Lie Back and Think of Heaven 8/?
Lie Back and Think of Heaven 8/12
Title: Lie Back and Think of Heaven, 8/12
Rating: R
Warnings: language, sex, sex without Castiel
Spoilers: none, slightly AU
Disclaimer: I have no control over Eric Kripke, else SPN would resemble a deliciously gay soap opera. Oh wait.
Summary: John dies in Dean's senior year, and Dean's left to raise Sammy on his own. Or he would be, if a mysterious stranger didn't keep popping up to help...
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Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7
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Waiting for puberty to run its course, Dean finds, is excruciating whether or not it’s actually his own.
Needless to say, Sam is still angry with him. Oh, he had muttered an apology into his pillow after Dean had walked halfway out of his room, discourage by his silence after he told him his quasi-apology, that he had changed his mind and they were there to stay. But in the morning after he had sullenly refused to acknowledge either of the flat’s other occupants, and had slammed the car door especially hard when Dean dropped him off to school.
Now, Dean was pretty sure it was like what Jimmy pointed out. The lip, the aggression, the rebelliousness… all of the symptoms were embarrassingly similar to his own behavior as a young teenager. And they didn’t last long: with one look from his John, Dean had quickly discarded rebelliousness, and the lip and aggression gradually abated to a low, snarky simmer. By the time he got to junior year he had felt pretty well-adjusted - at least, as much as any young man who had routinely burned corpses by moonlight could - so he could only assume Sam would, eventually, feel the same.
Sammy's junior year was starting to feel like a long way ahead, though. Summer had only begun, and while Dean tried hard to keep days free to spend with Sam, his little brother made it painfully obvious that he preferred to spend time with his friends. He started to fight more and more against the things Dean made him do, too, from curfew to self-defense practice.
Just last night they had a huge row over when and how often Sam should call in when he was out with his friends. The dinner conversation, which was awkward to begin with, hadn’t gotten any better when Sammy muttered something sarcastic in reply to Dean’s reminder to call him before leaving the house. Dean, not one to let things go, snidely suggested to stop mumbling, and the conversation quickly devolved into a shouting match, with Dean thwacking guilt trips across the table and Sam returning with the insistence to stop treating him like a moron, he was fourteen already.
Dean’s temples throb just thinking about it. It stressed him out that the only person he had left in the world could resent him. And sometimes it was hard for him not to wonder if some of it was justified - if he really was too cautious and protective, like one of those uncool parents Asian kids bitched about, back when they briefly went to a school on the west coast.
“Well, for one, if you relating yourself to parents, you’re definitely uncool,” Nate says at work. Then he adds kindly, “But since, you know, you guys don’t have any, I can see why you'd need to be.”
“Thanks, Nate, you always know what to say,” Dean says sarcastically, draining his bottle. His shift had ended two minutes ago, and he started at Bobby’s in twenty minutes. “Freud’s got nothing on you.”
“No one asked you to cry your heart out, brat,” Dee snaps, slouching in the small office chair she had dragged behind the bar and fiddling with a flute of champagne. “I sure don’t. It’s annoying as fuck.”
“You’re the bartender, you have to listen to me,” Dean replies coolly, used to her belligerent personality. “Where's my order?”
“Off duty, get it yourself.”
“Here,” Nate says cheerfully, swiping a bottle from behind the bar and ignoring Dee’s glare. “And hey, I sympathize with you, man. It’s a dangerous world out there, with all the kidnappers and child molesters and stuff.”
“Yeah, and stuff,” Dean mutters as he drinks.
“He’ll thank you later,” his heavily-pierced coworker says reassuringly, slapping him on the back and almost making him splutter. “Fight on, my friend, and live to see another day.”
“And if you can’t handle the brat, cart him off to someone who can and blow the fuck off,” Dee suggests, propping her leather cowboy boots up on the counter. “At least you won’t be dripping your wishy-washy tears all over my counter.”
Dean's grip tightens on his bottle. Then he drains it and puts it down with a sharp clunk, giving her a terse smile. “Never. See you, Nate.”
As he exits, he hears the blue-haired man remark, “You know, this is why all our nighttime patrons leave pissed drunk and crying.”
“Hey, it’s not my damn problem if they don’t like my advice…”
Dean rolls his eyes and lets the door swing closed behind him. He jogs lightly up the stairs, deftly moving out of the way of a descending group of customers and into the surface. Rays of the morning sun beat on his brow, and Dean squints against it, his eyes adjusting slowly to the light.
Rounding the corner that lead to the nearby parking lot, Dean begins to reach in his pocket for his cell phone when he hesitates. He really wanted to check in on Sam - he had said he was going with his friends around noon, after all. But the thought of another conversation like last night made him wince.
