fic: my father moved through dooms of love (1/1)
Title: My Father Moved Through Dooms of Love
Author: kimonkey7
Rating: R - for strong language and content
Pairing: none (gen) John, Andy Tuttle
Disclaimer: Not mine. Damn it.
SPOILERS: Um…for one of my fics?
Summary: John Winchester loves his boys - he’s just a complete shit at being able to show them how much.
A/N: This story is a companion of sorts to my fic The Sharpness of the Outline. Call it a missing scene, or a parallel occurrence, or a one-shot anomaly, but it’s not going to make any sense unless you’ve read/are reading the multi-chap. *faceplam* Sorry. quellefromage and pdragon76 have both had eyes on this, but any remaining crap is on my doorstep. Title courtesy of e.e. cummings.
Wickenburg, Arizona - 2001
Andy Tuttle was half way through a burger and a third of the way through a fifth when he felt a looming shadow settle across his back. He’d been too sore, too pissed, and too eager for a drink to wait for a table in the back of the crowded bar. Now he had one more reason to kick himself in the sack.
He pulled his chin in close to his chest, tried for a nonchalant glance over his shoulder. It’d been a while since he’d last set eyes on him, but the outline John Winchester cut in a room was unmistakable. Andy swallowed hard and swiveled on the bar stool, cool-grin of a greeting rising on his lips. “Heya, John. Long time, no see.”
“Andy,” John nodded, bluffing with a like-smile. He extended his hand, and Andy shook it. Both men’s handshakes were firm - covert challenge masquerading as courtesy.
Andy nodded toward the empty stool at his left. “What brings you t’ Arizona? Last I heard you were West Coast way.”
John swung a leg over and settled on the stool beside Andy. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Guy hears things,” Andy answered with a slur and a shrug.
“That he does,” said John, and held up a finger to get the attention of the bartender. He ordered a double Jack - neat - when the barkeep noticed, then continued with Andy, not missing a beat. “Lemme tell you something I heard.”
Andy’s shoulders stiffened, and a little furnace of heat flicked on in the small of his back. It’d been three weeks since the voilent motel room blow-out with Dean, and while Andy’d moved forward, it was instantly clear he hadn’t moved fast or far enough. “‘M all ears,” he said, slow fingers curling around the shot glass next to his burger.
John rapped his knuckles against the wooden bar. “Heard you met my boy.” The bartender delivered the double Jack, and John took a slow sip, kept his eyes forward.
The darkness in the bar hid the red flush that rose on Andy’s cheeks and ears, but the jukebox couldn’t cover the trepidation in his reply. “Had a few beers here one night a while back, got t’ talkin’.” He watched the tumbler of amber whiskey slide smoothly across bar between John’s large hands. “Decided to runna couple gigs.”
John nodded, took another slow sip. “How’d that work out for ya?”
Andy shrugged, shoulders settling up defensively around his ears. “He’s a good kid. Good instincts. I know you taught ‘im well enough…”
The breath of chuffed air through John’s nostrils didn’t even pretend at being a laugh.
“Look, John,” Andy said with a sad shake of his head, “I don’t know what anybody told ya--”
“What I heard,” John rumbled, index finger planting on point next to his glass, “was that the last time anybody saw Dean around these parts, he was sportin’ a busted nose and two black eyes. You know anything about that?” he growled, and for the first time since he walked into the bar, he looked Andy square in the eyes.
Andy’d met John Winchester about five years earlier. They’d been running a gig in New Mexico, both working for different farmers in the same area - likely chuppacabra. When he’d found out he had competition in the area, Tuttle’d gotten John’s name and fed it through the thin network of hunters he knew that side of the Colorado. Word had shot back pretty quickly; John Winchester was a tough, no-nonsense sonuvabitch best left to himself, or those who knew how to handle snakes. Andy’d made it a point to frequent the area bars until they’d met up. He spent close to sixty dollars priming John with whiskey that first night, and spent the subsequent week trading hunt stories and the double gig in town. He’d split the pay-off sixty-forty, John taking the larger lump, and won a relatively friendly accord with the man. But he’d seen him angry, and he knew better than to tangle.
