had stiffened at his father’s question.
“Gert?” Dean echoed.
The young man rolled his shoulders back, tipped his chin up and to the side, stretching and cracking his neck, and Bobby and Sam held their breath in anticipation of Dean’s reaction.
A slow smile spread across Dean’s face and when his eyes flicked up to meet Bobby’s, the ornery flash within the jade made the older hunter groan and roll his own eyes.
“Gert’s just a girlfriend, Dad.” Dean turned and flashed his father one of his patented, charismatic smiles.
“A girlfriend?” John repeated in monotone, casting Dean a look of skepticism.
“You’ll love her. She makes a mean peach pie.”
“Pie.” John’s mouth creased around the corners, lost somewhere between annoyance and humor. “Well, of course she does,” he added with the roll of his eyes. He gave Bobby a sideways glance and tried his best to frown, “I thought you were gonna keep him occupied and out of trouble.”
Bobby gave him an exaggerated shrug in return. “He was occupied,” Bobby said, snagging Sam by the shirt sleeve and steering him into the kitchen with the food.
Dean turned to follow them, but was caught up by one sharp command from his father.
“Sit,” John directed and Dean obeyed immediately, sitting next to his father.
“So…a girlfriend, huh?”
Dean couldn’t stop the flush that crept across his face and up and down the length of his neck and into his hair. The idea of referring to sweet, grandmotherly Gert as his girlfriend…Dean wanted to slap himself upside the head for such a stupid idea. He’d only meant the comment as a joke, not to stir some deep seated parental instinct in his father.
“Crap,” he sagged in his seat, “Don’t give me the birds and the bees again. Please?” he begged. “I’ve already heard it once this week from Bobby. It‘s not even true, what I said. I was joking. Bobby, tell him!”
“Tell him, what?” Bobby asked innocently from the other room.
“Tell him I was kidding about Gert,” Dean begged.
“Dean and Gert? They’re adorable together,” Bobby replied and then quickly turned away so he and Sam could have a good laugh at Dean’s expense.
“Traitor!”
Next Part - Back to Master Post
It was the cool rush of air and the finger tracing up his bare foot that woke Dean. He jumped with a hiss, pulling his feet up and away from the attack, tucking them back beneath the warm blanket. Rolling into an upright position, Dean scowled up into the bright morning light and the man shadowed there in the doorway.
“Oh, you are awake,” Bobby teased.
Dean groaned his disagreement and let his head fall against the seat back, eyeing Bobby with only one eye slit open.
“You wanna try helping your old man into the house?”
That woke Dean up. He took a deep breath, yawning and stretching, his blanket falling down around his waist which he instantly regretted. The cool moist morning air rushed across his skin and he shivered visibly before pulling the blanket around his bare torso.
Dean slid across the seat, stepping out of the vehicle and wrapping the blanket around his chilled back. Bobby already had John’s door open and was leaned into the car talking softly.
“Gonna help you up and out, okay? But you’ve gotta walk for us.”
Bobby pulled John’s feet free of the car, turning the eldest Winchester in the process. John seemed to vaguely recognize what was going on and on the count of three, Bobby pulled the man to his feet, wrapping a strong arm around his waist to support him.
Dean joined them, ducking under his father’s uninjured arm and also wrapping his arm around his dad, clasping a hold of Bobby’s arm to solidify the support.
Slowly and very carefully, they walked John up the walk and stairs and into the house. Bobby directed them to the library sofa, cautiously lowering the injured man onto the seat.
John sank into the sofa, letting himself slide down the back until he was lying prone. Dean lifted his father’s feet and with a light tug, had the boots pulled free and John’s legs stretched over the length.
“Here,” he said, handing Bobby the blanket to lay across John. “I’m gonna go check on Sammy.”
