Shotgun 2/7: Tuesday
Title: Shotgun (2/7)
Author: July
Rating: R
Genre: Gen, Pre-series, crossover with Friday Night Lights
Spoilers: 4.03 for Supernatural, FNL spoilers through the Pilot
Warnings: Violence and teenage boys.
Disclaimer: I asked Santa. The jolly bastard said no.
Notes: Sweet Charity fic for the lovely saberivojo. Beta’d by maychorian and kimmer1227.
Summary: Dillon, TX. 1996.
MONDAY
TUESDAY
Son, she said, have I got a little story for you.
What you thought was your daddy, was nothing but a…
While you were sitting home alone at age 13,
Your real daddy was dyin’.
Sorry you didn’t see him,
But I’m glad we talked.
-“Alive”, Pearl Jam
John watched the analog clock in his dash roll over to 1:00 AM just as he turned off the freeway onto the farm to market road that led to their place. He’d picked a spot just inside the limits, but far enough that a stranger would need a map, a flashlight, and a compass to find their way after dark. The windows were rolled down and the truck’s cassette player limped along, a little tinny.
The air was chilly. It made his fingers stiffen around the steering wheel, but it kept him awake, too. His shoulders were itchy and sore and hot from being pressed up against the leather seat all day. They hurt. His back was tore all to shit, but Murphy had patched it up pretty good. All the same, he’d spent most of Sunday on his belly in the frozen basement of the church in Blue Earth.
October nights smelled a little like surprise. People in Texas were caught off guard every year by the fall. By the time September was over, it was just an accepted fact that summer would last forever, that the heat would never end. October was a mixed bag, but most people wore shorts when the trick-or-treated and it was just another fact of life that no one would ever need to wear shirts or long pants again. And every year they were wrong.
Texas agreed with John. The state sat well with him. They were suited to one another. It was a massive place, big enough to hide any number of things. The economy’s dependence on illegal labor meant that nobody checked anybody’s social too carefully. People were unbelievably friendly. You couldn’t swing a dead cat without hitting somebody willing to tell all. And the general consensus on a man’s right to bear arms was convenient, to say the least.
And property was cheap, he remembered, as the headlights slid up the gravel drive and struck the side of their small house. A hundred acres and a two bedroom, one bath, attached garage ranch, all his for the low, low price of a cashed out homeowner’s policy from Lawrence. The place was built in the thirties, back when houses were made to last a century because everyone still assumed they’d have to. It was red brick with creaky floors and plumbing that required eternal vigilance. It had been their home since 1983. It was the only home that Sam would ever remember. John never asked what Dean what he remembered. He didn’t really want to know.
John killed the engine.
<<<<<>>>>>
Ten minutes later, he was still fumbling with his key in the lock. Fucking bandages. It had taken him a good five minutes to check the wards around the house (he’d tripped twice over Dean’s QB1 yard sign) and then another five to put down a new layer of goofer dust in the deep crack of the cement between stoop and the door. There had to be a solid vertical foot in there now, but it was the only lintel he hadn’t been able to seal himself. And by then he was cold, and his new stitches were burning, and he was ready to give that Schlage character a piece of his mind.
John cursed blue streak under his breath as the lock refused to turn. Somebody really needed to put some liquid graphite in it. Maybe the lazy bastard who lives here? John was digging deep for some new profanity when he heard the floor inside creak, and then Dean opened the door.
“Did you even check the peep-hole?” he chided immediately, unable to stop himself.
“Nope,” Dean said. “Lucky for you there aren’t too many people around here who drive black pick-ups, cuss in Vietnamese, and manage to trip over my sign every time.”
“Check the peep-hole,” John mumbled and dragged himself inside.
It wasn’t until the relative warmth of the house hit him that he realized just how tired he was. It was a thousand miles of road and a mean spirit and two pints of blood. He wondered, in passing, if it wouldn’t be better not to have a house at all. If you didn’t come home to any place, you probably wouldn’t hurt half as bad. The thought made no sense, and he brushed it off.
“You okay?” Dean asked, voice quiet. He closed and locked the door behind them.
“Had a little accident,” he admitted and let Dean help him get the leather jacket off. “Back’s all scraped up.”
“Shit,” his son said, feeling the padding of the bandages through the flannel shirt.
“Watch your mouth. It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“I don’t even know how it looks!” Dean hissed in annoyance. “What the hell happened?”
“Nothing much. Slipped on Jim’s driveway. Ice.” Well, there was ice, anyway. “He took a look at it before I left.”
“Oh, good. I had no idea they were handing out MD’s at the seminary these days.”
