gift-fic: The great John Winchester
A/N: I didn't write this. I wish I had, though. This was a gift for me written by the other half of my online-soul, ghostfour . I asked her if she would be willing to write something that has John in it. Okay, to be honest, i begged her to write some hurt!John for me, I've been craving a story like that for weeks now and couldn't find anything online, for some reason all hurt!John-stories somehow always turned out to be about Dean in the end. I LOVE her writing, her grasp of the characters and even though she's not exactly a John-fan she sat down and wrote this for me in less than a few hours. I'm in love with this, she put so much into so few words, she's such a talented writer. She gave me this story as a gift and I just have to share it. Read, enjoy and please tell her what you think!
Written by ghostfour . She doesn't own the boys or their Dad or the Impala or anything related to Supernatural.
Posted with permission of the author.
Pre-series.
________________
The great John Winchester
The great John Winchester was too drunk by half when trouble walked in the door.
He didn’t usually let himself slip when he was in the open. He’d have a beer or two to prime people for information. He’d have a whiskey with a hunting partner after the event. But drinking, serious drinking, was something he kept at home. There was no point in letting his guard down where someone might be thinking of stabbing him in the back.
So getting drunk in public was a rarity. A personal rule-breaker. On the other hand, he knew the place, had just been on a hunt that had come this close to going tragically wrong and didn’t, and his temporary partner was still alive, and there was one less fucking redcap in the world tonight. He could be forgiven a drink or five.
He knew this place, and the place knew him. The infamous John Winchester. The few tables were peopled with mostly hunters, all five of whom were carefully staying away from him. He could see them warily averting their eyes in the mirror behind the bar. He grunted his approval into his whiskey glass. If he wanted company he’d chose both who and when.
He tossed the whiskey back, neat, and reached for the slightly-more-than-half empty bottle. His temporary partner had gone to run an errand, and he planned to be pretty much wasted before the guy got back. It wasn’t anything about Bill, he liked Bill well enough - but Bill always wanted to talk about his wife and kid, and though John tried to listen each word felt like a brand, like the words were being burned into the muscle of his heart: you don’t have this, you don’t have this, you fucked up and you lost this…
The drinking was medicinal. This time.
His hand, reaching for the bottle, traveled a little too far to the right, and John blinked lazily. Oh. He was that drunk.
Good.
John had just grabbed again, and this time claimed the prize and refilled his glass, when the door opened.
His eyes automatically flickered up to the mirror (it was what he taught his boys, always watch your back, use a wall, use a mirror, use each other, but always watch your back…) and he blinked again, surprised as a group of kids rolled in.
They were young and they were loud, arms around their girls’ shoulders, all fresh leather jackets and fashionably-torn jeans. They strutted into the bar, maybe eight boys and half as many girls. Just old enough to know a hell of a lot better, just young enough and cocky enough not to care.
Several hunters, faces lined and bodies scarred, rolled their eyes in contempt. Three of them got up and left - the kids looked like trouble and way too many people who hunted the shadows couldn’t afford to be around the law.
The kids hooted as the hunters retreated, thinking the men were fleeing from them, puffed up with how dangerous that made them feel.
The men didn’t even bother to look back as they left. The arrogant little pricks never knew what a stroke of luck they’d had in that.
The kids staked out two tables, dragging them close, and shouting and laughing uproariously. The room became uncomfortably quiet, except for the interlopers. The kids obviously thought they had scared the other patrons into submission. They couldn’t seem to feel the way they were being sized up, or see the way nimble fingers drifted toward hidden knives and guns. John watched in the mirror and figured the kids were more than a little high to not see it.
He downed another whiskey and refilled his glass.
The bartender, also a good friend, shot him a disgusted look as she started toward the kids’ tables. But what the hell, it wasn’t like he’d started this, or even known it was going to happen.
He tossed the drink back, and refilled again.
In the mirror he watched her go over to the table. He watched her say something. He heard the obvious leader of the dumbass brigade order in a voice pitched to carry: “We’ll have four pitchers and twelve glasses, and start a tab!”
For some reason this made the whole group cackle.
“Before you get any of that, I’ll have your IDs. Please.”
The last was said with reluctance, but this was not a good place to start a fight. No matter how much John could see her wanting to smack them.
“IDs? Seriously? Just bring us the booze, honey.”
Her eyes narrowed. Her fists clenched. “I said,’ she said in a voice so soft and so familiar that the two or three hunters left began to inch away, “give me your goddamned IDs - now, you snot-nosed little trust fund babies, or get the hell out of my bar.”