In fact, Jimmy was probably the only reason why they hadn’t disowned each other yet. They had been nastily close to blows when Jimmy had dropped a plate he was washing, and the loud crash had startled both brothers out of their anger. The soft-spoken man had apologized, remarking on the amazingly lubricant qualities of dishwasher liquid. After Dean stopped laughing, it occurred to him to suspect that Jimmy's clumsiness was far from accidental, especially since Jimmy had taken to being interruptive or accident prone every time Dean and his brother quarreled. Not to mention that Jimmy usually had a sense of cool grace to every movement he made, a trait which Dean couldn't help but notice.
Wait a minute, Dean realizes. Jimmy. He could talk to Jimmy instead, avoiding any risk of another argument with Sam while keeping updated on his situation. Making up his mind, he starts walking again and dials in the number of the house phone. Cradling the bulky device with his shoulder, he doesn’t even hear a ringing tone before a familiar low voice greets him.
“Hello, Dean.”
“You know, it always freaks me out that you know it’s me calling,” Dean remarks as he slips into the Impala. “You’re like the girl from the Ring, but with prettier hair.”
“You’re the only one who has this number, Dean. You helped me buy the phone,” Jimmy says as factually as ever, but with a tiny amount of exasperation Dean thinks came from talking to him. He grins, feeling a little better as Jimmy asks, “Which girl are you referring to?”
“Nothing, just a chick from a movie. Sammy still home?”
“Yes, though his companions have just arrived to pick him up.”
“Oh, good.” Dean pauses. “How’s he doing?”
A higher, exasperated voice comes on the phone. “I’m doing fine, Dean. I’ve only been in the house all day.”
“Sammy!” Dean says, caught off guard. So much for his plan. “Uh… got enough money for the movie?”
“Yeah, I do.” After a moment Sam utters grudgingly, “Thanks.”
“No problem." He gathers himself together and crosses his fingers as he tries for a joke. "Be back by midnight, Cinderella.”
Sam snorts. Good."'Course. Bye."
"Have fun." And because he can't help himself, he asks, “Wait, did you remember your switchblade?”
For a moment Sam doesn’t answer. Dean hears the faint sound of rustling, with a faint, indignant voice answered by one with a tone of mild reproach before his little brother comes back on, annoyed. “Here’s Jimmy. Bye.”
Dean winces; he should've known he was pushing his luck. More static and the sound of a door slamming, a minute exhale of breath, and finally Jimmy comes back on the line. “Sam has left.”
"Yeah, I gathered."
"He's brought his switchblade with him."
Dean has to smile, albeit weakly. "Oh, good. Call me if anything comes up.”
“I will. Take care of yourself, Dean.”
“Yeah, because changing tires and putting parts into inventory is so dangerous.”
“Dean-”
“Whatever. Sorry, don’t listen to me, I’m just tired,” Dean says, rubbing his forehead.
“...If you say so. I will be here if you need me.”
“Thanks.” He ends the call and pockets his phone. He lets out a loud breath and bangs his forehead on the steering wheel before starting the engine. Things will smoothen out eventually.
---
When Dean enters Bobby’s yard, the bearded hunter was muttering in his phone, and Dean pauses in the middle of taking off his jacket to make out his conversation.
“Okay, I’ll see who’s in the area,” Bobby says, rubbing the back of his head. “Hell, you’re close enough I might go myself, long as you promise to keep your hands to yourself. Yeah, yeah. Expect someone in two hours. No problem.”
“What’s up?” Dean asks casually as Bobby hangs up.
“Alexis called,” Bobby answers, picking up a black duffel bag from the floor. “She’s closing in on a shape-shifter a couple towns off, and she wants backup.”
“Wait a minute. Alexis, as in the chick who worked for you - she’s a hunter?” Dean says, astonished. Because, yeah, she was as fit as hell and said nothing about his strange taste in necklaces, but really, how small could the world be? He should probably start doing background checks on people before he screwed them.
Bobby snorts derisively. “Kid, I have questionable artifacts littered all over the place, and most of the people who come here aren’t just looking for car parts. ‘Course I wouldn’t have employed a civilian. She has a habit of propositioning anything that moves, but she’s damn good at what she does.”
Anticipating Dean’s lewd comment, he looks back him quellingly. “And by that I meant hunting. She ain’t a bad mechanic, either.”
“Yeah, she’s handles tools real well,” Dean says with a leer. At Bobby’s glare, he raises his hands in contrition. “Couldn’t help myself.”
Bobby grunts. “Keep it to yourself. Anyway, you’ll be watching the place by yourself for a while. Hands-on hunting ain’t much my thing anymore, but she’s close by and I figure this’ll be a quick job.”