“Let it go, Dean.” And Dean did, though his eyes never lost that just-kicked-puppy look. “I’m gonna crash,” John said. “Where’s your brother?”
“Sleeping like the dead.”
“Good. Go hit the hay.” John realized how ridiculous it was to give marching orders to the same seventeen-year-old who ran the show whenever his old man was gone. John knew it, and maybe Dean did, too, but he didn’t seem to mind.
“There’s leftover mac and cheese in the fridge,” Dean said. “And there’s Rocky Road in the freezer. Bluebell was on sale.” A corner of his mouth quirked up. “There’s actually a lot of Rocky Road in the freezer.”
John smiled, too. “All part of a balanced breakfast.”
“Night, Dad.”
“Night, Dean.”
<<<<<>>>>>
John woke up with a start two hours later. His blood pressure spiked, he was on his feet, and his hand was on the Ka-bar under the pillow before he even registered that he wasn’t sleeping anymore. The walls in the house were solid, but not so soundproof that he couldn’t hear one of his boys cry out in the next room.
John made absolutely no noise, no matter how many creaky floorboards there were in that hall. He almost scared the piss out of Dean, though, sneaking into their room like that. Strike one, Winchester, he thought, when Dean jumped a foot in the air, landing between John and Sammy’s bed.
“Jesus fuck, Dad,” Dean exhaled. “You almost scared the piss out of me.” Well, at least there was one son he could still read. In the weak light from the window, Dean looked almost as spooked as John.
“You okay? Sammy? What’s going on? You boys okay?” Oh yeah, he was handling the situation. John hit the lights. Dean sat down heavily on Sam’s bed. Sam was curled on his side, the heel of his hands covering the hollows of his eyes.
“We’re good,” his eldest insisted. John raised an eyebrow. Sam was gulping air, rather than breathing it. “Dad. I got this.”
John nodded. “Okay. I’m just…I’m next door.” Message received. There were some things better left to Dean. It was awkward and maybe a little embarrassing, but Dean was sometimes better at this than he was. Dean put a hand on Sammy’s back.
“Deep breaths, dude. Just a couple deep breaths.”
John shut the door behind him as he left, but not before he heard Sammy whisper, eyes still covered.
“I have a bad feeling about the Arnett Mead game.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like last week, when I dreamed about the pig thing. And then it happened.”
Shit. John could taste something sour at the back of his throat. He focused on a small chip in the hallway’s paint until it passed. It was too soon, his gut said. It was too soon. He waited until things were quiet in the boys’ room. Then he crept into the kitchen to make a phone call.
<<<<<>>>>>
By the time he was up the next morning, the boys were gone already. Probably because it was ten already-and John hadn’t even heard Dean’s yahoo friend (Willy?) come by. Christ, John felt old. Right down to the hollow of his bones. His back hurt, his mouth felt like it was growing penicillin, and he had a vicious caffeine headache. He took a leak and stumbled into the kitchen to find a post-it note from Dean on the counter: ‘Coffee’s ready, just hit the button on the machine. Out of eggs.’
God love him, John thought. He managed to start the coffee machine without any difficulty, probably because Dean had put another post-it on it with an arrow pointing to the precise button to push. He was probably trying to avoid a repeat of The Toaster Incident. Luckily for all of them, the machine obeyed. Success. John, coffee in hand, was feeling a little more human now: he had a cup of joe and a copy of the Star Telegram.
Actually reading the newspaper, and not just the obituaries, was a luxury for John. He browsed the headlines: the latest on O.J.’s civil trial, early BCS Bowl predictions, long odds for the ‘Boys on Sunday and…son of a bitch. Unexplained cattle deaths outside of Midland-Odessa. The nice part of his morning was over.
And that was just as well. He had work at Garrity’s this afternoon: a classic Porsche for another oil man with more dollars than sense. Good God, you couldn’t fit a shotgun in that piss-poor excuse for a trunk even if you tried.
Buddy Garrity was a snake-oil salesman in a cowboy hat, but he could make money like nobody John had ever known. John didn’t like him and he didn’t like John, but that was all water under the bridge once Dean made the football team. Buddy was an up and comer in the small world of Dillon. And everybody who was anybody was at the mercy of the Booster Club. Employing the quarterback’s father and the quarterback was doing wonders for Buddy’s social stature.
So John worked custom and rebuild jobs for him. On the weekends, Dean worked at Buddy’s Reliable Used Autos as well, doing oil changes and other routine maintenance that John had taught him by rote. Between them, they paid the bills. Barely. Football was not a cheap pastime and Sammy ate Lucky Charms like it was his fucking vocation. So John sucked it up and headed to work. He’d deal with the other thing later.