Dean hobbled up the stairs, trying to remain as quiet as possible, not wanting to wake either his dad downstairs or his brother upstairs. Opening the door to their shared bedroom, he smiled lazily and trudged to the bed where his not-so-little brother was splayed out on his belly; face buried in Dean’s pillow and feet hanging off the end like he hadn’t managed to climb all the way into it before falling asleep. It wasn’t even his bed, for crying out loud, it was Dean’s, but having done the exact same thing just a couple nights before, Dean understood that subconscious need to reconnect and he silently promised that he wouldn’t even tease Sammy about it. Not much at least.
Dean climbed up into the single bed with his brother, slid up until his back met the wall, and just sat there, watching Sam sleep and doing a visual once over for injuries. Sam had said that he wasn’t hurt, but one could never be too careful with a Winchester. They had all been guilty of hiding injuries at one time or another.
But looking Sam over now was like a shock of cold water. The kid brother who lay sprawled out over the bed wasn’t so much kid as he was man. Lean legs that had grown impossibly long and were still growing. Taut, sinewy arms that carried the light feathering of dark hair that Sam had inherited from their father. A frame that grew broad at lightning speed, threatening to and quite possibly succeeding in overtaking Dean’s own frame by the end of the year and all of this packaged in hand-me-down underclothes that-like magic-had grown two sizes too small for the kid in just a week’s time. When had this happened? Dean wondered, absentmindedly carding his fingers through the overgrowth that Sam called hair.
Sam had always worn his hair a bit long. When they had been much younger, both Sam and Dean had had curls. Natural, soft, round curls; Dean’s had been the color of wheat, where Sam’s had been a rich mahogany and their father had secretly loved their curls, idly running his thick fingers through the spongy tresses while reading to one or both of the boys before bed.
Dean’s curls had grown out and he had grown up, adopting a shorter cut which was utilitarian and simple; one John had favored.
“Now that’s a good haircut,” John would boast, messing the fringe at Dean’s forehead, proudly.
Dean could live on the approval of his father. He could eat it up and sustain himself for weeks on just one ‘good job, son’, but there was always a downside to the praise he received.
“See, Sammy. That’s how you cut hair. Why can’t you be more like your brother?”
Dean didn’t know how or why the rivalry between his father and brother had started; but he knew it had started early on, and that most of the blame could be placed on his father’s shoulders. John had, for as long as Dean could remember, tried to convince Sam to do things his way.
When they were real young it was, ‘Stay here, be quiet, don’t move,’ but as they got older and Sam came to understand what was really going on, John’s instructions changed. They became, ‘Move faster, fight harder, do what I say’. Dean just figured it was John’s way of protecting them. If he did as his father asked, everything would turn out okay, but Sammy didn’t see it that way. Sam had to be different, had to buck their father’s system at every open opportunity and his longest standing ‘screw you, Dad’ was his hair.
“Well, at least this didn’t change while you were gone,” Dean said beneath his breath, still combing through the sleep tangled mess. Dean grinned shamelessly, knowing that his brother would be livid if he was to catch Dean ‘petting’ him, but he didn’t care. “Always gonna be my little brother. No matter how big you get.”
Sam chose that moment to sigh deeply, his chest filling to capacity and then emptying quickly. He adjusted position, turned onto his side and reached out to wrap a long arm around Dean’s still bare lower legs, hugging them to him and burying his face in the warmth between the mattress and the side of Dean’s calf.
“Dude, get off me,” Dean complained, struggling, but only a little, to free his legs. But the scissoring of Dean’s legs, merely encouraged Sam to hold on that much tighter and Dean heard and felt a muffled objection vibrate against his skin.
“Aw, does widdle Sammy wanna snuggle? Ouch!” Dean yipped, his legs jumping under Sam’s touch. “Did you just pinch me?”
“Mmmhmm,” Sam’s chest rumbled. He pushed away from his brother and rolled up into a sitting position, socked feet touching down lightly on the bare floor. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and rubbed a hand roughly through the hair which Dean had just combed out.
