Fic: Statues and Pancakes
Title: Statues and Pancakes
Author: alexjanna91
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam(15)/Dean(19)
Series: Ignorance is Bliss
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Pre-Series AU
Word Count: 2,642
Warning: wincest, underage, established relationship, John!PoV, denial!John, John-sorta-not-really-finds-out, (insert here)-made-them-do-it
Summary: Never touch the ancient, powerful looking statues! John just hopes he and the boys live through this with as little physical… and emotional scars as possible.
A/N: Fourth One-shot from John’s point of view of the boys in a very unfortunate situation. Poor John just can’t catch a break.
*
John didn’t know how many times he’s told the boys not to fricking touch anything old and powerful and cursed, but inevitably one of the idiots is going to flout conventional wisdom and years of training and touch something.
This time it was Sam. Fifteen year-old Sam that was locked in their motel room moaning and groaning and screaming bloody murder as the curse rode through him like a hurricane. It sounded like the boy was being tortured with a side of strangled cats thrown in for kicks.
The sounds of his youngest son’s pain and torment grated against John’s nerves like glass against bone. The sporadic thuds and bumps and poundings as Sam’s body hit the walls and furniture and floor in his struggles made every muscle in John’s body clench with the need to get in there and just make it stop.
“Ah! God! Please! Oooooh! Fuck! I need it! Please!”
The motel door gave a mighty shudder as Sam’s body collided with it from the other side. John cringed and cursed under his breath.
“Fucking fertility gods.”
It just had to be a statue of a fertility god that Sam touched: Quetesh, the Egyptian Goddess of fertility, sacred ecstasy, and sexual pleasure. Or at least that’s what the plaque beneath the little deity said back at the haunted museum.
And the irony of it all? John thought as the sound of Sam’s moans seemed to reach a whole new decibel and an ominous thump that sounded suspiciously like one of the motel beds colliding with a wall echoed from behind the door. The irony was that they weren’t even sneaking around the damned museum because of a cursed statue. They were on a simple salt and burn and had just taken a short cut through the Egyptian exhibit on their way to the curator’s office.
It should have gone off without a hitch except John, for some unfathomable reason, had neglected to take into account Sam’s newfound clumsiness he seemed to be struggling with ever since he shot up four inches over the summer.
The kid was bumping into thin air and tripping over his own feet. Looking back, it seemed inevitable that Sam would stumble at just the wrong time and crash face first into a display pedestal featuring a very ancient, very powerful statue.
Good news, however, was that the effects of the curse should wear off in about… twelve hours.
Sam’s voice came from the motel room again followed by the pounding of a fist against the door. He was begging to be let out, begging for John didn’t want to know what, and calling for his brother.
“Dean!” Sam drew out the name like it was twenty letters long and completely imperative to his survival. John hadn’t heard that tone in Sam’s voice since he was five years old and only Dean had been allowed to kiss his scraped knees better.
Low, furious cursing and the scrape of heavy boots on the pavement drew John’s eyes to his oldest son as Dean paced and swore and generally looked like he was being tortured right along with Sam.
“I can’t take this.” Dean growled as he turned on his heel stormed back toward the motel room. “I can’t just leave him in there like this.”
“There’s no choice, Dean.” John said trying to sound comforting and knowing he only sounded just as frustrated. “The curse will ride itself out in a few hours and then Sam will be fine.”
There was a shattering crash and another high moan of wanting floated from the room. John winced and Dean looked like he was a breath away from rushing the door.
“Come over here and sit, son.” John patted the place on the hood of the Impala next to him. “We’ll be here the entire time; nothing’s going to happen to Sam in there. We won’t let it.”
Dean looked dubious at that and John didn’t blame him, but he did stop his pacing and collapsed onto the Impala like it was the only thing giving him the strength to control himself at the moment. Nodding in approval, John turned his attention back to the motel door and hunkered down for the long haul. They would weight all night for the curse to work itself out of Sam then they would be there to patch him up and get him back on his feet.
That’s what family did.
*
Two hours later, John was about ready to knock Dean out and dump his ass in the trunk his restless fidgeting was so agitated it was fraying John’s already fragile nerves. Dean’s knee wouldn’t stop bouncing, and his teeth wouldn’t stop gnawing on his lip, and every time Sam screamed or groaned he would start like he’d been shot.