Leader of the pack reached out and grabbed her arm. “You can’t talk to me like that you fucking bitch -“
That was as far as he got. The punch was lovely, rock solid and straight from the shoulder. The punk’s nose exploded on impact. John smirked, and drank to the beauty of a truly elegant punch.
Teen titan yowled like a skinned cat, flailing backward and tipping his chair. His girl screamed. Two of the other girls echoed her in sympathy, as their boyfriends lumbered to their feet. John rolled his eyes at the noise, and wished for a rawhead that would eat all of them before the screaming got his head aching.
“Kyle, oh my god, are you okay?” one of the girls demanded, dropping to her knees next to him.
The boys stood there like Neanderthals, looking between the bartender and their boss in confusion.
“Look, boys,” she said, up on her toes, arms cocked lightly in a good fighters stance. “You take that piece of trash and get on out of here, and I won’t call the cops.”
On the floor, the trash called in a voice twisted high with pain: “Kill the whore!”
“Honey, you only wish you could buy some of me,” she hissed back, as the first lummox started toward her, his piggy little eyes trying to look murder, and coming of as petulant. Two more guys stepped up to back him up.
Well, that was just never going to happen.
John started to get up, and staggered as the alcohol in his brain sloshed. Behold, the great John Winchester, he scoffed at himself.
Some of the kids laughed. The bartender spared a second to glare. “Stay the hell out of this, John. You are in no shape.”
“Please. Like Bill wouldn’t hand me my ass if I let you deal with this trash alone.” He paused to belch. It tasted like booze and acid.
Crap, he was in no state for this.
Goddamned kids.
Maybe he could vomit on one of them.
The kids just laughed. “You think you can take one of us, old man?” the fat one sneered. “Even if you were sober, we’d tear you up so fast you wouldn’t have time to feel it!”
Old man? He was only thirty-seven. “I won’t feel it? Is that supposed to be a threat? Because usually threats involve pain, boy.”
The kid actually pouted. “Well, just, you’ll be the one in pain, old man!”
“God, this is dull,” the bartender growled. “Hell, you can’t even match wits with a guy so drunk he can’t see straight. Would you dumb little fuckwads get on with it already?”
“Watch who you calling dumb, you stupid bitch,” growled the Neanderthal, and snatched at her.
She ducked, a move so fast it made John’s alcohol fogged eyes blink, then she kicked him, landing a sweet, hard blow to the kneecap.
The gorilla howled and went down.
His friends were already moving, the girls pulling back as the remaining six guys lurched forward.
John couldn’t help the grin.
A second guy stepped up to grab the bartender, snatching at her light brown hair, hanging loose. She growled and backstepped, landing him a nice one in the nuts. She grabbed his head as he folded, slamming his face down as she brought her knee up, and the boy fell into a bloody heap.
John would have golf-clapped, but for the second boy, a wiry little bastard with twitchy eyes, who used her distraction to grab her shoulders. “Not fair,” John hissed, sagging one hand and spinning, so that the limb twisted, up and back. John didn’t stop until he heard/felt the distinct pop as the shoulder joint gave way. He let go and Wiry dropped like a stone, still screaming.
“Why does this always happen when you’re around, Winchester?” the bartender growled, punching another advancing boy in the face.
“Because the universe can’t stand to see me relax, even for just one fucking hour.” He kicked out at one, misjudged, and stumbled. Winced in embarrassment. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have had that last…bottle.”
She only rolled her eyes as the fight sped up.
After that, it became a little hard for John’s booze-soaked brain to keep track of what was going on. The two hunters who had stayed joined in, incidentally pushing the stupid boys to attack harder. John hit one, causing him to stumble into a table, turning it into kindling as he fell. Another swung and got lucky, causing John’s vision to double as he staggered. John kicked back, catching the boy in the diaphragm, both knocking him away and making his lungs spasm painfully.
In a sudden lull, John turned to check on the bartender -
The crack against his skull was hard enough to drive him to the floor.
Automatically he turned, lashing out with a foot sweep that was slower than it should have been. There was a squeak, and he watched through blurry eyes as the blond girl who had been with Wiry, leaped out of the way. In her hand was a broken pool-stick. The heavy end was on the ground next to him. Something hot and thick was running down the side of his head and into the back of his shirt.
“You hurt Jason!” the girl screamed, flecks of foam around her mouth, and her eyes far too dilated. “He can’t play football now! What do I do if HE CAN’T PLAY BALL?”