“How’s Dad?” Sam remembered suddenly, looking over his shoulder at his brother still sitting against the wall.
“Still sleeping. Bobby and I brought him inside a little while ago.”
“S’good. He needs some real sleep. How’s his arm?”
“Bobby’ll see to it.”
Sam nodded silently, his head dropping until his chin touched the thin cotton of his t-shirt.
“How are you?” Dean asked hesitantly, recognizing the tension that was stretched tight across Sam’s shoulders when he shrugged his reply. Dean knew that feeling; had been in that position plenty of times before. “Whatever happened out there…you know it’s not your fault, don’t you?”
“You sure about that?”
Sam angled his face back toward his brother, but didn’t meet his eyes, choosing instead to glower down at the mattress, picking at the frayed edges of the top sheet and pulling a stray pale yellow thread from the weave.
“You don’t know what happened, Dean. How can you be sure it wasn’t my fault?”
Sam’s words were a challenge. A challenge without bite, but a challenge none the less and Dean understood that feeling too; the overwhelming responsibility of being Dad’s second. Oh yeah, Dean knew that one well. Not bothering to gauge Sam’s body language, Dean slid across the bed until he sat beside his brother and bumped shoulders.
“Cuz I know you, Sammy. Better than anybody. You‘re a pain in the ass most of the time…” Dean couldn’t help but smirk when he felt Sam’s bitchface focus sideways at him, “but you never miss; not when it really counts. S’nobody I’d rather have at my back than you. Not even Dad.”
“He’d have been better off with you there.”
“Well, yeah, Sammy,” he snorted. “Now we’re just stating the obvious.”
“S’not what I mean, Dean. Dad was…”Sam looked back down into his lap, feeling like he was tattling on his father, but it had to be said, “distracted…the whole time; edgy, moodier than normal and drunk almost every night…and once during the day. It sucked and I didn’t make it any better. I could have, but I didn’t. ”
Dean’s eyes dropped into his own lap at Sam’s divulgence, feeling a new wave of guilt wash over him. Just one more way he’d failed his family.
“M’sorry, Sammy. I shoulda been there. It shouldn‘t have had to be you. ”
“What are you talking about?”
Dean looked up to find his little brother staring at him earnestly, his eyebrows tucked together high on his forehead and his hazel eyes looking almost brown, completing the “puppy dog eyes of doom” look that had forever been Dean’s downfall; John’s too, for that matter.
“Dean, you were hurt and you needed to be here, to heal. Man, it’s not your fault that Dad has no coping mechanisms, what-so-ever,” Sam emphasized every syllable, rolling his eyes. “I mean, I missed you too, but you don’t see me stumbling in at nine o’clock in the morning, blitzed out of my mind, do ya?”
“Missed me?” Dean frowned at his brother, blanching at the idea of his father on a week-long bender because he missed his son.
“Yeah, what did you think I meant?”
For a long time, Dean didn’t say anything. He leaned forward, propped himself up against his knees and rolled Sam’s words around in his head.
Sam too, leaned forward again, with his face tilted in Dean’s direction, watching and studying the thought processes played across his brother’s face and in his posturing.
“Stop thinking so hard,” he finally said to his brother and knocked shoulders with him. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”
“Shut up.” Dean bumped him back. “I just can’t…you know…wrap my head around the idea of Dad missing me. He never actually said that though…did he?”
“Sure. Dad talks about his feelings all the time,” Sam answered sarcastically. “Duh, Dean. Of course he didn’t, but you don’t need to be a mind reader to figure it out. And the drunken mumblings about you were a pretty big clue.”
“He was bad?”
Dean swallowed hard against the lump forming in his throat. Sam wasn’t a little kid anymore, but still, Dean had always tried to make it so his little brother didn’t have to deal with their father when he was blind drunk and sick. It didn’t happen all that often, Dean told himself, just often enough for him to become real good at soothing the loud, boisterous outbursts that always seemed to accompany John home from the bar.