Now John hadn’t had issues with being jumpy since he’d first gotten home from Vietnam, but the sheer amount of barely restrained energy in Dean was making him down right twitchy. John was this close to looking over his shoulder for armed VC and ducking imaginary grenades every time the sound of Sam destroying something in the motel room could be heard.
He had to do something or John was liked to start getting flashbacks.
“Dean, if you don’t settle down, I will tie you up, throw you in the back of my truck, and dump you in a field somewhere till morning. Don’t think I won’t.”
Dean’s body stilled and he stared at John in blank shock for a moment before what sounded like Sam’s body hit the motel door hard enough to rattle the motel window in its frame. He called through the flimsy wood in a voice that tore at the heartstrings.
“Ple-he-he-hease! Dean!” Sam sobbed and pounded against the door like his life depended on it. “Help me!”
That was it. Dean’d had enough and John could see his already tissue thin resolve to wait it out finally shatter at the sound of those words in that voice coming from his little brother.
“Fuck this.” Dean cursed and launched off the Impala and stormed toward the door like he was marching into battle.
John pushed off after him and caught him by the arm before he could wrench to door off the hinges and throw himself into the lion’s den.
“Wait! Dean! What do you think you can do for him?” John asked once Dean had turned to look back at him, his face dark and stormy.
“I don’t know, but anything is sure as hell better than just sitting here listening to this!” Dean gestured back to the sobbing and begging coming from the motel room.
“Sam is suffering from a supernatural level of sexual frustration.” John reminded him, feeling angry and helpless just as much as Dean. “How exactly are you going to help make this any easier on him than just letting him wait it out alone?”
Something like determination and a plan flashed over Dean’s features and he shrugged off John’s hold, turning back to the motel door.
“I know two ways to get rid of sexual frustration: fucking and fighting.” Dean said as he shoved the chair they’d wedged under the doorknob away and wrapped his hand around the battered metal. “I figure if one’s just as good as the other for hormone filled teenagers, either one would work for curses too.”
Before John could protest, Dean had thrown the door open and stepped inside quickly slamming the door behind him and turning the deadbolt with a thud of finality.
Standing there stunned, John stared at the closed door blankly as the sounds in the room suddenly came to unsettling halt. The parking lot was deafeningly silent in their absence.
“Now, Sammy, take it easy, okay?” Dean’s voice came through the walls breaking the ominous silence, sounding muffled and wary, like he was speaking to a while animal. “We’re gonna do this nice and slow, alright? No need to rush. We’ve got all night. Sam… Sam?”
There was an animalistic growl, the sound of two bodies colliding, and a surprised yelp from Dean before the door nearly bowed with the force of something big and heavy and human shaped hitting it twice as hard as before. John jumped back and stared at it like it was going to explode.
“Jesus Christ!” Dean’s curse sounded startled, but not distressed. “Fuck! Sam? Sam! Whoa! Okay, shit. When did you get so strong!?”
The door gave another jarring shake and that growling turned into a howl. The weight of two bodies tumbled away from the door and audibly crashed through the room knocking a table, chairs, and a nightstand or chest of drawers out of their path.
“Sam, buddy, seriously there’s really no need to- Hey!” There was a ripping sound and more vaguely disturbing noises; like an animal was ravaging its kill. “I liked those jeans!”
John blinked slowly at the motel room and started backing toward the vehicles. Fucking or fighting… Dean’s plan was surely to beat the sexual frustration out of Sam, give the boy something to focus on, expel that pent up energy with some sparring. If it wasn’t such an absolutely horrible idea it would have been brilliant.
There was another thundering clatter of noise and an audible whoosh of air as Dean’s back hit something with far more force than was necessary knocking the air from his lungs. Then a building rattling crash nearly shook the window panes right out of their frame.
It sounded suspiciously like the collapsing of a solid wood bedframe.
John froze like a deer in headlights suddenly unsure of Dean’s ability to control the situation.
A groan that sounded like it came from Dean this time was heard over the other telltale sounds of a violent confrontation, then, “Sam! Oh! God, yes!”
John jolted abruptly and started heading for the driver’s side of his truck. Dean only every sounded that triumphant when he was winning their sparring matches so obviously he had the situation well in hand and didn’t need any-
“Aahah! Fuck, harder!”
Lunging into the cab, John had the key in the ignition and the truck burning rubber backing out of the parking lot before he even had the door closed.