Unfortunately, he was in the middle of the briar patch this time around.
Andy tipped his shot glass against his lips, swallowed the contents and cleared his throat. “Me an’ Dean did a job just before he split town. Tangled with a shape-shifter, and you know what a slinky lot they can be.” He shrugged again, scooted an inch or two away from John’s side. “Dean jigged left when he shoulda jigged right. It happens.”
John sloshed the tail end of his drink in the tumbler, gave it a gaze that might have iced the warm liquor. “Know what else happens? You learn somethin’ about a man when you hunt with him.” He emptied the whiskey into his mouth, wiped his fingers over his lips and through his beard. “Know what I learned huntin’ with you, Tuttle?”
Andy stilled, stayed quiet.
“I learned you’re a miserable fuckin’ liar.”
John’s hand shot out so fast and so hard, Andy barely got in a breath before the heavy glass tumbler cracked against his forehead. He fell backward off the stool, crashed to the filthy floor with a holler, and John was on his chest - knees pinning his arms - before Andy’s slow eyes could focus on the ceiling. John’s fists wound themselves in Andy’s shirt and lifted far enough off the hardwood to make a thunk when they jerked him back down.
“You don’t put your hands on my son, Andy. Nobody fucks with my boys.”
Andy blinked at the blood crowding the shallow of his eye socket, wondered absently why no one was coming to his aid. John gave him another knock against the floor, then leaned in close.
“I could end you right now, and not a person in this whole goddamned bar would give a shit. But you’re not worth the time or trouble, you understand?”
There wasn’t a whole hell of a lot of understanding going on in Andy Tuttle’s head just then, but he nodded anyway.
“Stay down, Andy,” John spit as he pushed himself up off the man’s red-spattered chest, “it’s where you belong.” He stepped to the bar and finished his drink. Tipped the bartender generously.
Tuttle was still on the floor when John walked out the door.
Author: kimonkey7
Rating: R - for strong language and content
Pairing: none (gen) John, Andy Tuttle
Disclaimer: Not mine. Damn it.
SPOILERS: Um…for one of my fics?
Summary: John Winchester loves his boys - he’s just a complete shit at being able to show them how much.
A/N: This story is a companion of sorts to my fic The Sharpness of the Outline. Call it a missing scene, or a parallel occurrence, or a one-shot anomaly, but it’s not going to make any sense unless you’ve read/are reading the multi-chap. *faceplam* Sorry. quellefromage and pdragon76 have both had eyes on this, but any remaining crap is on my doorstep. Title courtesy of e.e. cummings.
Wickenburg, Arizona - 2001
Andy Tuttle was half way through a burger and a third of the way through a fifth when he felt a looming shadow settle across his back. He’d been too sore, too pissed, and too eager for a drink to wait for a table in the back of the crowded bar. Now he had one more reason to kick himself in the sack.
He pulled his chin in close to his chest, tried for a nonchalant glance over his shoulder. It’d been a while since he’d last set eyes on him, but the outline John Winchester cut in a room was unmistakable. Andy swallowed hard and swiveled on the bar stool, cool-grin of a greeting rising on his lips. “Heya, John. Long time, no see.”
“Andy,” John nodded, bluffing with a like-smile. He extended his hand, and Andy shook it. Both men’s handshakes were firm - covert challenge masquerading as courtesy.
Andy nodded toward the empty stool at his left. “What brings you t’ Arizona? Last I heard you were West Coast way.”
John swung a leg over and settled on the stool beside Andy. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Guy hears things,” Andy answered with a slur and a shrug.
“That he does,” said John, and held up a finger to get the attention of the bartender. He ordered a double Jack - neat - when the barkeep noticed, then continued with Andy, not missing a beat. “Lemme tell you something I heard.”