John had trained Dean to always be alert, even in sleep, just in case something came after them and Dean had taken to that training well. He’d lived it; one hand buried beneath his pillow, curled around his weapon of choice, one ear turned towards the room, listening for the slightest noise, be it witch or ghoul, cop or child services, or even John himself.
Those nights that it was John, Dean would rise quickly and quietly so as not to wake his brother and go to his father, talking in low, gentle tones. He’d bring three aspirin and a glass of water, strip the man of his boots and help him to the bathroom and then to bed or sofa, whichever promised the least hassle and chance of waking Sam. It was a job at which Dean excelled; taking care of his family. It was a job which should never have been thrust upon him to begin with and now, in having been injured, Dean had thrust that same responsibility on Sam without even giving the kid a chance to read the operator’s manual. He’d practically set his little brother up for failure and it made Dean’s head and heart hurt to think of what Sam had most likely had to put up with over the last week because of his own absence.
“Hey, don’t get like that,” Sam said, breaking into Dean’s self-deprecating thought process.
“Like what?” Dead stood and limped away from Sam.
His brother had the uncanny knack of being able read him. It was a skill that annoyed Dean to no end. It was bad enough that Sam always wanted to talk out their feelings, but Sam being able to read them put Dean at a serious disadvantage.
“Like you did something wrong. Dad’s an adult, Dean. It shouldn’t be on you or me to take care of him like that. We’re not always gonna be there to pick him up, you know.”
Dean spun around, leaned into the cold plaster wall and crossed his arms over his bare chest, looking sour. “Where is it, that you think I’m gonna be? I haven’t got some geek scheme like you to run off to college. I ain’t never had a job, no real world skills and no intentions of pursuing either. Hell, I couldn’t even manage to take a week off to follow doctor’s orders; I had to go drum up a case on my own. This is the only thing I know; this job and this family. So tell me, Sammy, where am I ever gonna be, if I’m not with Dad? God, don’t look at me like that, Sam.”
Sam had turned and pulled himself up onto the bed, crossed his ankles and wrapped his long arms around his knees, hugging them to his chest. He sat there looking five years younger and worse, he looked ready to cry, his eyes glassy and his forehead, creased in an upside-down V.
“Look, man, I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you or anything, okay? I’m just being realistic. I’ve had a lot of time this week to really think about things. It was kinda like I had a chance to live on the other side, ya know?”
“You did live on the other side, Dean. You had school too, ‘til you dropped out. There were real people there too, ya know. Things…they could’ve been different, Dean.”
“Aw, Sam, come on. I’m glad you like school, I really am. And I’ll even admit that I’m proud of you for being so good at all that math geek stuff, but that’s not me. I was never gonna fit in there and that’s that.”
Sam let out an impatient breath.
“It could’ve been you, if you’d let it. I’ve been following you around my whole life, Dean and I know you. You’re smart; you could’ve gone to college, could’ve done anything, but instead you chose-”
“That’s right, Sammy. I chose. This…hunting…is what I’m gonna be doing for the rest of my life. These last few days…being forced to sit on my ass, waiting to hear back from you, while you were out doin’ my job…it damn near killed me. Then this job dropped into my lap and…it was like I started breathing again.”
Sam huffed irritably. “This is all you know, man, if-”
“It ain’t all I know,” Dean cut him off, “like you say, I’ve done the school thing, I’ve worked dead-end jobs sometimes to make ends meet, and this week…it’s been kinda eye opening. Shown me another option too.”
“What option?”
“This thing,” he circled his finger around the bare bedroom as if it were full of promise, “what Bobby’s got going on here…it works. He gets to do the job; gets to help people but he still has a life at the end of the day. It ain’t for me though. Not yet.”
Dean pushed away from the wall and made his way back to the bed. He sat down on the edge and then flopped back, folding his hands beneath his head as he looked up at the ceiling. “Maybe when I’m old and gray like Bobby,” he said, “but right now, I don’t wanna be tied down. I wanna be on the road…drift in to town, slay the monster, get the girl, ride off into the sunset-”
Sam snorted. “My God, you’re actually a hopeless romantic!”