“Oh.” Dean tries to hide the strange feeling of disappointment from his voice. “Uh, okay. Sure. Good luck.”
Bobby stops packing and looks up at him. Dean could only hold his speculative gaze for a moment before glancing away and awkwardly clearing one of the worktables.
“You know, last I heard, John was still teaching you the business, and if some of the hunting gossip is true, you ain’t half bad yourself,” Bobby says slowly, putting his hands on his hips. “Why don’t you go?”
“Me? Nah,” Dean scoffs. “Don’t do that sort of thing anymore, Bobby. Got real jobs to do now.”
“‘Real jobs?’” Bobby exclaims incredulously. “You know as well as I do that hunting is damn important business.”
“I know, I know. I uh… I just don’t have an interest anymore. Cleaning tables just appeals to me more, you know?” Dean winces at his utterly feeble excuse, but for some reason he can’t bring himself to be more convincing.
Sure enough, Bobby calls him on it. “Bullshit. You’ve been fidgeting every time some hunter walks in talking about the going-ons in our line of work and you eavesdrop every time I’m talking on the phone. Spit it out, son. Did whatever that gank your old man scare you out?”
“What? No!” Dean says vehemently. “Hell, I’d invite it right to my door. There’s not much I’d like to do more than hunt the fucker down and rip its lungs out.”
The venom in his voice startles even him, and Dean takes a deep breath. “Don’t get me wrong, Bobby. I didn’t quit hunting because I got scared. I just… Sammy… I can’t do it right now, okay?”
At his brother’s name, Bobby’s eyes widened in understanding, and his body posture relaxes into something less accusing. “Alright,” he agrees gruffly. “Just play nice with any folk that come by. If I’m not back by closing time, just lock up and go home.”
“Sure thing, boss,” Dean assures, giving him a mock salute.
Bobby harrumphs and steps inside, taking the duffel bag with him. Dean watches him go, trying not to acknowledge the feeling of a void in his chest.
“Good Lord, Winchester, you actually declined from barreling into trouble? Your crude personality may yet prove me wrong.”
Dean spins around, zeroing in on the cultured, baritone voice. A stocky, sharply dressed man stood just a few feet behind him, kicking up dust in pretty dress shoes and wearing a smile Dean didn’t like. Uriel, Dean recognizes. He doesn’t know how the dark skinned man waltzed into the yard without him or Bobby noticing, but he recovers quickly, covering up his surprise with a humorless grin.
“Well, if it isn’t Chuckles. Haven’t seen you in a while. Too busy eating small children?” he taunts.
“Perhaps. Or perhaps I was having my suit cleaned,” Uriel suggests, narrowing his eyes.
Dean wasn’t about to apologize for that again. “So why are you here? You’ve got no reason to complain to me, I’m even paying rent now.”
“Yes, my brother has told me of that pitiful amount you call payment,” Uriel says, waving his hand dismissively. “I’m here because he sent me. He had a vision that you were about to do something moronic and, as I was close by, requested that I check on you.”
Dean snorts. “God messing with his head again, huh? He could’ve called.” Despite the fact that Jimmy and him were on better terms, he just couldn’t relate to the fact that Jimmy essentially believed in an omnipresent imaginary friend. Sure, God. Call it by any other name and he would be in a psychiatric ward.
“You should show us more respect, boy,” Uriel says idly, examining his fingernails. “Our Father is the only reason we saved your pathetic hide from that demon. I will not speak for Jimmy - he is entirely too fond of you - but I would have passed you by.”
Dean starts. In retrospect, he should have known that the demon wouldn’t have left him there alive or unpossesed unless it had been killed off before it could do either, but it never occurred to him that the otherwise had happened - he just couldn’t imagine Jimmy as the demon-killing type. Or the anything-killing type, really.
Uriel, though…
“Jimmy said you guys weren’t hunters,” Dean says with false neutrality.
Uriel laughs, the sound unpleasant in Dean’s ears. “Of course not. You… hunters are possibly the most disorganized, uncouth band of mud monkeys I’ve ever seen. I’m almost insulted by your ignorance.”
Dean hides his anger and puts on his most disinterested expression. “So what are you then?” he asks mockingly. “My fairy godmother? If you are, take my advice and lay off the pumpkin pie.”
The smile drops from Uriel’s face. Dean doesn’t blink, but one moment the other man was glaring at him from five feet away, and the next he’s in Dean’s face, almost snarling.
“We are soldiers, Winchester,” he spits into Dean’s face. “Warriors of God who could smite the greatest of beasts into oblivion, let alone disrespectful little brats like you.”