<<<<<>>>>>
John stood up slowly, leaning gently past verticle to try and release the knot in his lower back without pulling his raw skin even more. He looked down in disgust at the Porsche. Driving a pussy import model was one thing. Driving a pussy import model into the ground was quite another. Whoever had owned the coupe before Buddy’s client was clearly an ass. Why a man would spend a small fortune on a car and not pay for a $10 lube job was beyond him.
“John Winchester. Just the man I wanted to see.” The way he said it was almost believable.
“Buddy Garrity,” John said, forcing a smile. They shook hands. This was the one part of Texas that John would never understand: the innate ability of its occupants to say everything with the friendliest of smiles, even when they loathed each other like the plague.
“Well, well, what’s the story?”
“Bad news.” John wiped his forehead, aware that he was probably depositing grease. “This engine’s in pretty bad shape. Right now, I’m just looking at damage control. She’s gonna need a lot of parts. Now, I know a guy up in South D-“
“Bad shape? Well, John, that could be just about anything.” Buddy put his hand on John’s shoulder again. “Now, you know as well as I do how important it is to make the customer happy, to build their confidence. Let’s try and think about this more objectively.”
“Sure, sure,” John said amiably. “Just who is the customer, Mr. Garrity?”
“Buddy. Please, call me Buddy.” There was a pause while John stared him down. “Sam Meade, if you must know.”
“Sam Meade,” John deadpanned, suddenly getting it. “Slammin’ Sammy Meade? The radio announcer? The guy doing play-by-play on every damn one of Dean’s games?”
“So you can see why it’s so important to leave him with a positive impression. The man has a lot of listeners, a lot of influence.”
“Dean doesn’t need anybody’s good opinion,” he ground out, hackles rising, “much less Slammin’ Sammy’s.”
“Well of course not,” Buddy said, changing tactics. “You and I know that, John. ” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “You and I know that. Dean is a gifted young man, a talented athlete. You and I are on the same page, here. We just want him to have the best shot he can at college ball. And Sam Meade could be an asset, a great asset for us.”
“Sure.” He bit down on the inside of one cheek, quelling the urge to show Buddy what, exactly, the two of them really had in common. “Sure, I can see that. But I gotta say, Buddy, I think the best way to build confidence is to give it to him straight.”
Buddy was crestfallen. “Now, John…”
“I’m an honest mechanic, Mr. Garrity. I’m gonna give it to him straight.”
“Winchester?” They both turned towards the office. It was Hector, holding a greasy rag in one hand and the phone in the other. “Somebody named Caleb on the phone for you.”
“I have to go.”
“Just be back by Friday,” Buddy said, radiating good-natured concern, and John had to remind himself how counterproductive it was to kill the man who signed your paychecks. Buddy didn’t know, though, he didn’t have any idea what was at stake.
“Wouldn’t miss that game for the world.”
<<<<<>>>>>
Something was wrong, here, with the feel of the house. John crept out of the car. Something was off. He couldn’t remember what day Sam came home early. Dean had practice every day, and Sam usually stayed after practice, but once a week he went to a math-a-thon thing at somebody’s house and caught a ride home. Dean had written this all down for him, color-coded it, but John was damned if he could remember.
He was being paranoid, he knew that, but paranoia had always worked for him. So he unlocked the door with extra care and made every step a gentle one. That, and the revolver in his hand, made him feel a lot better. Of course, the sight of Sam sleeping on the sofa was somewhat anticlimactic. Big Bad John Winchester, sneaking up on his own son with a loaded gun. Big damn hero.
He took a deep breath, put his gun back into his jacket, and took his boots off. He did his best to be quiet, because Sam looked beat. The kid was sacked out, legs propped up on the arm of the sofa, a copy of The Odyssey open on his chest. After last night…better to let him sleep.
John slipped into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. Some of this shit had been so much easier when his sons were little. Sure, there were things he wouldn’t miss: the diapers, the chicken pox, the occasional temper tantrum, and oh sweet Jesus, the questions. Dean’s were always short and to the point, but sometimes ‘Daddy lost track of time while researching the whereabouts of a rawhead hungry for the flesh of a child just about your size’ didn’t cut it as an answer. And Sam was worse. It was like twenty questions only there was only one question and the question was why.