Dean reached up and smacked the back of Sam’s head. “Shut up, bitch!”
Sam sniggered. “Jerk.”
He kicked his legs out and lay down beside Dean; found a spot on the ceiling to focus on and together the brothers laid in companionable silence for a moment and then Dean said:
“Did you know Bobby’s got a girlfriend?”
“What!?” Sam jerked his head to the side to stare wide-eyed at his brother.
“Josey,” Dean sing-songed with a sly grin and then he sighed. “God, Sam. You should see her. She’s something’; beautiful, funny and she don’t take no shit off Bobby,” he grinned.
“You got a crush on Bobby’s girlfriend?” Sam laughed.
“Nooo,” Dean shook his head, emphatically. “No. No. God no. I just…I don’t know. I don’t really remember a lot about Mom, but I’ve got this feeling of her, ya know? This image in my head of what she was like and Josey just sorta reminds me of her. It’s stupid.”
“I don’t think it’s stupid, Dean.” Sam said, looking at the ceiling once again. “I wish I had even just one memory of Mom.”
“Yeah,” Dean added quietly, “I know you do.”
They were silent again for a moment, both staring up at the ceiling, studying the cracks in the old plaster. Then Dean felt the bed move; the slightest vibration and he looked at his brother to find the kid with a hand over his mouth and his eyes screwed shut tight…laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” Sam said, trying to still his giggles. “It’s just…Bobby’s got a girlfriend?”
“Yeah,” Dean chuckled, “well, that’s not even the best part.”
“What?” Sam asked, turning onto his side, propping an elbow underneath him to look down on his brother.
“I guess…“ Dean said with the straightest face he could muster, “from what I can figure out…Bobby’s some kind of sex God.”
“What?!”
With one look at the horrified expression on Sam’s face, Dean was laughing loudly, clutching his stomach. He raised a hand and held up his fingers and said, “Three times in one night, dude.”
“Bullshit!” Sam said, slapping his hand down on Dean’s chest.
“Ow!” Dean cried, covering the reddening mark on his bare peck. He rocked up off of his back and moved off of the bed and out of Sam’s reach. “I swear to God,” he laughed.
“Crap!” Sam exclaimed. “I can never look at Bobby the same again. Why did you tell me that? I think I’m scarred for life.”
He fell over onto his back, covering his eyes in the crook of his elbow and joined Dean in laughing.
“Hey!” came the bellow from the bottom of the steps and the boys froze at the sound of Bobby’s voice, eyes wide and mouths clamped shut to hold in the peals of laughter. “If you two girls are done giggling,” Bobby called, “you got company.”
Dean ran to the window, pulled back the curtain and looked out on the drive.
“Clive’s truck,” he said and then whispered, “Mira.”
He grabbed up a pair of jeans from the floor and scrambled into them while pulling a day old shirt over his head.
“Who’s Clive?” Sam asked, grabbing a change of clothes from the duffle that had been brought in sometime that morning. “Who’s Mira? Dean?” But Dean was already out the door and on his way down the stairs.
Leaning heavily against the stair rail, Dean hobbled down the steps, but pulled up short when he was met at the bottom by Mira.
“You’re limping,” she stated simply.
“Only just a little.”
“D’you do this yesterday?”
Dean frowned. “Do you even remember the first time we met?”
“Yeah,” she stalled, “of course.”
Dean was about to argue the point with her when she cut him off and rushed into a well-practiced speech:
“Look, I came out here to apologize to you. What I did yesterday…deceiving you and convincing you to help me…it was reckless and inconsiderate of your circumstances.”
“Whoa.” Dean stepped down off the last step, his hands held up in surrender. “That’s way too many big words, too early in the morning for me.”