An overwhelming feeling of force radiates from him as he speaks, and its all Dean can do to lock his body into place and keep eye contact. He grits his teeth, refusing to swallow or show any sign of fear. While this was a hundred time more uncomfortable than when Jimmy invaded his personal space, he at least knew Uriel’s intention: to intimidate, and Dean knew how to handle hostility.
He stands his ground, about to say, “whatever feeds your ego, man,” when suddenly, the pressure disappears and Dean almost falls over, grinding his heels into the ground to regain balance. Looking up, he sees that Uriel is back to his former distance and unnervingly amused disposition.
“But I suppose I can forgive your insolence. It’s only in your nature, I suppose,” he says airily. “My task is done. I trust that I can safely tell my dear brother you’ve decided to stay put like a good little boy?”
“If you mean I’m not going hunting, then yes,” Dean snaps, shaking the tense feeling off his shoulders.
Uriel nods and turns away. “Good. It’s best to leave such dangerous tasks to someone less inept.”
“And what the hell do you mean by that?”
Uriel pauses, rolling his eyes back at him. “Really, Winchester, must I spell everything out for you? That you were beaten by a single demon in a clumsy meatsuit hardly speaks for your competence.”
Dean bristles. “That was a fluke,” he growls. “Say all you want, I’ve got a near perfect hit-miss ratio.”
“Yes, with your Daddy’s help,” Uriel says dismissively. “Without him, it’s pathetic how useless you are. Why do you think we’re here? He obviously didn’t think you could handle yourself.”
His eyes flicker down to the white knuckles of Dean’s balled fists, and he inclines his head in farewell, smirking. “Don’t worry, Winchester. Leave the fighting to us now. You don’t have to do a thing. In fact, we’d all prefer it.”
Then, before Dean can say anything, he’s gone.
He stares at the space by the entrance that Uriel had just occupied, his head a cloud of anger. “What an asshole,” he finally mutters. Who the fuck did he think he was? Warrior of God, his ass. “Another Regent, just what I need.”
Was Jimmy seriously related to that dick? Of course not, thinks Dean wryly, unless family lines were tied together by religious fanaticism.
Again the idea of moving out of Jimmy’s apartment occurs to him, an idle thought which popped into his head every time he had to deal with Jimmy’s faith or his utter ignorance of pop culture, or in this case, his dick relatives. He quickly dismisses it. Jimmy couldn’t help whom he was (or said he was) related to. No one could.
Besides, Jimmy made a mean apple pie. And Sammy would throw a fit. Again.
The door creaks open again, and Dean turns around to find Bobby pushing past the screen door.
“Forgot my salt rounds,” Bobby says, grabbing a small box from a shelf. “Just in case. Don’t mind me, I’m gone.”
“It’s best to leave such dangerous tasks to someone less inept.”
“Hey, Bobby, wait,” Dean finds himself saying.
Bobby keeps the screen open with one hand. “What?”
Dean saunters up to him and takes his bag, grinning. “Changed my mind. Give me the directions and I’ll meet up with Alexis for you.”
Bobby raises his eyebrows, but otherwise lets him take his equipment and follows him to the Impala. “What about Sam?”
Dean hesitates, his palm on the open trunk of the car. He feels a little twinge in his chest. Sam wanted a normal life, and Dean promised him that.
But Sam was off with his friends, having that life. What about his?
“What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him,” Dean says firmly.
He slams the trunk shut.
---
Chapter 9
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A little shout-out to the university I just got into, for you So Callies. I'm shameless, I know. Sorry, I'm just very excited and I don't even giggle when I say Trojans anymore, much, and I couldn't resist.
Another related and more relevant apology: I'm extremely sorry for my long silence between updates. I hate it myself when authors take forever between new chapters, and I just knew when writing this WIP that little procrastinator me would inevitably get lax in my writing. But I posted this anyway. *facepalm*
Anyway, I'll be updating more frequently once summer comes in, and I already have the whole story vaguely plotted in my mind, so there's an end to this. But I can't say I'm 100% sure that this will be finished or that those of you who have come to like this story won't have to wait for very long. I mean, I'm pretty confident, but... so I apologize, as little good as it does. The next chapter is half-written, though, so expect that soon!
ON THE NEXT EPISODE OF LBATOH: DEAN REUNITES WITH HIS STEAMY ONE NIGHT STAND (THE ONE WITH BOOBS). WILL THEIR HOT CHEMISTRY GET IN THE WAY OF FIGHTING THE SUPERNATURAL? WHO REALLY IS URIEL, THE TALL DARK HANDSOME STRANGER? IS JIMMY PREGNANT? FIND OUT, AFTER THE BREAK.
