SPN FIC - Three Days Out (part 1 of 3)

[ficwriter1966]

Whee.  More fic.  Happy Independence Day, folks in the U.S.

Hugs and kisses and cookies to my betas:

dodger_winslow, 
janissa11, 
mitchsgirl, and 
ravenrants, who loaned me their big geek Sammy-brains and helped make this better.

Characters:  John, Dean, Sam, Jess, OFCs
Pairings:  none
Length:  8,220 words
Rating:  PG, for language
Suitable for work rating:  A-OK
Spoilers:  none

So, okay, maybe Jericho was a lot more complicated than Dad had thought.  Maybe he’d finished the first job and picked up another one, or two, or six.  But still.  Freaking still.  Not a word from the man in three weeks.  It was like that old joke about the kid who comes home from school and finds out his parents have moved.  The SOB had sent Dean off to hoodoo school in Nuh Awlins and moved.

Three Days Out

By Carol Davis

October 30, 2005

1:17 a.m.

Outside Las Vegas, Nevada

The breeze touched his face like a cool hand searching for fever.

John let his weight sag against the driver’s door of his truck and heaved out a long breath.  Listened to himself breathe.  In and out, the scrub of wind and sand across flat stone.  From off in the distance he could hear music bleeding out of the roadhouse, the same boot-stomping country stuff that had been playing when he left the place.  It’d go on for another little while; the bar didn’t close till two.

The night, too, would go on for another little while.

There was something deep-as-bedrock wrong about all this, he thought, and was as annoyed at himself for dwelling on it as he’d been for second-guessing himself in the first place.  But it was wrong, being out here alone.  Sending Dean off on what you could call a fool’s errand, even though it did involve hunting down and eliminating something that had no right to be on this earth.  Dean wanted to be, needed to be, was his right hand, his backup, and it was beyond stupid to go where he was going without someone to watch his back.

But Dean…

There was just no way John could have brought him along.  Not this time.

Not down this path.

The boy had been tickled about the New Orleans job, green eyes brightening like they had years ago when John had offered him a wrench or a screwdriver and the chance to “fix” something at the garage.

“On my own?  Seriously?”

“If you think you can handle it.”

“A couple whacked-out spirits?  You kidding?”

“It’s more than that, Dean.”

Dean’s gaze had fallen on the papers John had laid out on the kitchen table.  “I know.  I was…  I’m taking this seriously, Dad.  I can do it.  I can.”

And he could.  Ready as he’ll ever be had seemed apt.  Dean was a grown man now, strong, intelligent, as well-trained as John had been able to manage and Dean had been able to accept.  He was stubborn and willful, too, but aware of his own strengths and weaknesses in a way that meant they wouldn’t trip him up.  John had sent him off on small jobs a number of times before, things that involved a few hundred miles of travel and a day or two of time, and Dean had handled them admirably.  New Orleans meant a commitment of weeks, not hours, and if it had come up even as little as a couple of months ago, John would have set off for the Big Easy with Dean riding shotgun - but there’d been no doubt in his mind as he watched Dean drive away that Dean was capable of doing the work on his own.

He wondered, now, if Fate had Fed Ex’ed him a way to get Dean out from under.

New Orleans was smooth jazz, beautiful women, Cajun cooking, booze that burned and warmed and mellowed.

Bright lights.

Old hauntings.

Pretty much, Dean’s version of Disneyland.

He remembered those green eyes peering up at him through the eyeholes of a thin plastic Halloween mask.  Can we go now, Daddy?  I want to go now.

Eager to go, to move, to do.

Eager to please.

But more than that.  So much more.

John had always told his sons that the hunt, the job, was a family business - the same as the garage in Lawrence would have been if they’d stayed there, been able to live normal lives there.  Just as if it was the garage that was at stake, he intended for his sons to follow in his footsteps, be able to carry on after he was gone.  Back in Lawrence, they would have been helping the community.  The way things were, it was a larger community.  Much larger, and in need of more important things than car repairs.

There was a more than decent chance he’d be gone a lot sooner than his boys ever expected: gone after this, after he’d brought his quarry to ground.  With Dean helping him - hell, with Caleb or Jim or Bobby or anybody helping him, he might make it through what was coming.  He’d hunted alongside someone, sometimes several someones, more often than he wanted to bother remembering.  There were times when that was best, not being alone.

He could have called Jim, Caleb, even Bobby.  Any of them would have come.  Would have handed him a lot of crap, but they would’ve come.

But he hadn’t called.

Not this time.

Not now, when he’d finally caught the scent of the son of a bitch he’d been chasing for twenty-two years.

The hunt in New Orleans was over, had been for a few days.  He knew that courtesy of the series of phone messages Dean had left for him.  Dean had called almost every day for the whole month of October, sometimes two or three times a day.  Some days he’d skipped, John knew, because he’d grown frustrated at not getting a response.