He set his hands on her shoulders, squared himself up with her and waited for him to look at him before saying, “I thought we got this all sorted out last night.”
“We did, but my uncle insisted I drive out and apologize to you and your uncle.”
“You talked to Bobby?” When she nodded, he continued, “Was he pissed?”
“Not really. He said that it was a lost cause to stop you once you got an idea in your head and I think he called us ‘idiots’.”
“Idjits. We’re good,” he said, breathing a sigh of relief, “If that’s the worst term he can come up with for us, then we’re fine.”
“So.” Dean looped his arms around her back and pulled her toward him, until he was leaned back against the railing. He let his head tip back so that he was looking down on her with lidded eyes and smiled.
“So,” she repeated.
“Was there…I don’t know…anything else you wanted to talk to me about?”
“Not that I can think of,” Mira replied, shaking her head and batting her big brown doe eyes at him.
“Cuz, if you were hoping to…you know…I can tell you that I’m not too banged up to-”
“Not too banged up for what?” Sam interjected, leaning over the rail¸ practically on top of them. He jogged the remainder of the way down the steps and rounded the corner, looking as sweet and innocent as a sixteen year old boy could possibly manage.
“Hi. You must be Mira. I’m Sam.”
“Oh, this is your brother?” Mira asked Dean excitedly. “Dean told me a little about you. It’s nice to meet you.” She reached over Dean’s arm and stuck her hand out for Sam to shake, but Dean beat Sam to the punch.
He snatched ahold of her hand and stammered, “Sam, Mira. Mira, Sam. Let me walk you to your truck.” Then he steered her toward the door, flashing a desperate look over his shoulder at his little brother; a warning not to follow.
Sam crossed his arms over his chest, shook his head and rolled his eyes, grinning after his brother. When the screen door slapped shut, he turned on a dime and headed into the library in search of Bobby and an update on his father.
“Sorry about that,” Dean said quietly as they walked slowly down the walk to where Clive’s truck was parked. “Sammy’s a sharer. If I’d let him get started, you’d be stuck here for days, know all my dirty secrets.”
When they stopped at the truck, Dean stuffed his hands down into his pockets and leaned back against the box. “A man’s gotta have some mysteries…to keep the ladies guessin’.”
“Of course,” she smiled, “I’d hate to find out that you were an easy lay or something.”
“As a matter of fact, I am an easy lay,” Dean laughed.
“Me too,” she said exaggeratedly, placing a hand over her chest and smiled when Dean laughed even louder.
After a minute of laughter, Mira sobered “You’re leaving aren’t you?”
“Probably. Dad’s not one to sit around too long, even if he is hurt.”
“God, we’ve got really lousy timing,” Mira sighed, leaning her hip into the door beside him.
“Pretty much,” Dean answered, but quickly added, “But not yesterday. We made a good team, you and me.”
“Yeah, we did. Let’s never do that again. Okay?”
“I don’t think that’s gonna be a problem. I’m pretty sure my Dad is gonna hand me my ass when he finds out. What we do…it’s pretty much an exclusive club. If people found out…it’d be real bad. They’d take Sammy away from-”
“Hey,” she stepped closer and laid a hand on Dean’s arm to stop the look of panic that flashed in his eyes, “I’m not gonna say anything to anyone about this. I’m so sorry, Dean. Honestly, if I’d known that I was putting your family in danger…all because I…”
“Because what?”
Struggling to find the words, Mira faltered. Her hand slipped further up his arm, latched onto his bicep and pulled him toward her.
Oh this is a bad idea, Dean thought. His mind raced, battling between his attraction for the girl and his concern for Bobby and his friendship with Clive; all the while his eyes fought for focus on the pink tongue that swiped across her soft lips. Pushing all rational thought aside, he followed her lead, leaned in and captured her kiss.
-X-
John came back to himself late the same morning of his and Sam's return. He awoke slowly, his long, dark eyelashes fluttered and then flew open wide when he realized something important had changed. There was no longer the rumble of his beloved Impala beneath him, or the grumblings of his angst-driven sixteen year old beside him. Sammy!