Title: Lie Back and Think of Heaven, 8/12
Rating: R
Warnings: language, sex, sex without Castiel
Spoilers: none, slightly AU
Disclaimer: I have no control over Eric Kripke, else SPN would resemble a deliciously gay soap opera. Oh wait.
Summary: John dies in Dean's senior year, and Dean's left to raise Sammy on his own. Or he would be, if a mysterious stranger didn't keep popping up to help...
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Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7
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Waiting for puberty to run its course, Dean finds, is excruciating whether or not it’s actually his own.
Needless to say, Sam is still angry with him. Oh, he had muttered an apology into his pillow after Dean had walked halfway out of his room, discourage by his silence after he told him his quasi-apology, that he had changed his mind and they were there to stay. But in the morning after he had sullenly refused to acknowledge either of the flat’s other occupants, and had slammed the car door especially hard when Dean dropped him off to school.
Now, Dean was pretty sure it was like what Jimmy pointed out. The lip, the aggression, the rebelliousness… all of the symptoms were embarrassingly similar to his own behavior as a young teenager. And they didn’t last long: with one look from his John, Dean had quickly discarded rebelliousness, and the lip and aggression gradually abated to a low, snarky simmer. By the time he got to junior year he had felt pretty well-adjusted - at least, as much as any young man who had routinely burned corpses by moonlight could - so he could only assume Sam would, eventually, feel the same.
Sammy's junior year was starting to feel like a long way ahead, though. Summer had only begun, and while Dean tried hard to keep days free to spend with Sam, his little brother made it painfully obvious that he preferred to spend time with his friends. He started to fight more and more against the things Dean made him do, too, from curfew to self-defense practice.
Just last night they had a huge row over when and how often Sam should call in when he was out with his friends. The dinner conversation, which was awkward to begin with, hadn’t gotten any better when Sammy muttered something sarcastic in reply to Dean’s reminder to call him before leaving the house. Dean, not one to let things go, snidely suggested to stop mumbling, and the conversation quickly devolved into a shouting match, with Dean thwacking guilt trips across the table and Sam returning with the insistence to stop treating him like a moron, he was fourteen already.
Dean’s temples throb just thinking about it. It stressed him out that the only person he had left in the world could resent him. And sometimes it was hard for him not to wonder if some of it was justified - if he really was too cautious and protective, like one of those uncool parents Asian kids bitched about, back when they briefly went to a school on the west coast.
“Well, for one, if you relating yourself to parents, you’re definitely uncool,” Nate says at work. Then he adds kindly, “But since, you know, you guys don’t have any, I can see why you'd need to be.”
“Thanks, Nate, you always know what to say,” Dean says sarcastically, draining his bottle. His shift had ended two minutes ago, and he started at Bobby’s in twenty minutes. “Freud’s got nothing on you.”
“No one asked you to cry your heart out, brat,” Dee snaps, slouching in the small office chair she had dragged behind the bar and fiddling with a flute of champagne. “I sure don’t. It’s annoying as fuck.”
“You’re the bartender, you have to listen to me,” Dean replies coolly, used to her belligerent personality. “Where's my order?”
“Off duty, get it yourself.”
“Here,” Nate says cheerfully, swiping a bottle from behind the bar and ignoring Dee’s glare. “And hey, I sympathize with you, man. It’s a dangerous world out there, with all the kidnappers and child molesters and stuff.”
“Yeah, and stuff,” Dean mutters as he drinks.
“He’ll thank you later,” his heavily-pierced coworker says reassuringly, slapping him on the back and almost making him splutter. “Fight on, my friend, and live to see another day.”
“And if you can’t handle the brat, cart him off to someone who can and blow the fuck off,” Dee suggests, propping her leather cowboy boots up on the counter. “At least you won’t be dripping your wishy-washy tears all over my counter.”
Dean's grip tightens on his bottle. Then he drains it and puts it down with a sharp clunk, giving her a terse smile. “Never. See you, Nate.”
As he exits, he hears the blue-haired man remark, “You know, this is why all our nighttime patrons leave pissed drunk and crying.”
“Hey, it’s not my damn problem if they don’t like my advice…”
Dean rolls his eyes and lets the door swing closed behind him. He jogs lightly up the stairs, deftly moving out of the way of a descending group of customers and into the surface. Rays of the morning sun beat on his brow, and Dean squints against it, his eyes adjusting slowly to the light.
Rounding the corner that lead to the nearby parking lot, Dean begins to reach in his pocket for his cell phone when he hesitates. He really wanted to check in on Sam - he had said he was going with his friends around noon, after all. But the thought of another conversation like last night made him wince.