She brought the stick up and slammed it down. He snatched at it, but the whiskey and the pain in his head got in the way, and she landed the blow on his shoulder. He growled, rolled, and got blocked by the bar. The next one hit his ribs, driving the breath from him. The one after that hit his head again - and the world began to buzz out, in random black sparks, each one zinging him like a bad static shock.
And suddenly there was the anger. The whiskey had dulled the urgency of the fight, making the whole thing into something more amusing than serious. After all, these were just some trumped up kids, talking shit. He’d been in the war at their age; and he’d been killing much worse, since. He had not taken this seriously.
And look where it had gotten him. He always told the boys, every fight is serious, enter every fight like it’s for your life. Always.
Because it always is.
The pain woke him up, sobered him up. This was a fight, and some little girl was going to take him out while riding a crack high?
“I don’t think so,” he growled. And rolled with the next blow, twisting and catching the stick under his body. She screamed as the stick snapped downward, and clutched her hand. “You broke my nail!”
He lurched to his feet, ribs throbbing, head just a solid mass of misery. “That won’t be the only thing I break,” he said, and reached for her.
“John! No!”
He turned toward the call automatically, reacting to the panic in his friend’s voice.
And as his attention shifted, the girl screamed, a sound made as much of crazy as of defiance. She grabbed a bottle from the bar, his bottle, and smashed it. John turned back, but the girl went unexpectedly low, bringing the ragged edge up at John unprotected belly.
The bottle connected.
And John decked her.
The girl didn’t even have a chance to cry out. She just went back, and down, and stayed there.
John slumped against the bar, his head spinning, his stomach churning… and tried to focus past the sickening throb in his skull and ribs.
Across the room, the bartender began to hurry his way, stepping over bodies and debris. Most of the boys were unconscious. The girls, all except his little pet, were huddled in the corner, under the watchful eye of one of the hunters.
The place was a wreak.
“Jesus Christ, John,” his friend said, stooping to get a shoulder under his arm, struggling to see his stomach. “How bad is it? Let me see.”
He dropped the arm that he’d pressed against the burn in his belly, letting her see. “Why the hell did you yell at me?”
She fussed, pulling cloth aside to see the wounds. “Because your eyes…. You looked like you were gonna kill that girl, John.”
“So it was better she kill me? Ouch! Mother fuck!”
She frowned. “That one’s gonna need stitches.” She looked up. “So’s your head, most likely.” She looked flustered. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have broken your concentration like that. I …panicked.”
He took a breath, and nearly choked as his bruised ribs shrieked.
Light flashed as the door opened. Both of them glanced up as John’s hunting partner stepped through the door.
There was a long moment as the man looked around. Then, in a deceptively soft voice, Bill Harvelle said; “Winchester, what the hell did you do to my bar?”
*
Bill wouldn’t stop laughing, and it was only making John’s injured head ache worse.
Ellen had led them up to the house, as Bill kept John from falling over. They were in the kitchen now, John sitting shirtless, as Ellen cleaned first the head wound, then turned to the gashes in his stomach.
“I can’t believe you got beat up by a girl, Winchester! The great John Winchester, mangled by a ninety pound girl!”
He liked Bill, he really did. Not a bad guy, if a little flaky. But if Bill said that one more god damned time… John was going to kill him.
He must have tensed, his torn muscles screamed at him, his ribs flared, and his head started up a counter-beat, and reality rolled.
Ellen must have felt it. She sighed and spoke. “This last cut still has the glass in it. I’m gonna need my big kit. Bill, dear, go down and deal with the sheriff when they get here, would you please? While I sew John up?”
Bill snickered, not at all unaware that he was being sent away for tormenting John, and completely unrepentant. “No problem. John? My daughter’s in the other room. Please don’t be too scared when you see her. She won’t hurt you.”
Bill was still laughing as he walked out the door.
John laid his head on the table. “No offence, but I am never drinking at your place again.”
A tiny smile played around Ellen’s lips. “No offence, but that won’t bother me none. Don’t go to sleep, now.”
She patted his shoulder as she got up and went to the sink, fetching out a big, plastic container. She sat it on the table in front of John. He watched through dull eyes as she threaded a needle. God he hated getting stitches. Just the thought set his guts to churning, and he struggled against the sudden nausea, not even wanting to imagine the pain that throwing up would have on his ribs and head.
“Mommy?”