Turning back towards the kitchen, John opened the fridge. Looked like pizza tonight. Maybe they could get the kind with veggies? Yeah, okay, and hell could freeze over, too. He shut the fridge door in resignation, only to find a note in Dean’s handwriting stuck there: ‘Don’t order pizza. We’re having meatloaf for dinner. There’s salad stuff in the crisper drawer.’ John was still wondering what the hell a crisper drawer was when Sam woke up, groaning like he’d rather sleep than face the prospect of Dean’s meatloaf.
John turned, ready to ask him about this whole crisper drawer situation when he realized that Sam wasn’t awake, just dreaming. His eyes were flicking back and forth beneath their lids. Sweat had broken out across his face and neck, and he was gasping for air. John crossed the room and put a hand on his son’s shoulders.
“Wake up.” No response. John gave him a little shake. “Sam, wake up. Wake up, Sam.” And then Sam actually did wake up, rising to his feet with an adrenaline-fueled speed that left John totally unprepared for his son’s right cross. Luckily, Sammy was too out of it to really put his weight behind it, but it still stung.
“Dad?” Sam whispered, eyes slowly focusing.
“Yep,” John said curtly, fingering his jaw gently.
“Where’s Dean?”
“He’s not home yet. Were you dreaming?”
“No. Yes. Yeah, I was dreaming. Sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you.”
“It’s fine, Sammy. What were you dreaming about?” John tried to radiate calm.
“It was nothing. It was just a dream. I didn’t mean to hit you.”
“Nobody’s in trouble here, Sam. But you need to tell me what you were dreaming about.” Sam looked around the room. “Son. Tell me.” Sam opened his mouth, closed it, looked down at the floor and finally back into his father’s eyes.
“You have to stop it.” Sam said, on the verge of tears. “You have to stop it.”
“Stop what? Stop what, Sammy?”
“He’s coming,” Sam said with finality, and John went cold.
“Who’s coming?” he asked quietly.
“The man with the yellow eyes.”
<<<<<>>>>>
John couldn’t remember the name of the band-Pure Jelly?-but he was pretty sure the album was going to be burned into his memory indefinitely. Sammy’s music was cranked all the way up, and John almost didn’t hear the door open when Dean got home.
“Jesus,” Dean said. “Why the hell did you buy him that stereo, anyway?”
“Because he already had a Walkman,” John said dryly. Dean considered that as he dropped his backpack and gear onto the floor just inside the front door. He was back in street clothes, but he eau-de-duffel attested to another killer practice. John’s own olive green pack sat right next to Dean’s bags.
“You’re leaving.”
“Just for a few days. I’ll be back by Friday night.”
“Right. You gonna say goodbye to Sammy?”
“Dean-“
“It’s time to tell me.”
“Excuse me?” John felt his mouth drop open.
“I said: it’s time to tell me.”
“We don’t have time for this.” John moved towards the door only to find that his eldest son had actually stepped in his path, arms crossed. “Goddammit, Dean.”
“Do you think I’m stupid?” he asked quietly. “Is that what you think?”
“No.”
“Then come clean.”
“Dean, there are some things…”
“Bullshit, Dad!”
“Watch your mouth,” John said, raising his voice above the music.
“I do whatever you tell me, Dad. I go to class, I watch out for Sammy, and I stay out of trouble most of the time. I work my ass off playing on the field. I clean the guns. I do everything that you say. If it’s ‘cause you don’t trust me, then tell me that.”
“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” John said carefully. Dean made a noise of disgust.
“You go on these hunting trips, but I don’t think you’ve ever even had venison. You come back beat-up all the time, and you lie about it-oh yeah, you do. Or did that mean old duck actually stab you last year? You taught me quick-kill with my first BB-gun instead of target shooting. We’ve never been to church, but you bless things like it’s going out of style. I know Latin when I hear it. And you send me to boot camp every summer even though I’ve never done anything worse than that time with Billy and the goats. I’ve done everything you’ve ever asked me. Everything. And you’re just going to stand there and lie to me? It’s time for me to know.”
“Okay,” John said.
“Okay?” Dean looked stunned.
“Okay. I’m going to Colorado tonight. But when I get back, we’ll talk.”
“Sure we will.” He looked down towards the floor.
“We will, Dean. Look at me. I promise.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“I want you to stick with Sammy this week. Except for class, he never leaves your sight. I mean it.”
“I got it, Dad”
John put a hand on his shoulder and held him firmly for a moment. Then he picked up his bag, stepped past his eldest son, and walked into the night.
Is something wrong, she said.
Well of course there is.
You’re still alive, she said.
Oh and do I deserve to be?
Is that the question?
And if so, if so,
Who answers?
Who answers?