In fact, Jimmy was probably the only reason why they hadn’t disowned each other yet. They had been nastily close to blows when Jimmy had dropped a plate he was washing, and the loud crash had startled both brothers out of their anger. The soft-spoken man had apologized, remarking on the amazingly lubricant qualities of dishwasher liquid. After Dean stopped laughing, it occurred to him to suspect that Jimmy's clumsiness was far from accidental, especially since Jimmy had taken to being interruptive or accident prone every time Dean and his brother quarreled. Not to mention that Jimmy usually had a sense of cool grace to every movement he made, a trait which Dean couldn't help but notice.
Wait a minute, Dean realizes. Jimmy. He could talk to Jimmy instead, avoiding any risk of another argument with Sam while keeping updated on his situation. Making up his mind, he starts walking again and dials in the number of the house phone. Cradling the bulky device with his shoulder, he doesn’t even hear a ringing tone before a familiar low voice greets him.
“Hello, Dean.”
“You know, it always freaks me out that you know it’s me calling,” Dean remarks as he slips into the Impala. “You’re like the girl from the Ring, but with prettier hair.”
“You’re the only one who has this number, Dean. You helped me buy the phone,” Jimmy says as factually as ever, but with a tiny amount of exasperation Dean thinks came from talking to him. He grins, feeling a little better as Jimmy asks, “Which girl are you referring to?”
“Nothing, just a chick from a movie. Sammy still home?”
“Yes, though his companions have just arrived to pick him up.”
“Oh, good.” Dean pauses. “How’s he doing?”
A higher, exasperated voice comes on the phone. “I’m doing fine, Dean. I’ve only been in the house all day.”
“Sammy!” Dean says, caught off guard. So much for his plan. “Uh… got enough money for the movie?”
“Yeah, I do.” After a moment Sam utters grudgingly, “Thanks.”
“No problem." He gathers himself together and crosses his fingers as he tries for a joke. "Be back by midnight, Cinderella.”
Sam snorts. Good."'Course. Bye."
"Have fun." And because he can't help himself, he asks, “Wait, did you remember your switchblade?”
For a moment Sam doesn’t answer. Dean hears the faint sound of rustling, with a faint, indignant voice answered by one with a tone of mild reproach before his little brother comes back on, annoyed. “Here’s Jimmy. Bye.”
Dean winces; he should've known he was pushing his luck. More static and the sound of a door slamming, a minute exhale of breath, and finally Jimmy comes back on the line. “Sam has left.”
"Yeah, I gathered."
"He's brought his switchblade with him."
Dean has to smile, albeit weakly. "Oh, good. Call me if anything comes up.”
“I will. Take care of yourself, Dean.”
“Yeah, because changing tires and putting parts into inventory is so dangerous.”
“Dean-”
“Whatever. Sorry, don’t listen to me, I’m just tired,” Dean says, rubbing his forehead.
“...If you say so. I will be here if you need me.”
“Thanks.” He ends the call and pockets his phone. He lets out a loud breath and bangs his forehead on the steering wheel before starting the engine. Things will smoothen out eventually.
---
When Dean enters Bobby’s yard, the bearded hunter was muttering in his phone, and Dean pauses in the middle of taking off his jacket to make out his conversation.
“Okay, I’ll see who’s in the area,” Bobby says, rubbing the back of his head. “Hell, you’re close enough I might go myself, long as you promise to keep your hands to yourself. Yeah, yeah. Expect someone in two hours. No problem.”
“What’s up?” Dean asks casually as Bobby hangs up.
“Alexis called,” Bobby answers, picking up a black duffel bag from the floor. “She’s closing in on a shape-shifter a couple towns off, and she wants backup.”
“Wait a minute. Alexis, as in the chick who worked for you - she’s a hunter?” Dean says, astonished. Because, yeah, she was as fit as hell and said nothing about his strange taste in necklaces, but really, how small could the world be? He should probably start doing background checks on people before he screwed them.
Bobby snorts derisively. “Kid, I have questionable artifacts littered all over the place, and most of the people who come here aren’t just looking for car parts. ‘Course I wouldn’t have employed a civilian. She has a habit of propositioning anything that moves, but she’s damn good at what she does.”
Anticipating Dean’s lewd comment, he looks back him quellingly. “And by that I meant hunting. She ain’t a bad mechanic, either.”
“Yeah, she’s handles tools real well,” Dean says with a leer. At Bobby’s glare, he raises his hands in contrition. “Couldn’t help myself.”
Bobby grunts. “Keep it to yourself. Anyway, you’ll be watching the place by yourself for a while. Hands-on hunting ain’t much my thing anymore, but she’s close by and I figure this’ll be a quick job.”