Yep, Dean definitely had everything under control. There really was no need for John to stick around. He was sure the boys could handle themselves now. Wow, it was that late already? Maybe he should go for some coffee. And pancakes. Definitely some pancakes.
And maybe a bottle of Jack while he was at it.
*
Fourteen hours, a pot and a half of coffee, three stacks of pancakes, an entire apple pie, and three quarters of a bottle of Jack later, the sun was up and John was pulling into the motel parking lot with a bad case of heartburn and a hangover.
The curse should have burned itself out four hours ago and John was prepared to help patch up any of his sons’ broken bones, sprained ligaments, bloodied lips, or busted noses.
He stumbled out of the truck and shuffled his way to the motel room noticing with some relief that everything appeared to be quiet and still. He stopped, hesitating at the door before he raised a fist to knock waiting none too patiently for a response.
“Yeah!” Dean called in greeting from the other side. John’s shoulders relaxed and he turned the knob and pushed into the room.
It looked like a bomb had gone off. Literally. There were bits of furniture all over the place. The TV had a foot shaped hole through the screen and one of the beds was balanced precariously on one leg, the other three seemed to have shattered, wood splinters and shards of laminate casing were scattered across the floor like shrapnel.
There was a tall, standing metal lamp bent in half in the kitchenette and most of the cabinet doors and the kitchen drawers were either ripped completely away from their hinges and tracks or were just hanging on with a wish and a prayer.
Thank God the room just came with a crappy microwave, which seemed to be lodged in the thin plaster wall cordoning off the bathroom, instead of a stove or else John would have been worried about a gas leak.
And amidst this disaster zone stood Dean and Sam. Both cleaned up and dressed already, looking little the worse for the wear.
Sam’s hair was dripping wet from the shower he’d obviously just taken. His bottom lip looked chewed on, split and swollen, the skin under his eyes was dark from exhaustion, and his shoulders were hunched like a dog waiting for a kick. There were long bright red welts from fingernails running down his arms and John could tell by the way he held himself that he was favoring his left shoulder.
John ducked his head to catch Sam’s eyes, perpetually hidden behind his bangs, and gave the kid an assessing look. “You alright, Sam? You aren’t hurt too bad?”
Sam seemed momentarily stunned at the question before he quickly schooled his expression and shook his head. “No, sir. The curse seems to have… run its course and I’m not too battered. I’ll be alright.”
“Good.” John nodded and gave him a smile before looking at Dean.
His oldest looked like he was actually the worse off of the two of them. Dean’s lip was positively gnawed on, split and swollen as well and the side of his neck was already turning into a dark purple bruise around what looked like a bright red bit mark. His posture was stiff and he held himself like he was injured somewhere below the belt; maybe an ankle or knee that’d been wrench in their sparring.
“You alright, Dean?” John asked him as well. “You boys didn’t get too out of hand in your sparring last night?”
Dean’s face did a complicated thing that looked like it couldn’t decide between embarrassment, satisfaction, exhaustion, and guilty grimacing. Finally, he settled on professional and nodded jerkily.
“No, sir. Me and Sam had everything… under control. Nothing’s hurt that won’t just need a day or two of R-n-R.”
“Good.” John repeated then shifted uncomfortably as an unexplainably awkward silence fell over the three Winchesters.
“Alright, then. Let’s put this one down in the win column and get on the road. We need to check out a possible red-cap infestation in Minnesota.”
Sam and Dean looked positively ecstatic to have a reason to leave the conversation behind and get out of the motel room and on the road again. John turned and led the way out to the vehicles jumping back up into his truck, turning on the ignition before he looked back over toward the Impala.
Sam and Dean were moving back to the front of the car from throwing their duffels into the trunk and John noticed that Dean’s legs seemed to have bowed out even more than normal over the course of the night’s sparring. He even seemed to be walking with a distinct limp.
Tearing his eyes away like he’d go blind if he watched any longer, John put it down to Dean having an assumedly injured knee and quickly threw the truck into reverse and backed out of the lot like the bats of hell were on his heels. The Impala followed quickly behind.
Pointing the truck north, John, with all the stubbornness of ten generations of Winchesters combined, vowed on pain of death and the promise to salt and burn every Egyptian museum exhibition he could find, to never ever think about last night or fertility statues ever, ever again.
He drove all the way to Minnesota blissfully suppressing his memories of the last twenty-four hours and deeply regretting that last stack of pancakes.