WEDNESDAY
No spoilers past 4.10, please!
Author: July
Rating: R
Genre: Gen, Pre-series, crossover with Friday Night Lights
Spoilers: 4.03 for Supernatural, FNL spoilers through the Pilot
Warnings: Violence and teenage boys.
Disclaimer: I asked Santa. The jolly bastard said no.
Notes: Sweet Charity fic for the lovely saberivojo. Beta’d by maychorian and kimmer1227.
Summary: Dillon, TX. 1996.
MONDAY
TUESDAY
Son, she said, have I got a little story for you.
What you thought was your daddy, was nothing but a…
While you were sitting home alone at age 13,
Your real daddy was dyin’.
Sorry you didn’t see him,
But I’m glad we talked.
-“Alive”, Pearl Jam
John watched the analog clock in his dash roll over to 1:00 AM just as he turned off the freeway onto the farm to market road that led to their place. He’d picked a spot just inside the limits, but far enough that a stranger would need a map, a flashlight, and a compass to find their way after dark. The windows were rolled down and the truck’s cassette player limped along, a little tinny.
The air was chilly. It made his fingers stiffen around the steering wheel, but it kept him awake, too. His shoulders were itchy and sore and hot from being pressed up against the leather seat all day. They hurt. His back was tore all to shit, but Murphy had patched it up pretty good. All the same, he’d spent most of Sunday on his belly in the frozen basement of the church in Blue Earth.
October nights smelled a little like surprise. People in Texas were caught off guard every year by the fall. By the time September was over, it was just an accepted fact that summer would last forever, that the heat would never end. October was a mixed bag, but most people wore shorts when the trick-or-treated and it was just another fact of life that no one would ever need to wear shirts or long pants again. And every year they were wrong.
Texas agreed with John. The state sat well with him. They were suited to one another. It was a massive place, big enough to hide any number of things. The economy’s dependence on illegal labor meant that nobody checked anybody’s social too carefully. People were unbelievably friendly. You couldn’t swing a dead cat without hitting somebody willing to tell all. And the general consensus on a man’s right to bear arms was convenient, to say the least.
And property was cheap, he remembered, as the headlights slid up the gravel drive and struck the side of their small house. A hundred acres and a two bedroom, one bath, attached garage ranch, all his for the low, low price of a cashed out homeowner’s policy from Lawrence. The place was built in the thirties, back when houses were made to last a century because everyone still assumed they’d have to. It was red brick with creaky floors and plumbing that required eternal vigilance. It had been their home since 1983. It was the only home that Sam would ever remember. John never asked what Dean what he remembered. He didn’t really want to know.
John killed the engine.
<<<<<>>>>>
Ten minutes later, he was still fumbling with his key in the lock. Fucking bandages. It had taken him a good five minutes to check the wards around the house (he’d tripped twice over Dean’s QB1 yard sign) and then another five to put down a new layer of goofer dust in the deep crack of the cement between stoop and the door. There had to be a solid vertical foot in there now, but it was the only lintel he hadn’t been able to seal himself. And by then he was cold, and his new stitches were burning, and he was ready to give that Schlage character a piece of his mind.
John cursed blue streak under his breath as the lock refused to turn. Somebody really needed to put some liquid graphite in it. Maybe the lazy bastard who lives here? John was digging deep for some new profanity when he heard the floor inside creak, and then Dean opened the door.
“Did you even check the peep-hole?” he chided immediately, unable to stop himself.
“Nope,” Dean said. “Lucky for you there aren’t too many people around here who drive black pick-ups, cuss in Vietnamese, and manage to trip over my sign every time.”
“Check the peep-hole,” John mumbled and dragged himself inside.
It wasn’t until the relative warmth of the house hit him that he realized just how tired he was. It was a thousand miles of road and a mean spirit and two pints of blood. He wondered, in passing, if it wouldn’t be better not to have a house at all. If you didn’t come home to any place, you probably wouldn’t hurt half as bad. The thought made no sense, and he brushed it off.
“You okay?” Dean asked, voice quiet. He closed and locked the door behind them.
“Had a little accident,” he admitted and let Dean help him get the leather jacket off. “Back’s all scraped up.”
“Shit,” his son said, feeling the padding of the bandages through the flannel shirt.
“Watch your mouth. It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“I don’t even know how it looks!” Dean hissed in annoyance. “What the hell happened?”
“Nothing much. Slipped on Jim’s driveway. Ice.” Well, there was ice, anyway. “He took a look at it before I left.”
“Oh, good. I had no idea they were handing out MD’s at the seminary these days.”