“Oh.” Dean tries to hide the strange feeling of disappointment from his voice. “Uh, okay. Sure. Good luck.”
Bobby stops packing and looks up at him. Dean could only hold his speculative gaze for a moment before glancing away and awkwardly clearing one of the worktables.
“You know, last I heard, John was still teaching you the business, and if some of the hunting gossip is true, you ain’t half bad yourself,” Bobby says slowly, putting his hands on his hips. “Why don’t you go?”
“Me? Nah,” Dean scoffs. “Don’t do that sort of thing anymore, Bobby. Got real jobs to do now.”
“‘Real jobs?’” Bobby exclaims incredulously. “You know as well as I do that hunting is damn important business.”
“I know, I know. I uh… I just don’t have an interest anymore. Cleaning tables just appeals to me more, you know?” Dean winces at his utterly feeble excuse, but for some reason he can’t bring himself to be more convincing.
Sure enough, Bobby calls him on it. “Bullshit. You’ve been fidgeting every time some hunter walks in talking about the going-ons in our line of work and you eavesdrop every time I’m talking on the phone. Spit it out, son. Did whatever that gank your old man scare you out?”
“What? No!” Dean says vehemently. “Hell, I’d invite it right to my door. There’s not much I’d like to do more than hunt the fucker down and rip its lungs out.”
The venom in his voice startles even him, and Dean takes a deep breath. “Don’t get me wrong, Bobby. I didn’t quit hunting because I got scared. I just… Sammy… I can’t do it right now, okay?”
At his brother’s name, Bobby’s eyes widened in understanding, and his body posture relaxes into something less accusing. “Alright,” he agrees gruffly. “Just play nice with any folk that come by. If I’m not back by closing time, just lock up and go home.”
“Sure thing, boss,” Dean assures, giving him a mock salute.
Bobby harrumphs and steps inside, taking the duffel bag with him. Dean watches him go, trying not to acknowledge the feeling of a void in his chest.
“Good Lord, Winchester, you actually declined from barreling into trouble? Your crude personality may yet prove me wrong.”
Dean spins around, zeroing in on the cultured, baritone voice. A stocky, sharply dressed man stood just a few feet behind him, kicking up dust in pretty dress shoes and wearing a smile Dean didn’t like. Uriel, Dean recognizes. He doesn’t know how the dark skinned man waltzed into the yard without him or Bobby noticing, but he recovers quickly, covering up his surprise with a humorless grin.
“Well, if it isn’t Chuckles. Haven’t seen you in a while. Too busy eating small children?” he taunts.
“Perhaps. Or perhaps I was having my suit cleaned,” Uriel suggests, narrowing his eyes.
Dean wasn’t about to apologize for that again. “So why are you here? You’ve got no reason to complain to me, I’m even paying rent now.”
“Yes, my brother has told me of that pitiful amount you call payment,” Uriel says, waving his hand dismissively. “I’m here because he sent me. He had a vision that you were about to do something moronic and, as I was close by, requested that I check on you.”
Dean snorts. “God messing with his head again, huh? He could’ve called.” Despite the fact that Jimmy and him were on better terms, he just couldn’t relate to the fact that Jimmy essentially believed in an omnipresent imaginary friend. Sure, God. Call it by any other name and he would be in a psychiatric ward.
“You should show us more respect, boy,” Uriel says idly, examining his fingernails. “Our Father is the only reason we saved your pathetic hide from that demon. I will not speak for Jimmy - he is entirely too fond of you - but I would have passed you by.”
Dean starts. In retrospect, he should have known that the demon wouldn’t have left him there alive or unpossesed unless it had been killed off before it could do either, but it never occurred to him that the otherwise had happened - he just couldn’t imagine Jimmy as the demon-killing type. Or the anything-killing type, really.
Uriel, though…
“Jimmy said you guys weren’t hunters,” Dean says with false neutrality.
Uriel laughs, the sound unpleasant in Dean’s ears. “Of course not. You… hunters are possibly the most disorganized, uncouth band of mud monkeys I’ve ever seen. I’m almost insulted by your ignorance.”
Dean hides his anger and puts on his most disinterested expression. “So what are you then?” he asks mockingly. “My fairy godmother? If you are, take my advice and lay off the pumpkin pie.”
The smile drops from Uriel’s face. Dean doesn’t blink, but one moment the other man was glaring at him from five feet away, and the next he’s in Dean’s face, almost snarling.
“We are soldiers, Winchester,” he spits into Dean’s face. “Warriors of God who could smite the greatest of beasts into oblivion, let alone disrespectful little brats like you.”