*
End.
Author: alexjanna91
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam(15)/Dean(19)
Series: Ignorance is Bliss
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Pre-Series AU
Word Count: 2,642
Warning: wincest, underage, established relationship, John!PoV, denial!John, John-sorta-not-really-finds-out, (insert here)-made-them-do-it
Summary: Never touch the ancient, powerful looking statues! John just hopes he and the boys live through this with as little physical… and emotional scars as possible.
A/N: Fourth One-shot from John’s point of view of the boys in a very unfortunate situation. Poor John just can’t catch a break.
*
John didn’t know how many times he’s told the boys not to fricking touch anything old and powerful and cursed, but inevitably one of the idiots is going to flout conventional wisdom and years of training and touch something.
This time it was Sam. Fifteen year-old Sam that was locked in their motel room moaning and groaning and screaming bloody murder as the curse rode through him like a hurricane. It sounded like the boy was being tortured with a side of strangled cats thrown in for kicks.
The sounds of his youngest son’s pain and torment grated against John’s nerves like glass against bone. The sporadic thuds and bumps and poundings as Sam’s body hit the walls and furniture and floor in his struggles made every muscle in John’s body clench with the need to get in there and just make it stop.
“Ah! God! Please! Oooooh! Fuck! I need it! Please!”
The motel door gave a mighty shudder as Sam’s body collided with it from the other side. John cringed and cursed under his breath.
“Fucking fertility gods.”
It just had to be a statue of a fertility god that Sam touched: Quetesh, the Egyptian Goddess of fertility, sacred ecstasy, and sexual pleasure. Or at least that’s what the plaque beneath the little deity said back at the haunted museum.
And the irony of it all? John thought as the sound of Sam’s moans seemed to reach a whole new decibel and an ominous thump that sounded suspiciously like one of the motel beds colliding with a wall echoed from behind the door. The irony was that they weren’t even sneaking around the damned museum because of a cursed statue. They were on a simple salt and burn and had just taken a short cut through the Egyptian exhibit on their way to the curator’s office.
It should have gone off without a hitch except John, for some unfathomable reason, had neglected to take into account Sam’s newfound clumsiness he seemed to be struggling with ever since he shot up four inches over the summer.
The kid was bumping into thin air and tripping over his own feet. Looking back, it seemed inevitable that Sam would stumble at just the wrong time and crash face first into a display pedestal featuring a very ancient, very powerful statue.
Good news, however, was that the effects of the curse should wear off in about… twelve hours.
Sam’s voice came from the motel room again followed by the pounding of a fist against the door. He was begging to be let out, begging for John didn’t want to know what, and calling for his brother.
“Dean!” Sam drew out the name like it was twenty letters long and completely imperative to his survival. John hadn’t heard that tone in Sam’s voice since he was five years old and only Dean had been allowed to kiss his scraped knees better.
Low, furious cursing and the scrape of heavy boots on the pavement drew John’s eyes to his oldest son as Dean paced and swore and generally looked like he was being tortured right along with Sam.
“I can’t take this.” Dean growled as he turned on his heel stormed back toward the motel room. “I can’t just leave him in there like this.”
“There’s no choice, Dean.” John said trying to sound comforting and knowing he only sounded just as frustrated. “The curse will ride itself out in a few hours and then Sam will be fine.”
There was a shattering crash and another high moan of wanting floated from the room. John winced and Dean looked like he was a breath away from rushing the door.
“Come over here and sit, son.” John patted the place on the hood of the Impala next to him. “We’ll be here the entire time; nothing’s going to happen to Sam in there. We won’t let it.”
Dean looked dubious at that and John didn’t blame him, but he did stop his pacing and collapsed onto the Impala like it was the only thing giving him the strength to control himself at the moment. Nodding in approval, John turned his attention back to the motel door and hunkered down for the long haul. They would weight all night for the curse to work itself out of Sam then they would be there to patch him up and get him back on his feet.
That’s what family did.
*
Two hours later, John was about ready to knock Dean out and dump his ass in the trunk his restless fidgeting was so agitated it was fraying John’s already fragile nerves. Dean’s knee wouldn’t stop bouncing, and his teeth wouldn’t stop gnawing on his lip, and every time Sam screamed or groaned he would start like he’d been shot.