Andy’s shoulders stiffened, and a little furnace of heat flicked on in the small of his back. It’d been three weeks since the voilent motel room blow-out with Dean, and while Andy’d moved forward, it was instantly clear he hadn’t moved fast or far enough. “‘M all ears,” he said, slow fingers curling around the shot glass next to his burger.
John rapped his knuckles against the wooden bar. “Heard you met my boy.” The bartender delivered the double Jack, and John took a slow sip, kept his eyes forward.
The darkness in the bar hid the red flush that rose on Andy’s cheeks and ears, but the jukebox couldn’t cover the trepidation in his reply. “Had a few beers here one night a while back, got t’ talkin’.” He watched the tumbler of amber whiskey slide smoothly across bar between John’s large hands. “Decided to runna couple gigs.”
John nodded, took another slow sip. “How’d that work out for ya?”
Andy shrugged, shoulders settling up defensively around his ears. “He’s a good kid. Good instincts. I know you taught ‘im well enough…”
The breath of chuffed air through John’s nostrils didn’t even pretend at being a laugh.
“Look, John,” Andy said with a sad shake of his head, “I don’t know what anybody told ya--”
“What I heard,” John rumbled, index finger planting on point next to his glass, “was that the last time anybody saw Dean around these parts, he was sportin’ a busted nose and two black eyes. You know anything about that?” he growled, and for the first time since he walked into the bar, he looked Andy square in the eyes.
Andy’d met John Winchester about five years earlier. They’d been running a gig in New Mexico, both working for different farmers in the same area - likely chuppacabra. When he’d found out he had competition in the area, Tuttle’d gotten John’s name and fed it through the thin network of hunters he knew that side of the Colorado. Word had shot back pretty quickly; John Winchester was a tough, no-nonsense sonuvabitch best left to himself, or those who knew how to handle snakes. Andy’d made it a point to frequent the area bars until they’d met up. He spent close to sixty dollars priming John with whiskey that first night, and spent the subsequent week trading hunt stories and the double gig in town. He’d split the pay-off sixty-forty, John taking the larger lump, and won a relatively friendly accord with the man. But he’d seen him angry, and he knew better than to tangle.
Unfortunately, he was in the middle of the briar patch this time around.
Andy tipped his shot glass against his lips, swallowed the contents and cleared his throat. “Me an’ Dean did a job just before he split town. Tangled with a shape-shifter, and you know what a slinky lot they can be.” He shrugged again, scooted an inch or two away from John’s side. “Dean jigged left when he shoulda jigged right. It happens.”
John sloshed the tail end of his drink in the tumbler, gave it a gaze that might have iced the warm liquor. “Know what else happens? You learn somethin’ about a man when you hunt with him.” He emptied the whiskey into his mouth, wiped his fingers over his lips and through his beard. “Know what I learned huntin’ with you, Tuttle?”
Andy stilled, stayed quiet.
“I learned you’re a miserable fuckin’ liar.”
John’s hand shot out so fast and so hard, Andy barely got in a breath before the heavy glass tumbler cracked against his forehead. He fell backward off the stool, crashed to the filthy floor with a holler, and John was on his chest - knees pinning his arms - before Andy’s slow eyes could focus on the ceiling. John’s fists wound themselves in Andy’s shirt and lifted far enough off the hardwood to make a thunk when they jerked him back down.
“You don’t put your hands on my son, Andy. Nobody fucks with my boys.”
Andy blinked at the blood crowding the shallow of his eye socket, wondered absently why no one was coming to his aid. John gave him another knock against the floor, then leaned in close.
“I could end you right now, and not a person in this whole goddamned bar would give a shit. But you’re not worth the time or trouble, you understand?”
There wasn’t a whole hell of a lot of understanding going on in Andy Tuttle’s head just then, but he nodded anyway.
“Stay down, Andy,” John spit as he pushed himself up off the man’s red-spattered chest, “it’s where you belong.” He stepped to the bar and finished his drink. Tipped the bartender generously.
Tuttle was still on the floor when John walked out the door.