“Let it go, Dean.” And Dean did, though his eyes never lost that just-kicked-puppy look. “I’m gonna crash,” John said. “Where’s your brother?”
“Sleeping like the dead.”
“Good. Go hit the hay.” John realized how ridiculous it was to give marching orders to the same seventeen-year-old who ran the show whenever his old man was gone. John knew it, and maybe Dean did, too, but he didn’t seem to mind.
“There’s leftover mac and cheese in the fridge,” Dean said. “And there’s Rocky Road in the freezer. Bluebell was on sale.” A corner of his mouth quirked up. “There’s actually a lot of Rocky Road in the freezer.”
John smiled, too. “All part of a balanced breakfast.”
“Night, Dad.”
“Night, Dean.”
<<<<<>>>>>
John woke up with a start two hours later. His blood pressure spiked, he was on his feet, and his hand was on the Ka-bar under the pillow before he even registered that he wasn’t sleeping anymore. The walls in the house were solid, but not so soundproof that he couldn’t hear one of his boys cry out in the next room.
John made absolutely no noise, no matter how many creaky floorboards there were in that hall. He almost scared the piss out of Dean, though, sneaking into their room like that. Strike one, Winchester, he thought, when Dean jumped a foot in the air, landing between John and Sammy’s bed.
“Jesus fuck, Dad,” Dean exhaled. “You almost scared the piss out of me.” Well, at least there was one son he could still read. In the weak light from the window, Dean looked almost as spooked as John.
“You okay? Sammy? What’s going on? You boys okay?” Oh yeah, he was handling the situation. John hit the lights. Dean sat down heavily on Sam’s bed. Sam was curled on his side, the heel of his hands covering the hollows of his eyes.
“We’re good,” his eldest insisted. John raised an eyebrow. Sam was gulping air, rather than breathing it. “Dad. I got this.”
John nodded. “Okay. I’m just…I’m next door.” Message received. There were some things better left to Dean. It was awkward and maybe a little embarrassing, but Dean was sometimes better at this than he was. Dean put a hand on Sammy’s back.
“Deep breaths, dude. Just a couple deep breaths.”
John shut the door behind him as he left, but not before he heard Sammy whisper, eyes still covered.
“I have a bad feeling about the Arnett Mead game.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like last week, when I dreamed about the pig thing. And then it happened.”
Shit. John could taste something sour at the back of his throat. He focused on a small chip in the hallway’s paint until it passed. It was too soon, his gut said. It was too soon. He waited until things were quiet in the boys’ room. Then he crept into the kitchen to make a phone call.
<<<<<>>>>>
By the time he was up the next morning, the boys were gone already. Probably because it was ten already-and John hadn’t even heard Dean’s yahoo friend (Willy?) come by. Christ, John felt old. Right down to the hollow of his bones. His back hurt, his mouth felt like it was growing penicillin, and he had a vicious caffeine headache. He took a leak and stumbled into the kitchen to find a post-it note from Dean on the counter: ‘Coffee’s ready, just hit the button on the machine. Out of eggs.’
God love him, John thought. He managed to start the coffee machine without any difficulty, probably because Dean had put another post-it on it with an arrow pointing to the precise button to push. He was probably trying to avoid a repeat of The Toaster Incident. Luckily for all of them, the machine obeyed. Success. John, coffee in hand, was feeling a little more human now: he had a cup of joe and a copy of the Star Telegram.
Actually reading the newspaper, and not just the obituaries, was a luxury for John. He browsed the headlines: the latest on O.J.’s civil trial, early BCS Bowl predictions, long odds for the ‘Boys on Sunday and…son of a bitch. Unexplained cattle deaths outside of Midland-Odessa. The nice part of his morning was over.
And that was just as well. He had work at Garrity’s this afternoon: a classic Porsche for another oil man with more dollars than sense. Good God, you couldn’t fit a shotgun in that piss-poor excuse for a trunk even if you tried.
Buddy Garrity was a snake-oil salesman in a cowboy hat, but he could make money like nobody John had ever known. John didn’t like him and he didn’t like John, but that was all water under the bridge once Dean made the football team. Buddy was an up and comer in the small world of Dillon. And everybody who was anybody was at the mercy of the Booster Club. Employing the quarterback’s father and the quarterback was doing wonders for Buddy’s social stature.
So John worked custom and rebuild jobs for him. On the weekends, Dean worked at Buddy’s Reliable Used Autos as well, doing oil changes and other routine maintenance that John had taught him by rote. Between them, they paid the bills. Barely. Football was not a cheap pastime and Sammy ate Lucky Charms like it was his fucking vocation. So John sucked it up and headed to work. He’d deal with the other thing later.