“Dad, I just wanted to…”

“Um, if you’re getting these messages…”

“Dammit, Dad…”

“Are you…I’m gettin’ kinda worried.  Could you call me?”

“Okay.  I’m okay.”

“Dad?”

“I’m  heading back to Idaho now.  Maybe you’re there by now.  I’ll see you in a couple days.  It went pretty well.”

Went well - but not as well as it might have.  That was evident in Dean’s voice, and it came as no real surprise to John.  It’d been a half-and-half situation, right from the get-go.  New Orleans might not have been Dean’s first solo hunt, but it was the first that had gone on long enough for Dean to understand that he was alone.  He’d been chomping at the proverbial bit for years, since long before Sam took off: wanted to hunt something on his own, something big, something impressive.  Wanted to kill something big on his own, to show John he could do it.  Nothing new there; it had to go back millions of years, sons going off to bring down their own prey.  But as much as that was true, Dean was no loner, never had been.  He wanted, needed, someone there beside him, someone he could talk to.  Felt the loss of Sam every goddamned day.

They’d talked, John and Dean, these last three years.  Less than some fathers and sons talked, John supposed, but more than some others.  Certainly more than he had ever talked with his own father.  But still, Sam’s absence hung in the air between them.  It was the elephant in the room, every room, every minute of every day that had gone by since Sam had walked out and slammed the door behind him.

That day had played like a slightly skewed rerun of John’s own life.  That day.  The one when enough was enough, when all that was left to say was Fuck you, Dad.

He, at least, could respond to that with I love you, Sammy.

Silently, because Sam wasn’t around any longer to hear it.  Might not have listened even if he was.

A car screeched by down the four-lane, fishtailing crazily.  Dark, enough like the Impala in shape that John watched it longer than he would have otherwise.

His boy was back in Idaho.  Waiting for him.  Wanting to tell the tale of his victory in New Orleans, suitably embellished for entertainment value, small blunders and chick-flick feelings omitted.  Dean was looking out windows, John supposed, waiting for his father the way he had back in Lawrence, his small face a pale circle behind the glass.  Back then he had stories to tell of puppies and trips to the park and the way the toilet had overflowed and Mommy had let loose a whole bunch of bad words.  He would follow John from room to room, watch him change out of grease-stained work clothes into clean jeans and t-shirt, watch him grab a beer from the fridge and settle into the recliner accompanied by a constant stream of And, Daddy?  Guess what happened then?

Wasn’t fair, maybe, not to answer all those voicemails, not to give Dean at least an acknowledgment - but it had to be that way.

Had to, to give John plenty of time to get away and wipe his trail clean so Dean couldn’t find him.

So Dean would be well out of the sights of the thing John had finally, finally caught the scent of.

Dean would find his way to Jericho soon enough, but after that…

The motel room door creaked open.  John glanced at it, at her, and gave her a nod.  She half-nodded back, hitched the strap of her purse into a better spot on her shoulder, and started across the parking lot.

“Ride?” John said.

She didn’t turn.  “Walking’s fine.  Not that far.”

So he let her go.

Neither of them had mentioned a name, a history.  A few minutes spent together, mostly silent, money left on the scuffed dresser-top for her to pick up.  A betrayal of no one, just a release.

He’d let go of Sam three years ago.  Dean, three weeks ago.  He never could let go of Mary.

Never would.

7:30 a.m.

Palo Alto, California

“What are you looking at?”

“Dust motes,” Sam said.

Jessica stopped halfway to the closet and gave him a lopsided look.  “Dust motes?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“We have class in half an hour.  Did you plan on getting up, or should I tell Professor Graves that you’re too busy studying -“

“Dust motes.”

“You’re sure.”

“Absolutely.”

“And you have no interest in my being -“

“Naked?  Nope.”

“Liar.”

“I think I’m being falsely accused.  I need to speak to my attorney.  Oh…wait.”  Giddy, Sam slid out from under the covers, went to Jess and cupped her face in his hands.  “God, Jess, it’s all working out.  It’s - God, it’s nuts.  I’m gonna be a lawyer.”

“I’m so proud of you.”

Sam persisted, “It’s -“

Jess halted him with a finger pressed to his lips.  “It’s not that nuts.  You went through pre-law thinking what?  That you were going to be a TV repairman?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.  And I’m proud of you.”

She stretched up to kiss him, then moved into the circle of his arms, resting her head on his shoulder.  He held on for a long while, head bent, eyes closed, breathing in the clean fragrant dampness of her freshly-washed hair.

Proud of you.

Would they be, if they knew?  Or would the same old crap surface again, like it always had?  That’s great, Sam, but…

But it’s not what we do.  Not what we are.