Now John hadn’t had issues with being jumpy since he’d first gotten home from Vietnam, but the sheer amount of barely restrained energy in Dean was making him down right twitchy. John was this close to looking over his shoulder for armed VC and ducking imaginary grenades every time the sound of Sam destroying something in the motel room could be heard.
He had to do something or John was liked to start getting flashbacks.
“Dean, if you don’t settle down, I will tie you up, throw you in the back of my truck, and dump you in a field somewhere till morning. Don’t think I won’t.”
Dean’s body stilled and he stared at John in blank shock for a moment before what sounded like Sam’s body hit the motel door hard enough to rattle the motel window in its frame. He called through the flimsy wood in a voice that tore at the heartstrings.
“Ple-he-he-hease! Dean!” Sam sobbed and pounded against the door like his life depended on it. “Help me!”
That was it. Dean’d had enough and John could see his already tissue thin resolve to wait it out finally shatter at the sound of those words in that voice coming from his little brother.
“Fuck this.” Dean cursed and launched off the Impala and stormed toward the door like he was marching into battle.
John pushed off after him and caught him by the arm before he could wrench to door off the hinges and throw himself into the lion’s den.
“Wait! Dean! What do you think you can do for him?” John asked once Dean had turned to look back at him, his face dark and stormy.
“I don’t know, but anything is sure as hell better than just sitting here listening to this!” Dean gestured back to the sobbing and begging coming from the motel room.
“Sam is suffering from a supernatural level of sexual frustration.” John reminded him, feeling angry and helpless just as much as Dean. “How exactly are you going to help make this any easier on him than just letting him wait it out alone?”
Something like determination and a plan flashed over Dean’s features and he shrugged off John’s hold, turning back to the motel door.
“I know two ways to get rid of sexual frustration: fucking and fighting.” Dean said as he shoved the chair they’d wedged under the doorknob away and wrapped his hand around the battered metal. “I figure if one’s just as good as the other for hormone filled teenagers, either one would work for curses too.”
Before John could protest, Dean had thrown the door open and stepped inside quickly slamming the door behind him and turning the deadbolt with a thud of finality.
Standing there stunned, John stared at the closed door blankly as the sounds in the room suddenly came to unsettling halt. The parking lot was deafeningly silent in their absence.
“Now, Sammy, take it easy, okay?” Dean’s voice came through the walls breaking the ominous silence, sounding muffled and wary, like he was speaking to a while animal. “We’re gonna do this nice and slow, alright? No need to rush. We’ve got all night. Sam… Sam?”
There was an animalistic growl, the sound of two bodies colliding, and a surprised yelp from Dean before the door nearly bowed with the force of something big and heavy and human shaped hitting it twice as hard as before. John jumped back and stared at it like it was going to explode.
“Jesus Christ!” Dean’s curse sounded startled, but not distressed. “Fuck! Sam? Sam! Whoa! Okay, shit. When did you get so strong!?”
The door gave another jarring shake and that growling turned into a howl. The weight of two bodies tumbled away from the door and audibly crashed through the room knocking a table, chairs, and a nightstand or chest of drawers out of their path.
“Sam, buddy, seriously there’s really no need to- Hey!” There was a ripping sound and more vaguely disturbing noises; like an animal was ravaging its kill. “I liked those jeans!”
John blinked slowly at the motel room and started backing toward the vehicles. Fucking or fighting… Dean’s plan was surely to beat the sexual frustration out of Sam, give the boy something to focus on, expel that pent up energy with some sparring. If it wasn’t such an absolutely horrible idea it would have been brilliant.
There was another thundering clatter of noise and an audible whoosh of air as Dean’s back hit something with far more force than was necessary knocking the air from his lungs. Then a building rattling crash nearly shook the window panes right out of their frame.
It sounded suspiciously like the collapsing of a solid wood bedframe.
John froze like a deer in headlights suddenly unsure of Dean’s ability to control the situation.
A groan that sounded like it came from Dean this time was heard over the other telltale sounds of a violent confrontation, then, “Sam! Oh! God, yes!”
John jolted abruptly and started heading for the driver’s side of his truck. Dean only every sounded that triumphant when he was winning their sparring matches so obviously he had the situation well in hand and didn’t need any-
“Aahah! Fuck, harder!”
Lunging into the cab, John had the key in the ignition and the truck burning rubber backing out of the parking lot before he even had the door closed.