John jerked up, watching as a little blond moppet pushed her way through the swinging kitchen door. He groaned, wrapping one arm around his swollen and bloody middle. No more sudden movements. He had to remember that…
“Joanna, what are you doing out of bed?”
“Heard noises. Why you gots a needle? Daddy got a rip?”
The last phrase had real fear in it.
“No, honey. Daddy’s just fine. Our friend John’s got a rip, though. I’m gonna fix him. So you go on back to bed. I’ll be in, in a bit, to check on ya.”
“But -“
“Joanna! Now.”
The toddler jumped… and went.
“Cute kid,” John remarked, as Ellen laid the threaded needle down, and picked up a pair of tweezers.
“She’s a handful.” Ellen pushed on his shoulder, and he slumped in the chair, giving her access to the gashes in his abdomen. “I’d give you something for the pain, but on top of a head injury, and the massive amounts of whiskey…”
He chuffed a laugh, despite the twinge of his ribs. “It’s okay, I can manage.” He’d had worse, god knew.
“The great John Winchester,” Ellen muttered, mockingly. But her smile was sympathetic.
“Not really. The whiskey is still making me numb.”
Not that numb, though. The tweezers felt like they were the size of pliers when they went in…and felt red hot as she dug. John wanted to pant, to groan, to do anything to acknowledge the pain, but his ribs didn’t like him breathing. The pain was like a pressure, building in his gut, in his chest, filling his head like someone over- inflating a tire, slowly, and mercilessly, until there was just too much in his skull, just too much, and it was going to pop…
The twisters came out.
“Got it,” Ellen said, and John could breathe again. She dropped a blood-smeared chunk of glass on the table. She picked up the disinfectant wash.
“How old is your little girl?” John asked when he had the breath, and mostly as a distraction. The world felt…light, the air felt dark. His body felt heavy and loose. He laid his head back against the chair.
“She’s three.”
“Same as my Sammy,” he replied absently. His eyes didn’t want to stay open.
“You never talk about your kids. How many do you have?” The needle went in, and John slowly realized his flinch had been oddly…delayed.
“Two,” he said, almost smiling. “Two boys. Dean, who’s seven, and Sammy.”
“You should bring them by sometime. Jo likes to play with other kids.” The needle moved steadily, in and out. John tried to relax into it.
“Maybe,” he answered vaguely, knowing he never would. It was too dangerous. Hell, just look at tonight. Anytime he so much as tried to forget that his family wasn’t normal…every time he attempted to pretend that he could just be a guy…
It was silent for a time, just the tick of the kitchen clock and Ellen’s calm breathing.
“Head,” she said, softly, and he managed not to flinch as she cleaned and started stitching that wound. “Do you want to call your wife? Let her know you won’t be back today?” Ellen asked in that same soft voice.
“No wife. She’s gone.”
Her hand only touched his shoulder in sympathy. He was glad. He didn’t think he could have stood the same dull words everyone said, tonight.
“Well, do you want to call your boys? Whoever’s watching them?”
John almost shook his head, but just the beginning of the movement made his skull feel like it was shifting. “Ahhhh, god,” he muttered, and Ellen squeezed his arm.
“You gonna need a basin?”
He swallowed hard, and made a noise he hoped sounded like ‘no’. Then he just concentrated on breathing.
But Ellen was stubborn. Always had been. And she was back to nattering as soon as he had his stomach back under control. “So… that call?”
“They’ll be asleep.”
She looked at him funny. “Don’t you think they’ll be worried when you don’t show up on time?”
“Not as worried as they’d be getting a call after dark.”
She looked unconvinced. “You sure about that? They gonna be okay for an extra day? Where ever they’re at?”
“Look,” he growled, glaring past the splitting skull and weak stomach. “They are my boys, alright? And not your business. Understand?”
She stiffened a bit as the air between them went cold. “Fine. I won’t ask about them again.”
The door opened again, and Bill came in, still looking too smug for John’s liking. “Police report has been made. God, it’s been a long damned day.”
“Daddy!”
The little blond moppet ran back into the room on pudgy legs, leaping at her father, who stooped to pick her up.
“What in the world are you doing up, Bug?”
“Noise.”
He chuckled, and hugged her. She laughed. And Ellen smiled up at the both of them.
Something in John’s chest hurt worse than the ribs. This pain was deeper, colder… and unbearable, no matter how much whiskey.
He stood on knees shaking from more than the booze and the head injury.
Ellen looked up. “John Winchester, where do you think you’re going?”
He slowly worked his way into his shirt. “Thanks for the patching up, really, but I have to go.”