He’d had to make do with the look in Dean’s eyes.  I’m proud of you, Sammy.  Never spoken, because Dad would object.

Because Dad would object.

“Sam?” Jess said.

“I’m good.  I’m…fine.”

She took a step back and peered into his face.  “You know, at some point you’re going to have to admit that you can do it.  All of it.  You’ve got the ball, and you’re going to take it all the way, Sam Winchester.  Stop expecting the world to shoot you down.  My God, you aced the L-SATs.  They’ll want you to stay here for law school.  That interview’s got to be just a formality.”  When he didn’t reply, she huffed out a breath.  “You’re going to make me mad at you.”

“I’m being realistic.”

“No, you’re being a pessimist.  Things are good, Sam.  They’re crazy good.”

“I guess,” Sam said softly.

“Would you stop?”  When Sam didn’t respond, she said, “Seriously, Sam.  Are you changing your mind?”

“No.”

“Something else sounds…better?”

“No.  I - no.”

“What, then?”

“I -“

Sam cut himself off again, shaking his head.  He found underwear, jeans, shirt, socks, sneakers, put them on.  He was half dressed when Jess took the hint and pulled on her own clothes, watching him out of the corner of her eye as she smoothed everything into place then peeked into the mirror to check her hair.  He sat on the end of the bed to tie his shoes.  When that was done he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.

“Will you tell me?” she asked quietly.

“Nobody -“  He tried to match her smile.  She was waiting, just waiting, not pushing for the explanation.  Wanting it, but not demanding it.  “My family’s all blue-collar.  We’re not lawyers, doctors, accountants.  It just…it feels a little strange.  You know, to picture myself as the guy in the suit.”  He glanced past Jess at the mirror and grimaced.  “Guess I’m gonna have to cave and get a haircut eventually.  To go with the suit.”

Jessica stood in front of him and tugged his head forward to rest against her belly.  “Your hair looks fine to me, Counselor.”

“Yeah?”

Chuckling, she dug her fingers into his hair and ruffled it.  “You get it all cut off and I can’t do this.”

“I hate when you do that.”

“Obviously.  Because you always object so strenuously.”

“I do.  I object.”

“Overruled.  So very, very overruled.”

Sam tipped his head back and mock-scowled at her.  “And you get to decide?  Under whose rules?”

“The rule that says ‘tread lightly, or you’ll be having no fun tonight,’ Mr. Winchester.  Counselor.  Sir.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

“I do.”

Jess chuckled again, softly.  “I like a man with a good grasp of how life works.”

“Life?  You mean the doling out of the nooky.”

“Exactly.”

“I hooked up with a very pushy woman.”

“You hooked up with exactly the right woman.”

“Yeah,” Sam murmured.  “Yeah, I did.”

9:50 a.m.

Hanks Bend, Idaho

“You can’t be serious about this, Rae Ann.”

She planted her fists on her hips and stood there, feet spread apart, looking just like Wonder Woman.  The TV version.  Lynda something.  Looked a lot more ferocious than Wonder Woman, though, and she wasn’t wearing red, white and blue spandex.

“And who else do you figure I can leave that baby with?” she demanded.  “You want to cut me a break now?  You been sleeping on that couch and eating our food for three days, Dean Winchester.  The least you can do is watch that baby while I go get Denny.”

“Rae Ann,” Dean said.

“You said you minded your brother when he was little.”

“That was twenty years ago.”

“It comes back.  Like ridin’ a bike.  You gonna give me more lip, or can I go now?”

With a long sigh Dean looked into the face of the child Rae Ann had shoved into his arms.  The baby had a long string of milky drool running down her chin.  Some of it had already dripped off onto her t-shirted belly.  When she knew she had Dean’s attention she grinned toothlessly at him.

“All right,” Dean surrendered.

“I’ll be back in a couple hours.”

“A couple hours?  Where the hell is he?”

“You mind your mouth in front of that baby.”

She was out the door before he could respond.  It banged shut behind her, hard and echoing, and Dean half expected the baby to shriek in protest.  The little drool factory didn’t even flinch, just went on grinning at him.  “Fantastic,” he muttered.

Just to put a capper on things, the baby let go of a fart she must have been storing up since before Rae Ann had hatched her.  True to Dean’s 20-year-old memories of diapers and the variety of nasty things that could come out of sweet-faced babies, the fumes started to make his nostrils burn.  “What does she feed you?” Dean whimpered.  “Alpo?  Dammit, Rae Ann.”

The baby chuckled at him.

“Yeah, laugh it up, Baldy.  See how that works when you get hungry.”

For lack of something better to do, he sat down on Denny’s patched La-Z-Boy and fumbled for the TV remote.  That was apparently a good choice, because the moment the TV twinked on, the baby snuggled against Dean’s chest and fixed her gaze on the screen.