Jarred awake, John made to push himself up on the sofa but found he wasn't able to move his left arm and in that moment he panicked; a flail of limbs followed immediately by a restrained cry of pain.
"Whoa, whoa, easy there, tiger."
Bobby was there in an instant, soothing with gentle words and coaxing him back down on to the sofa with firm, warm hands and John eased beneath Bobby's insistence.
“You know where you’re at?” he asked the eldest Winchester and then raised his hands, conceding, “Alright, alright,” when John cast him a dark glower.
“Help me up,” John croaked, his voice raw from disuse. He offered his hand and Bobby grabbed hold just past the wrist and pulled him forward until he was sitting up, resting one elbow against his knee. “I feel like Hell,” he admitted, panting lightly.
“You look like it too. What the Hell happened out there?”
Taking a deep breath, John straightened in his seat and then sank into the sofa back, letting his head tip backwards, where the sun cast it’s warmth across his face. He closed his eyes and let out the breath, slow and purposefully, letting it extend into a low, vocalized groan.
“I fucked up, Bobby.” Bringing his good arm up, John shaded his eyes from the bright morning light that tipped off his eyelashes and reflected off his cheeks; too bright and cheery for John’s mood. “I let myself get distracted,” he continued, “Such a rookie mistake. God! I got myself hurt. I almost got Sammy-” his head popped up off of the back of the sofa, “Sammy. Where is Sam? Is he ok?”
“He’s fine, John,” Bobby assured, taking a seat on the arm of the sofa, “I sent the boys into town to scrounge us up some grub. Wasn’t really plannin’ on the two of you poppin’ in at 3am. Ain’t got nothin’ here to feed y’all.”
“Yeah, well, Sam got a bug up his ass and decided he was gonna drive straight through. He’s so damned stubborn; it’s like buttin’ heads with a bull. Dean was never like that,” John complained.
“He did learn from the best,” Bobby replied dryly. “You got everything handled though, right?”
“Yeah,” John huffed, “Sam did. Are we just getting too old for this shit?”
“Who you speakin’ for? Cuz I ain‘t old,” Bobby said, pointing to himself, smirking and shaking his head.
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say.” He let his head fall back again and groaned. “Christ, I hurt. S’it too soon for more meds? Somethin’ that’s not gonna knock me out?”
“S’not gonna hurt you to get s’more sleep.”
“I’ve already slept so long, I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck,” John reasoned. And then, as if he’d come to a decision, he sat up and scooted to the edge and made to stand. “I just gotta get up…get movin’. We’ll just get my arm fixed up again and then maybe we’ll head over to Caleb’s place and restock and call Jim and see if he’s-”
“It ain’t just your arm, John.” Bobby jumped up from his spot on the arm of the sofa and stepped in front of the eldest Winchester, successfully blocking his rise. “You’re banged up six ways from Sunday. What you need to do is stay here and get healed up. Ain’t that what you told Dean?”
“You know I just said that to get him off my case about goin’,” John groused.
“Did you now?” Bobby asked, his voice infused with skepticism and the beginnings of anger. “Really? Well,” he huffed, “I’m not about to play games with you, like you did your kid. I’m telling you straight out that you’re gonna sit your stubborn ass still until I’m good and satisfied that you ain’t gonna pass out with infection.”
“What are you, my fuckin’ mother?”
“You want me to be?” Bobby challenged.
“You’re not gonna tell me,” John grunted, trying to rise again, “what to do, Singer.”
“No, but we will.”
Surprised, John and Bobby both turned toward the additional voice, to where Dean and Sam were looming in the doorway of the library. Dean stood, bowlegged as ever, looking like a rebel without a cause with his thumbs tucked into the waistband of his jeans; his not-so-little brother, guarding the rear with his arms crossed sternly over his broadening chest and his head tilted as if to say, ‘just try it, dummy’.