“You’re in no shape to be driving, John,” Bill argued in his kind way.
“I’m fine. Really. And this is your time. With your…” he waved a hand at the family gathered before him. “I don’t belong here.”
Bill looked sympathetic, passing the baby off to his wife. “John, wait.”
But he was already out the door.
There were some pains that were just too much.
Even for the great John Winchester.
Written by ghostfour . She doesn't own the boys or their Dad or the Impala or anything related to Supernatural.
Posted with permission of the author.
Pre-series.
________________
The great John Winchester
The great John Winchester was too drunk by half when trouble walked in the door.
He didn’t usually let himself slip when he was in the open. He’d have a beer or two to prime people for information. He’d have a whiskey with a hunting partner after the event. But drinking, serious drinking, was something he kept at home. There was no point in letting his guard down where someone might be thinking of stabbing him in the back.
So getting drunk in public was a rarity. A personal rule-breaker. On the other hand, he knew the place, had just been on a hunt that had come this close to going tragically wrong and didn’t, and his temporary partner was still alive, and there was one less fucking redcap in the world tonight. He could be forgiven a drink or five.
He knew this place, and the place knew him. The infamous John Winchester. The few tables were peopled with mostly hunters, all five of whom were carefully staying away from him. He could see them warily averting their eyes in the mirror behind the bar. He grunted his approval into his whiskey glass. If he wanted company he’d chose both who and when.
He tossed the whiskey back, neat, and reached for the slightly-more-than-half empty bottle. His temporary partner had gone to run an errand, and he planned to be pretty much wasted before the guy got back. It wasn’t anything about Bill, he liked Bill well enough - but Bill always wanted to talk about his wife and kid, and though John tried to listen each word felt like a brand, like the words were being burned into the muscle of his heart: you don’t have this, you don’t have this, you fucked up and you lost this…
The drinking was medicinal. This time.
His hand, reaching for the bottle, traveled a little too far to the right, and John blinked lazily. Oh. He was that drunk.
Good.
John had just grabbed again, and this time claimed the prize and refilled his glass, when the door opened.
His eyes automatically flickered up to the mirror (it was what he taught his boys, always watch your back, use a wall, use a mirror, use each other, but always watch your back…) and he blinked again, surprised as a group of kids rolled in.
They were young and they were loud, arms around their girls’ shoulders, all fresh leather jackets and fashionably-torn jeans. They strutted into the bar, maybe eight boys and half as many girls. Just old enough to know a hell of a lot better, just young enough and cocky enough not to care.
Several hunters, faces lined and bodies scarred, rolled their eyes in contempt. Three of them got up and left - the kids looked like trouble and way too many people who hunted the shadows couldn’t afford to be around the law.
The kids hooted as the hunters retreated, thinking the men were fleeing from them, puffed up with how dangerous that made them feel.
The men didn’t even bother to look back as they left. The arrogant little pricks never knew what a stroke of luck they’d had in that.
The kids staked out two tables, dragging them close, and shouting and laughing uproariously. The room became uncomfortably quiet, except for the interlopers. The kids obviously thought they had scared the other patrons into submission. They couldn’t seem to feel the way they were being sized up, or see the way nimble fingers drifted toward hidden knives and guns. John watched in the mirror and figured the kids were more than a little high to not see it.
He downed another whiskey and refilled his glass.
The bartender, also a good friend, shot him a disgusted look as she started toward the kids’ tables. But what the hell, it wasn’t like he’d started this, or even known it was going to happen.
He tossed the drink back, and refilled again.
In the mirror he watched her go over to the table. He watched her say something. He heard the obvious leader of the dumbass brigade order in a voice pitched to carry: “We’ll have four pitchers and twelve glasses, and start a tab!”
For some reason this made the whole group cackle.
“Before you get any of that, I’ll have your IDs. Please.”
The last was said with reluctance, but this was not a good place to start a fight. No matter how much John could see her wanting to smack them.
“IDs? Seriously? Just bring us the booze, honey.”
Her eyes narrowed. Her fists clenched. “I said,’ she said in a voice so soft and so familiar that the two or three hunters left began to inch away, “give me your goddamned IDs - now, you snot-nosed little trust fund babies, or get the hell out of my bar.”
Leader of the pack reached out and grabbed her arm. “You can’t talk to me like that you fucking bitch -“
That was as far as he got. The punch was lovely, rock solid and straight from the shoulder. The punk’s nose exploded on impact. John smirked, and drank to the beauty of a truly elegant punch.