A week ago he’d been in New Orleans doing battle with a mighty pissed-off spirit.

Now he was babysitting.

Didn’t that just take the cake.

Not like he had all that much else to do - drool and killer farts aside - until Dad came back.  If Dad came back.  Three weeks, a couple dozen voicemails gone unanswered.  Dad had said he was headed for Jericho, California, to investigate a bunch of weird disappearances - the kind of job he could do in his sleep.  Should’ve had it all tied up long before now.  Whether he’d ever actually even reached Jericho, Dean didn’t know.

They’d agreed to meet back here after their jobs were finished.  At least Dean thought they had.

So, okay, maybe Jericho was a lot more complicated than Dad had thought.  Maybe he’d finished the first job and picked up another one, or two, or six.  But still.  Freaking still.  Not a word from the man in three weeks.  It was like that old joke about the kid who comes home from school and finds out his parents have moved.  The SOB had sent Dean off to hoodoo school in Nuh Awlins and moved.

“You got any idea?  Huh?” Dean asked Rae Ann’s hellspawn as his nose hairs finally settled down.  “Everybody else has their own crap going on, but you watch everything.  Right?  Got those little beady eyes checking things out twenty-four-seven.  So spill it: where the fuck is my dad?”

If the baby had an answer, she was keeping it close to the vest.

“You’re a big help,” Dean muttered.

The kid did have a name: Ginger.  But that was as screwy as the idea of Rae Ann and Denny having kids in the first place - naming the little gnome after that redhaired babe on Gilligan’s Island.  Maybe Rae Ann and Denny were playing the optimism card and hoping she turned out looking something like TV-Ginger.  So far, though, things weren’t shaping up well.  If anything, the kid looked more like Gilligan.

As if she knew what he was thinking, Not-Ginger sputtered out another fart.

“You know,” Dean grunted, trying to breathe only through his mouth, “I’ve hunted things that were less obnoxious than you.”

That seemed to hit the right note.  Not-Ginger stuck out her lower lip and pouted.

And a single, perfect tear dribbled down her cheek.

“Aw, hell,” Dean groaned.  “There ain’t no freakin’ way you understand me.”

But damn if she didn’t seem to.  Her eyes tracked every inch of his face like she was laying out grids.  Desperately he tried to remember if Sammy had done that, or if this child Rae Ann claimed to have given birth to had actually just shown up on her doorstep, dropped off there by visiting aliens.  Yeah, that had to be it.  They’d found the kid in a basket on the front stoop.  Or in the mailbox.  Or maybe she’d been tossed out of a passing car.

Or a passing spaceship.

Not-Ginger grinned at him.  “That it?” Dean asked.  “Spaceship, huh?  One of those big suckers, like in Independence Day?  Your real mom and dad dropped you off here so you could infiltrate us and find out our national defense secrets?  Excellent plan.  Except they should have done something about the freakin’ toxic farts.  Totally gives you away.  Or maybe that means you’re really related to this teacher I had back in…where the hell was that?  Michigan.  Mrs. Bellchester.  Seriously.  Stuff was like nerve gas.  And they put her in charge of a room full of little kids.  You want to talk about cruel and unusual.”

That got a loud “heeeeee” out of the alien spawn.

“Dean,” he corrected her.  “Hey, you know what?  Popsicle raid.  Because your mom owes me for giving up my whole morning.  When I could be out fighting evil.”  He shifted the baby to his hip and toted her into the kitchen.  An investigation of the freezer did indeed yield a half-full box of strawberry popsicles.  It took a little maneuvering to peel the paper off one of the frozen bars while holding onto the baby.  She watched him intently the whole time, and the moment the paper had been tossed aside, she opened her mouth expectantly.  “Jeez,” Dean said.  “I did all the work, and I don’t even get the first lick?  You’re just like Sammy, with the gaping whale maw.”

When Not-Ginger failed to offer an apologetic “Sorry, you go ahead,” Dean held the popsicle close to her mouth and let her slobber all over it.  That pretty much killed any desire he might have had to actually share it with her.  Not that that mattered; the beer in the lower part of the fridge was a lot more appealing.

But…no.  Ten o’clock in the morning?  Dean fumbled in the fridge, found a can of Coke, and popped the top on that instead.

“I fight evil, you know,” he told the baby.  “Like…Batman.”

Not-Ginger was either not a fan of the Caped Crusader, or didn’t buy the comparison.  Either way, she went on gumming the popsicle and producing an impressive stream of reddish drool that quickly covered her chin and splattered her belly and Dean’s t-shirt.

Yeah.  I hunt bad things.  Make the world safer.

It didn’t seem particularly safe right now.

Just…empty.

Part 2 is here:  http://ficwriter1966.livejournal.com/21621.html#cutid1