An overwhelming feeling of force radiates from him as he speaks, and its all Dean can do to lock his body into place and keep eye contact. He grits his teeth, refusing to swallow or show any sign of fear. While this was a hundred time more uncomfortable than when Jimmy invaded his personal space, he at least knew Uriel’s intention: to intimidate, and Dean knew how to handle hostility.
He stands his ground, about to say, “whatever feeds your ego, man,” when suddenly, the pressure disappears and Dean almost falls over, grinding his heels into the ground to regain balance. Looking up, he sees that Uriel is back to his former distance and unnervingly amused disposition.
“But I suppose I can forgive your insolence. It’s only in your nature, I suppose,” he says airily. “My task is done. I trust that I can safely tell my dear brother you’ve decided to stay put like a good little boy?”
“If you mean I’m not going hunting, then yes,” Dean snaps, shaking the tense feeling off his shoulders.
Uriel nods and turns away. “Good. It’s best to leave such dangerous tasks to someone less inept.”
“And what the hell do you mean by that?”
Uriel pauses, rolling his eyes back at him. “Really, Winchester, must I spell everything out for you? That you were beaten by a single demon in a clumsy meatsuit hardly speaks for your competence.”
Dean bristles. “That was a fluke,” he growls. “Say all you want, I’ve got a near perfect hit-miss ratio.”
“Yes, with your Daddy’s help,” Uriel says dismissively. “Without him, it’s pathetic how useless you are. Why do you think we’re here? He obviously didn’t think you could handle yourself.”
His eyes flicker down to the white knuckles of Dean’s balled fists, and he inclines his head in farewell, smirking. “Don’t worry, Winchester. Leave the fighting to us now. You don’t have to do a thing. In fact, we’d all prefer it.”
Then, before Dean can say anything, he’s gone.
He stares at the space by the entrance that Uriel had just occupied, his head a cloud of anger. “What an asshole,” he finally mutters. Who the fuck did he think he was? Warrior of God, his ass. “Another Regent, just what I need.”
Was Jimmy seriously related to that dick? Of course not, thinks Dean wryly, unless family lines were tied together by religious fanaticism.
Again the idea of moving out of Jimmy’s apartment occurs to him, an idle thought which popped into his head every time he had to deal with Jimmy’s faith or his utter ignorance of pop culture, or in this case, his dick relatives. He quickly dismisses it. Jimmy couldn’t help whom he was (or said he was) related to. No one could.
Besides, Jimmy made a mean apple pie. And Sammy would throw a fit. Again.
The door creaks open again, and Dean turns around to find Bobby pushing past the screen door.
“Forgot my salt rounds,” Bobby says, grabbing a small box from a shelf. “Just in case. Don’t mind me, I’m gone.”
“It’s best to leave such dangerous tasks to someone less inept.”
“Hey, Bobby, wait,” Dean finds himself saying.
Bobby keeps the screen open with one hand. “What?”
Dean saunters up to him and takes his bag, grinning. “Changed my mind. Give me the directions and I’ll meet up with Alexis for you.”
Bobby raises his eyebrows, but otherwise lets him take his equipment and follows him to the Impala. “What about Sam?”
Dean hesitates, his palm on the open trunk of the car. He feels a little twinge in his chest. Sam wanted a normal life, and Dean promised him that.
But Sam was off with his friends, having that life. What about his?
“What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him,” Dean says firmly.
He slams the trunk shut.
---
Chapter 9
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A little shout-out to the university I just got into, for you So Callies. I'm shameless, I know. Sorry, I'm just very excited and I don't even giggle when I say Trojans anymore, much, and I couldn't resist.
Another related and more relevant apology: I'm extremely sorry for my long silence between updates. I hate it myself when authors take forever between new chapters, and I just knew when writing this WIP that little procrastinator me would inevitably get lax in my writing. But I posted this anyway. *facepalm*
Anyway, I'll be updating more frequently once summer comes in, and I already have the whole story vaguely plotted in my mind, so there's an end to this. But I can't say I'm 100% sure that this will be finished or that those of you who have come to like this story won't have to wait for very long. I mean, I'm pretty confident, but... so I apologize, as little good as it does. The next chapter is half-written, though, so expect that soon!
ON THE NEXT EPISODE OF LBATOH: DEAN REUNITES WITH HIS STEAMY ONE NIGHT STAND (THE ONE WITH BOOBS). WILL THEIR HOT CHEMISTRY GET IN THE WAY OF FIGHTING THE SUPERNATURAL? WHO REALLY IS URIEL, THE TALL DARK HANDSOME STRANGER? IS JIMMY PREGNANT? FIND OUT, AFTER THE BREAK.