Teen titan yowled like a skinned cat, flailing backward and tipping his chair. His girl screamed. Two of the other girls echoed her in sympathy, as their boyfriends lumbered to their feet. John rolled his eyes at the noise, and wished for a rawhead that would eat all of them before the screaming got his head aching.
“Kyle, oh my god, are you okay?” one of the girls demanded, dropping to her knees next to him.
The boys stood there like Neanderthals, looking between the bartender and their boss in confusion.
“Look, boys,” she said, up on her toes, arms cocked lightly in a good fighters stance. “You take that piece of trash and get on out of here, and I won’t call the cops.”
On the floor, the trash called in a voice twisted high with pain: “Kill the whore!”
“Honey, you only wish you could buy some of me,” she hissed back, as the first lummox started toward her, his piggy little eyes trying to look murder, and coming of as petulant. Two more guys stepped up to back him up.
Well, that was just never going to happen.
John started to get up, and staggered as the alcohol in his brain sloshed. Behold, the great John Winchester, he scoffed at himself.
Some of the kids laughed. The bartender spared a second to glare. “Stay the hell out of this, John. You are in no shape.”
“Please. Like Bill wouldn’t hand me my ass if I let you deal with this trash alone.” He paused to belch. It tasted like booze and acid.
Crap, he was in no state for this.
Goddamned kids.
Maybe he could vomit on one of them.
The kids just laughed. “You think you can take one of us, old man?” the fat one sneered. “Even if you were sober, we’d tear you up so fast you wouldn’t have time to feel it!”
Old man? He was only thirty-seven. “I won’t feel it? Is that supposed to be a threat? Because usually threats involve pain, boy.”
The kid actually pouted. “Well, just, you’ll be the one in pain, old man!”
“God, this is dull,” the bartender growled. “Hell, you can’t even match wits with a guy so drunk he can’t see straight. Would you dumb little fuckwads get on with it already?”
“Watch who you calling dumb, you stupid bitch,” growled the Neanderthal, and snatched at her.
She ducked, a move so fast it made John’s alcohol fogged eyes blink, then she kicked him, landing a sweet, hard blow to the kneecap.
The gorilla howled and went down.
His friends were already moving, the girls pulling back as the remaining six guys lurched forward.
John couldn’t help the grin.
A second guy stepped up to grab the bartender, snatching at her light brown hair, hanging loose. She growled and backstepped, landing him a nice one in the nuts. She grabbed his head as he folded, slamming his face down as she brought her knee up, and the boy fell into a bloody heap.
John would have golf-clapped, but for the second boy, a wiry little bastard with twitchy eyes, who used her distraction to grab her shoulders. “Not fair,” John hissed, sagging one hand and spinning, so that the limb twisted, up and back. John didn’t stop until he heard/felt the distinct pop as the shoulder joint gave way. He let go and Wiry dropped like a stone, still screaming.
“Why does this always happen when you’re around, Winchester?” the bartender growled, punching another advancing boy in the face.
“Because the universe can’t stand to see me relax, even for just one fucking hour.” He kicked out at one, misjudged, and stumbled. Winced in embarrassment. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have had that last…bottle.”
She only rolled her eyes as the fight sped up.
After that, it became a little hard for John’s booze-soaked brain to keep track of what was going on. The two hunters who had stayed joined in, incidentally pushing the stupid boys to attack harder. John hit one, causing him to stumble into a table, turning it into kindling as he fell. Another swung and got lucky, causing John’s vision to double as he staggered. John kicked back, catching the boy in the diaphragm, both knocking him away and making his lungs spasm painfully.
In a sudden lull, John turned to check on the bartender -
The crack against his skull was hard enough to drive him to the floor.
Automatically he turned, lashing out with a foot sweep that was slower than it should have been. There was a squeak, and he watched through blurry eyes as the blond girl who had been with Wiry, leaped out of the way. In her hand was a broken pool-stick. The heavy end was on the ground next to him. Something hot and thick was running down the side of his head and into the back of his shirt.
“You hurt Jason!” the girl screamed, flecks of foam around her mouth, and her eyes far too dilated. “He can’t play football now! What do I do if HE CAN’T PLAY BALL?”
She brought the stick up and slammed it down. He snatched at it, but the whiskey and the pain in his head got in the way, and she landed the blow on his shoulder. He growled, rolled, and got blocked by the bar. The next one hit his ribs, driving the breath from him. The one after that hit his head again - and the world began to buzz out, in random black sparks, each one zinging him like a bad static shock.