“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” Dean said resolutely.
John couldn’t hide the slight grimace at their unified front, whereas Bobby couldn’t help but smile, a light chuckle puffing through his nostrils. In them, he saw the formidable pair these two young men would one day become. John must have seen it too, because he sat down, frowning but not saying a word as if he were a child that had been scolded.
John felt Dean’s eyes follow him down on to the sofa; a hard, penetrating look that made him want to squirm under their scrutiny, but for whatever reason, John couldn’t bring himself to look into those eyes that we so like Mary’s.
“Ok,” Sam announced brightly, pushing past his brother into the room and bringing with him a plastic bag, stacked high with polystyrene. “We brought food; today’s special: ham roast, new potatoes and three-bean salad.”
Bobby took the bag out of Sam’s hands, popped the lid of the top white clam-shell container and let the scented steam engulf his face.
“And of course Dean had to get pie,” Sam added, shaking his head humorously and rolling his eyes.
Dean shrugged his shoulders and accepted Sam’s teasing jab. He stepped into the room fully and let the unspoken tension between him and his father float away on a scent of honey and brown sugared ham.
“It’s strawberry rhubarb,” Dean remarked, pulling a face, “that’s one too many vegetables if you ask me, but it’s all they had out this morning and it’s Gert’s, so you know it’s awesome.”
Not truly able to trust his equilibrium because of the meds in his system, John was stuck on the sofa and feeling a bit left out of the conversation. There was a small voice in the back of his head that whispered of jealousy while he watched his sons chatter animatedly with Bobby and each other over the bag of food and silently John wished he could have some semblance of the relationship with the boys that Bobby made seem so effortless.
“Who’s Gert?” John interjected suddenly before he even knew what he was saying.
It came out a little rougher than he’d intended, he could tell, because the conversation halted and all attention turned to Dean, who had stiffened at his father’s question.
“Gert?” Dean echoed.
The young man rolled his shoulders back, tipped his chin up and to the side, stretching and cracking his neck, and Bobby and Sam held their breath in anticipation of Dean’s reaction.
A slow smile spread across Dean’s face and when his eyes flicked up to meet Bobby’s, the ornery flash within the jade made the older hunter groan and roll his own eyes.
“Gert’s just a girlfriend, Dad.” Dean turned and flashed his father one of his patented, charismatic smiles.
“A girlfriend?” John repeated in monotone, casting Dean a look of skepticism.
“You’ll love her. She makes a mean peach pie.”
“Pie.” John’s mouth creased around the corners, lost somewhere between annoyance and humor. “Well, of course she does,” he added with the roll of his eyes. He gave Bobby a sideways glance and tried his best to frown, “I thought you were gonna keep him occupied and out of trouble.”
Bobby gave him an exaggerated shrug in return. “He was occupied,” Bobby said, snagging Sam by the shirt sleeve and steering him into the kitchen with the food.
Dean turned to follow them, but was caught up by one sharp command from his father.
“Sit,” John directed and Dean obeyed immediately, sitting next to his father.
“So…a girlfriend, huh?”
Dean couldn’t stop the flush that crept across his face and up and down the length of his neck and into his hair. The idea of referring to sweet, grandmotherly Gert as his girlfriend…Dean wanted to slap himself upside the head for such a stupid idea. He’d only meant the comment as a joke, not to stir some deep seated parental instinct in his father.
“Crap,” he sagged in his seat, “Don’t give me the birds and the bees again. Please?” he begged. “I’ve already heard it once this week from Bobby. It‘s not even true, what I said. I was joking. Bobby, tell him!”
“Tell him, what?” Bobby asked innocently from the other room.
“Tell him I was kidding about Gert,” Dean begged.
“Dean and Gert? They’re adorable together,” Bobby replied and then quickly turned away so he and Sam could have a good laugh at Dean’s expense.
“Traitor!”
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