<<<<<>>>>>
John stood up slowly, leaning gently past verticle to try and release the knot in his lower back without pulling his raw skin even more. He looked down in disgust at the Porsche. Driving a pussy import model was one thing. Driving a pussy import model into the ground was quite another. Whoever had owned the coupe before Buddy’s client was clearly an ass. Why a man would spend a small fortune on a car and not pay for a $10 lube job was beyond him.
“John Winchester. Just the man I wanted to see.” The way he said it was almost believable.
“Buddy Garrity,” John said, forcing a smile. They shook hands. This was the one part of Texas that John would never understand: the innate ability of its occupants to say everything with the friendliest of smiles, even when they loathed each other like the plague.
“Well, well, what’s the story?”
“Bad news.” John wiped his forehead, aware that he was probably depositing grease. “This engine’s in pretty bad shape. Right now, I’m just looking at damage control. She’s gonna need a lot of parts. Now, I know a guy up in South D-“
“Bad shape? Well, John, that could be just about anything.” Buddy put his hand on John’s shoulder again. “Now, you know as well as I do how important it is to make the customer happy, to build their confidence. Let’s try and think about this more objectively.”
“Sure, sure,” John said amiably. “Just who is the customer, Mr. Garrity?”
“Buddy. Please, call me Buddy.” There was a pause while John stared him down. “Sam Meade, if you must know.”
“Sam Meade,” John deadpanned, suddenly getting it. “Slammin’ Sammy Meade? The radio announcer? The guy doing play-by-play on every damn one of Dean’s games?”
“So you can see why it’s so important to leave him with a positive impression. The man has a lot of listeners, a lot of influence.”
“Dean doesn’t need anybody’s good opinion,” he ground out, hackles rising, “much less Slammin’ Sammy’s.”
“Well of course not,” Buddy said, changing tactics. “You and I know that, John. ” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “You and I know that. Dean is a gifted young man, a talented athlete. You and I are on the same page, here. We just want him to have the best shot he can at college ball. And Sam Meade could be an asset, a great asset for us.”
“Sure.” He bit down on the inside of one cheek, quelling the urge to show Buddy what, exactly, the two of them really had in common. “Sure, I can see that. But I gotta say, Buddy, I think the best way to build confidence is to give it to him straight.”
Buddy was crestfallen. “Now, John…”
“I’m an honest mechanic, Mr. Garrity. I’m gonna give it to him straight.”
“Winchester?” They both turned towards the office. It was Hector, holding a greasy rag in one hand and the phone in the other. “Somebody named Caleb on the phone for you.”
“I have to go.”
“Just be back by Friday,” Buddy said, radiating good-natured concern, and John had to remind himself how counterproductive it was to kill the man who signed your paychecks. Buddy didn’t know, though, he didn’t have any idea what was at stake.
“Wouldn’t miss that game for the world.”
<<<<<>>>>>
Something was wrong, here, with the feel of the house. John crept out of the car. Something was off. He couldn’t remember what day Sam came home early. Dean had practice every day, and Sam usually stayed after practice, but once a week he went to a math-a-thon thing at somebody’s house and caught a ride home. Dean had written this all down for him, color-coded it, but John was damned if he could remember.
He was being paranoid, he knew that, but paranoia had always worked for him. So he unlocked the door with extra care and made every step a gentle one. That, and the revolver in his hand, made him feel a lot better. Of course, the sight of Sam sleeping on the sofa was somewhat anticlimactic. Big Bad John Winchester, sneaking up on his own son with a loaded gun. Big damn hero.
He took a deep breath, put his gun back into his jacket, and took his boots off. He did his best to be quiet, because Sam looked beat. The kid was sacked out, legs propped up on the arm of the sofa, a copy of The Odyssey open on his chest. After last night…better to let him sleep.
John slipped into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. Some of this shit had been so much easier when his sons were little. Sure, there were things he wouldn’t miss: the diapers, the chicken pox, the occasional temper tantrum, and oh sweet Jesus, the questions. Dean’s were always short and to the point, but sometimes ‘Daddy lost track of time while researching the whereabouts of a rawhead hungry for the flesh of a child just about your size’ didn’t cut it as an answer. And Sam was worse. It was like twenty questions only there was only one question and the question was why.