And suddenly there was the anger. The whiskey had dulled the urgency of the fight, making the whole thing into something more amusing than serious. After all, these were just some trumped up kids, talking shit. He’d been in the war at their age; and he’d been killing much worse, since. He had not taken this seriously.
And look where it had gotten him. He always told the boys, every fight is serious, enter every fight like it’s for your life. Always.
Because it always is.
The pain woke him up, sobered him up. This was a fight, and some little girl was going to take him out while riding a crack high?
“I don’t think so,” he growled. And rolled with the next blow, twisting and catching the stick under his body. She screamed as the stick snapped downward, and clutched her hand. “You broke my nail!”
He lurched to his feet, ribs throbbing, head just a solid mass of misery. “That won’t be the only thing I break,” he said, and reached for her.
“John! No!”
He turned toward the call automatically, reacting to the panic in his friend’s voice.
And as his attention shifted, the girl screamed, a sound made as much of crazy as of defiance. She grabbed a bottle from the bar, his bottle, and smashed it. John turned back, but the girl went unexpectedly low, bringing the ragged edge up at John unprotected belly.
The bottle connected.
And John decked her.
The girl didn’t even have a chance to cry out. She just went back, and down, and stayed there.
John slumped against the bar, his head spinning, his stomach churning… and tried to focus past the sickening throb in his skull and ribs.
Across the room, the bartender began to hurry his way, stepping over bodies and debris. Most of the boys were unconscious. The girls, all except his little pet, were huddled in the corner, under the watchful eye of one of the hunters.
The place was a wreak.
“Jesus Christ, John,” his friend said, stooping to get a shoulder under his arm, struggling to see his stomach. “How bad is it? Let me see.”
He dropped the arm that he’d pressed against the burn in his belly, letting her see. “Why the hell did you yell at me?”
She fussed, pulling cloth aside to see the wounds. “Because your eyes…. You looked like you were gonna kill that girl, John.”
“So it was better she kill me? Ouch! Mother fuck!”
She frowned. “That one’s gonna need stitches.” She looked up. “So’s your head, most likely.” She looked flustered. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have broken your concentration like that. I …panicked.”
He took a breath, and nearly choked as his bruised ribs shrieked.
Light flashed as the door opened. Both of them glanced up as John’s hunting partner stepped through the door.
There was a long moment as the man looked around. Then, in a deceptively soft voice, Bill Harvelle said; “Winchester, what the hell did you do to my bar?”
*
Bill wouldn’t stop laughing, and it was only making John’s injured head ache worse.
Ellen had led them up to the house, as Bill kept John from falling over. They were in the kitchen now, John sitting shirtless, as Ellen cleaned first the head wound, then turned to the gashes in his stomach.
“I can’t believe you got beat up by a girl, Winchester! The great John Winchester, mangled by a ninety pound girl!”
He liked Bill, he really did. Not a bad guy, if a little flaky. But if Bill said that one more god damned time… John was going to kill him.
He must have tensed, his torn muscles screamed at him, his ribs flared, and his head started up a counter-beat, and reality rolled.
Ellen must have felt it. She sighed and spoke. “This last cut still has the glass in it. I’m gonna need my big kit. Bill, dear, go down and deal with the sheriff when they get here, would you please? While I sew John up?”
Bill snickered, not at all unaware that he was being sent away for tormenting John, and completely unrepentant. “No problem. John? My daughter’s in the other room. Please don’t be too scared when you see her. She won’t hurt you.”
Bill was still laughing as he walked out the door.
John laid his head on the table. “No offence, but I am never drinking at your place again.”
A tiny smile played around Ellen’s lips. “No offence, but that won’t bother me none. Don’t go to sleep, now.”
She patted his shoulder as she got up and went to the sink, fetching out a big, plastic container. She sat it on the table in front of John. He watched through dull eyes as she threaded a needle. God he hated getting stitches. Just the thought set his guts to churning, and he struggled against the sudden nausea, not even wanting to imagine the pain that throwing up would have on his ribs and head.
“Mommy?”
John jerked up, watching as a little blond moppet pushed her way through the swinging kitchen door. He groaned, wrapping one arm around his swollen and bloody middle. No more sudden movements. He had to remember that…
“Joanna, what are you doing out of bed?”
“Heard noises. Why you gots a needle? Daddy got a rip?”
The last phrase had real fear in it.
“No, honey. Daddy’s just fine. Our friend John’s got a rip, though. I’m gonna fix him. So you go on back to bed. I’ll be in, in a bit, to check on ya.”