Yep, Dean definitely had everything under control. There really was no need for John to stick around. He was sure the boys could handle themselves now. Wow, it was that late already? Maybe he should go for some coffee. And pancakes. Definitely some pancakes.
And maybe a bottle of Jack while he was at it.
*
Fourteen hours, a pot and a half of coffee, three stacks of pancakes, an entire apple pie, and three quarters of a bottle of Jack later, the sun was up and John was pulling into the motel parking lot with a bad case of heartburn and a hangover.
The curse should have burned itself out four hours ago and John was prepared to help patch up any of his sons’ broken bones, sprained ligaments, bloodied lips, or busted noses.
He stumbled out of the truck and shuffled his way to the motel room noticing with some relief that everything appeared to be quiet and still. He stopped, hesitating at the door before he raised a fist to knock waiting none too patiently for a response.
“Yeah!” Dean called in greeting from the other side. John’s shoulders relaxed and he turned the knob and pushed into the room.
It looked like a bomb had gone off. Literally. There were bits of furniture all over the place. The TV had a foot shaped hole through the screen and one of the beds was balanced precariously on one leg, the other three seemed to have shattered, wood splinters and shards of laminate casing were scattered across the floor like shrapnel.
There was a tall, standing metal lamp bent in half in the kitchenette and most of the cabinet doors and the kitchen drawers were either ripped completely away from their hinges and tracks or were just hanging on with a wish and a prayer.
Thank God the room just came with a crappy microwave, which seemed to be lodged in the thin plaster wall cordoning off the bathroom, instead of a stove or else John would have been worried about a gas leak.
And amidst this disaster zone stood Dean and Sam. Both cleaned up and dressed already, looking little the worse for the wear.
Sam’s hair was dripping wet from the shower he’d obviously just taken. His bottom lip looked chewed on, split and swollen, the skin under his eyes was dark from exhaustion, and his shoulders were hunched like a dog waiting for a kick. There were long bright red welts from fingernails running down his arms and John could tell by the way he held himself that he was favoring his left shoulder.
John ducked his head to catch Sam’s eyes, perpetually hidden behind his bangs, and gave the kid an assessing look. “You alright, Sam? You aren’t hurt too bad?”
Sam seemed momentarily stunned at the question before he quickly schooled his expression and shook his head. “No, sir. The curse seems to have… run its course and I’m not too battered. I’ll be alright.”
“Good.” John nodded and gave him a smile before looking at Dean.
His oldest looked like he was actually the worse off of the two of them. Dean’s lip was positively gnawed on, split and swollen as well and the side of his neck was already turning into a dark purple bruise around what looked like a bright red bit mark. His posture was stiff and he held himself like he was injured somewhere below the belt; maybe an ankle or knee that’d been wrench in their sparring.
“You alright, Dean?” John asked him as well. “You boys didn’t get too out of hand in your sparring last night?”
Dean’s face did a complicated thing that looked like it couldn’t decide between embarrassment, satisfaction, exhaustion, and guilty grimacing. Finally, he settled on professional and nodded jerkily.
“No, sir. Me and Sam had everything… under control. Nothing’s hurt that won’t just need a day or two of R-n-R.”
“Good.” John repeated then shifted uncomfortably as an unexplainably awkward silence fell over the three Winchesters.
“Alright, then. Let’s put this one down in the win column and get on the road. We need to check out a possible red-cap infestation in Minnesota.”
Sam and Dean looked positively ecstatic to have a reason to leave the conversation behind and get out of the motel room and on the road again. John turned and led the way out to the vehicles jumping back up into his truck, turning on the ignition before he looked back over toward the Impala.
Sam and Dean were moving back to the front of the car from throwing their duffels into the trunk and John noticed that Dean’s legs seemed to have bowed out even more than normal over the course of the night’s sparring. He even seemed to be walking with a distinct limp.
Tearing his eyes away like he’d go blind if he watched any longer, John put it down to Dean having an assumedly injured knee and quickly threw the truck into reverse and backed out of the lot like the bats of hell were on his heels. The Impala followed quickly behind.
Pointing the truck north, John, with all the stubbornness of ten generations of Winchesters combined, vowed on pain of death and the promise to salt and burn every Egyptian museum exhibition he could find, to never ever think about last night or fertility statues ever, ever again.
He drove all the way to Minnesota blissfully suppressing his memories of the last twenty-four hours and deeply regretting that last stack of pancakes.
*
End.