Turning back towards the kitchen, John opened the fridge. Looked like pizza tonight. Maybe they could get the kind with veggies? Yeah, okay, and hell could freeze over, too. He shut the fridge door in resignation, only to find a note in Dean’s handwriting stuck there: ‘Don’t order pizza. We’re having meatloaf for dinner. There’s salad stuff in the crisper drawer.’ John was still wondering what the hell a crisper drawer was when Sam woke up, groaning like he’d rather sleep than face the prospect of Dean’s meatloaf.
John turned, ready to ask him about this whole crisper drawer situation when he realized that Sam wasn’t awake, just dreaming. His eyes were flicking back and forth beneath their lids. Sweat had broken out across his face and neck, and he was gasping for air. John crossed the room and put a hand on his son’s shoulders.
“Wake up.” No response. John gave him a little shake. “Sam, wake up. Wake up, Sam.” And then Sam actually did wake up, rising to his feet with an adrenaline-fueled speed that left John totally unprepared for his son’s right cross. Luckily, Sammy was too out of it to really put his weight behind it, but it still stung.
“Dad?” Sam whispered, eyes slowly focusing.
“Yep,” John said curtly, fingering his jaw gently.
“Where’s Dean?”
“He’s not home yet. Were you dreaming?”
“No. Yes. Yeah, I was dreaming. Sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you.”
“It’s fine, Sammy. What were you dreaming about?” John tried to radiate calm.
“It was nothing. It was just a dream. I didn’t mean to hit you.”
“Nobody’s in trouble here, Sam. But you need to tell me what you were dreaming about.” Sam looked around the room. “Son. Tell me.” Sam opened his mouth, closed it, looked down at the floor and finally back into his father’s eyes.
“You have to stop it.” Sam said, on the verge of tears. “You have to stop it.”
“Stop what? Stop what, Sammy?”
“He’s coming,” Sam said with finality, and John went cold.
“Who’s coming?” he asked quietly.
“The man with the yellow eyes.”
<<<<<>>>>>
John couldn’t remember the name of the band-Pure Jelly?-but he was pretty sure the album was going to be burned into his memory indefinitely. Sammy’s music was cranked all the way up, and John almost didn’t hear the door open when Dean got home.
“Jesus,” Dean said. “Why the hell did you buy him that stereo, anyway?”
“Because he already had a Walkman,” John said dryly. Dean considered that as he dropped his backpack and gear onto the floor just inside the front door. He was back in street clothes, but he eau-de-duffel attested to another killer practice. John’s own olive green pack sat right next to Dean’s bags.
“You’re leaving.”
“Just for a few days. I’ll be back by Friday night.”
“Right. You gonna say goodbye to Sammy?”
“Dean-“
“It’s time to tell me.”
“Excuse me?” John felt his mouth drop open.
“I said: it’s time to tell me.”
“We don’t have time for this.” John moved towards the door only to find that his eldest son had actually stepped in his path, arms crossed. “Goddammit, Dean.”
“Do you think I’m stupid?” he asked quietly. “Is that what you think?”
“No.”
“Then come clean.”
“Dean, there are some things…”
“Bullshit, Dad!”
“Watch your mouth,” John said, raising his voice above the music.
“I do whatever you tell me, Dad. I go to class, I watch out for Sammy, and I stay out of trouble most of the time. I work my ass off playing on the field. I clean the guns. I do everything that you say. If it’s ‘cause you don’t trust me, then tell me that.”
“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” John said carefully. Dean made a noise of disgust.
“You go on these hunting trips, but I don’t think you’ve ever even had venison. You come back beat-up all the time, and you lie about it-oh yeah, you do. Or did that mean old duck actually stab you last year? You taught me quick-kill with my first BB-gun instead of target shooting. We’ve never been to church, but you bless things like it’s going out of style. I know Latin when I hear it. And you send me to boot camp every summer even though I’ve never done anything worse than that time with Billy and the goats. I’ve done everything you’ve ever asked me. Everything. And you’re just going to stand there and lie to me? It’s time for me to know.”
“Okay,” John said.
“Okay?” Dean looked stunned.
“Okay. I’m going to Colorado tonight. But when I get back, we’ll talk.”
“Sure we will.” He looked down towards the floor.
“We will, Dean. Look at me. I promise.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“I want you to stick with Sammy this week. Except for class, he never leaves your sight. I mean it.”
“I got it, Dad”
John put a hand on his shoulder and held him firmly for a moment. Then he picked up his bag, stepped past his eldest son, and walked into the night.
Is something wrong, she said.
Well of course there is.
You’re still alive, she said.
Oh and do I deserve to be?
Is that the question?
And if so, if so,
Who answers?
Who answers?
WEDNESDAY
No spoilers past 4.10, please!