“But -“
“Joanna! Now.”
The toddler jumped… and went.
“Cute kid,” John remarked, as Ellen laid the threaded needle down, and picked up a pair of tweezers.
“She’s a handful.” Ellen pushed on his shoulder, and he slumped in the chair, giving her access to the gashes in his abdomen. “I’d give you something for the pain, but on top of a head injury, and the massive amounts of whiskey…”
He chuffed a laugh, despite the twinge of his ribs. “It’s okay, I can manage.” He’d had worse, god knew.
“The great John Winchester,” Ellen muttered, mockingly. But her smile was sympathetic.
“Not really. The whiskey is still making me numb.”
Not that numb, though. The tweezers felt like they were the size of pliers when they went in…and felt red hot as she dug. John wanted to pant, to groan, to do anything to acknowledge the pain, but his ribs didn’t like him breathing. The pain was like a pressure, building in his gut, in his chest, filling his head like someone over- inflating a tire, slowly, and mercilessly, until there was just too much in his skull, just too much, and it was going to pop…
The twisters came out.
“Got it,” Ellen said, and John could breathe again. She dropped a blood-smeared chunk of glass on the table. She picked up the disinfectant wash.
“How old is your little girl?” John asked when he had the breath, and mostly as a distraction. The world felt…light, the air felt dark. His body felt heavy and loose. He laid his head back against the chair.
“She’s three.”
“Same as my Sammy,” he replied absently. His eyes didn’t want to stay open.
“You never talk about your kids. How many do you have?” The needle went in, and John slowly realized his flinch had been oddly…delayed.
“Two,” he said, almost smiling. “Two boys. Dean, who’s seven, and Sammy.”
“You should bring them by sometime. Jo likes to play with other kids.” The needle moved steadily, in and out. John tried to relax into it.
“Maybe,” he answered vaguely, knowing he never would. It was too dangerous. Hell, just look at tonight. Anytime he so much as tried to forget that his family wasn’t normal…every time he attempted to pretend that he could just be a guy…
It was silent for a time, just the tick of the kitchen clock and Ellen’s calm breathing.
“Head,” she said, softly, and he managed not to flinch as she cleaned and started stitching that wound. “Do you want to call your wife? Let her know you won’t be back today?” Ellen asked in that same soft voice.
“No wife. She’s gone.”
Her hand only touched his shoulder in sympathy. He was glad. He didn’t think he could have stood the same dull words everyone said, tonight.
“Well, do you want to call your boys? Whoever’s watching them?”
John almost shook his head, but just the beginning of the movement made his skull feel like it was shifting. “Ahhhh, god,” he muttered, and Ellen squeezed his arm.
“You gonna need a basin?”
He swallowed hard, and made a noise he hoped sounded like ‘no’. Then he just concentrated on breathing.
But Ellen was stubborn. Always had been. And she was back to nattering as soon as he had his stomach back under control. “So… that call?”
“They’ll be asleep.”
She looked at him funny. “Don’t you think they’ll be worried when you don’t show up on time?”
“Not as worried as they’d be getting a call after dark.”
She looked unconvinced. “You sure about that? They gonna be okay for an extra day? Where ever they’re at?”
“Look,” he growled, glaring past the splitting skull and weak stomach. “They are my boys, alright? And not your business. Understand?”
She stiffened a bit as the air between them went cold. “Fine. I won’t ask about them again.”
The door opened again, and Bill came in, still looking too smug for John’s liking. “Police report has been made. God, it’s been a long damned day.”
“Daddy!”
The little blond moppet ran back into the room on pudgy legs, leaping at her father, who stooped to pick her up.
“What in the world are you doing up, Bug?”
“Noise.”
He chuckled, and hugged her. She laughed. And Ellen smiled up at the both of them.
Something in John’s chest hurt worse than the ribs. This pain was deeper, colder… and unbearable, no matter how much whiskey.
He stood on knees shaking from more than the booze and the head injury.
Ellen looked up. “John Winchester, where do you think you’re going?”
He slowly worked his way into his shirt. “Thanks for the patching up, really, but I have to go.”
“You’re in no shape to be driving, John,” Bill argued in his kind way.
“I’m fine. Really. And this is your time. With your…” he waved a hand at the family gathered before him. “I don’t belong here.”
Bill looked sympathetic, passing the baby off to his wife. “John, wait.”
But he was already out the door.
There were some pains that were just too much.
Even for the great John Winchester.