Last Ever Lone Gunman (Remix)
Title: Last Ever Lone Gunman
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 3500
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: Late S1: Conversations between Sir and his boys. In which no one talks about shtrigas or the impala or Lawrence. Because Winchesters don't do healthy.
Written for the fic_art_remix for geckoholic's Last ever Lone Gunman fan-mix and fill for 'Arguments/Fighting' on my dark_bingo card and 'Trust Issues' on my hc_bingo card.
John wakes before the first rays of sunshine have a chance to filter through the thin curtains. His ability to sleep in got lost a lifetime ago, somewhere between Suoi Chau Pha and Lawrence.
He swipes a heavy hand over his aching eyes and clears his throat. The bed squeaks and screams under his shifting weight when he sits up to survey the room. Sam is sprawled over both sides of the boys' bed, sheets tangled up around his huge frame, his head shoved under his brother's pillow.
John leans forward with a new symphony of squeaking to check the bathroom, but the door opens to an empty room. A small, quick flash of fear makes John's heart jump before he remembers that his boys aren't fragile children anymore.
"Dean?"
Sam shifts under his blankets, mumbles something that sounds a lot like "JustfivemoreminutesDad."
John sighs and forces himself out of bed. He decidedly ignores the aches and kinks in his back, put there by countless nights on too-hard mattresses.
He finds Dean in the parking lot, bent over his car, jeans and shirt soaked with soap and sweat, his face and hands stained black.
"Morning, sunshine," John smiles. He fishes his morning beer out of his jacket, digs his fingernail into the tab.
Dean nods, keeps his eyes trained on the wheel rim he's working on. "'m almost done." His voice sounds rough. Weak and painful, like it's been dragged through gravel.
John shakes his head. The seat of Dean's jeans is almost worn through. God knows when the boys last stopped to stack up on clothes. "How long've you been out here?"
John starts at the harshness in his own voice. Dean sniffs, quickly swipes the back of his arm across his nose. "I got enough sleep," he croaks.
John decided he wouldn't put that look on Dean's face again - the one that's been there constantly, every time they walk past the damn car - so he forces down the anger that is quick to rise up in his chest when he knows he's being lied to. "She's lookin' good."
Dean turns around then. His eyes are huge with barely masked surprise, shining in the warm morning light. "Uh, thanks," he says, smearing black paint all over his face when he reaches up to swipe a nervous hand across his jaw. "Sir."
John mimics the nervous gesture, shoots Dean a quick smile that makes the boy stare at his boots, his ears burning bright pink.
John feels his heart give a quick, painful twitch against his ribs. He has no idea how to talk to his son.
He extends the can in his hand, already half empty and littered with little dents where his fingertips pushed to hard. "Want some?" he asks. His teeth hurt in the morning cold.
Dean's expression is carefully blank when he shakes his head and turns back to his car.
John stares at him, realizes he's holding his breath for no reason at all. He lets a couple deep gulps wash away some of the overbearing awkwardness. The beer is cool and soothing but it does nothing to alleviate the painful burning sensation that's making his throat close up.
"Need some help?" He blurts and his fist spasms around his can until it crumples between his fingers, beer spilling everywhere.
"No sir, I'm good."
John can't even remember the last time he heard Dad more often than he heard sir.
"I'll go wake up your brother," he mutters and Dean nods hastily, glad to see him gone. "Make sure you're ready. We're leaving in ten."
:: :: ::
The watch on Sam's wrist beeps quietly. 12am.
Not five minutes later Dad pulls into the parking lot of the closest diner. Sam has tried to tell him a hundred times over that he's never hungry this early, but Dad has his schedule and Dean'd rather bite his own tongue off than admit that most days the two of them skip lunch all together.
"It's not even a diner," Sam complains loudly to Dean, as soon as he's sure Dad is out of his truck where he can hear every word even with his back turned. "It's a chain."
Dean rolls his eyes, shoots Sam a dark look that's threat and plea at the same time and takes off, jogging after Dad.
"This thing's responsible for all the mom'n'pop places going out of business," Sam mutters at their backs, glaring unhappily at the brightly colored sign above the door.
Dad slides into a booth, facing the door, gun hand to the isle. Dean nudges Sam with his hip until he has to sit down across from Dad, squashed in between the wall and Dean. It makes him want to roll his eyes and huff and call them names for treating him like a little kid. Dad especially, because Sam saved his ass, back in Manning and he knows Dean told him about all the things Sam's wasted in the past eight months and still it doesn't change a goddamn thing. The waitress is sauntering towards them though, so Sam keeps his mouth shut.
"What can I get you boys?" she asks, her voice heavy and breathless the way women tend to get around his brother, but when Sam looks up, her eyes are completely glues to Dad, which, just, ew.
Next to him Sam can feel Dean stiffen, but Dad ignores the waitress's wandering eyes, simply points at his menu, rasps out his order.
"Black Angus Steak, medium, side of gravy, one Coors," she ready back his order with a hopeful smile, but Dad is already busy studying his journal. "What about the two of you?"
Dean is still staring down at his menu, carefully studying each page. He always does that. Spends forever looking over his choices and it doesn't make any freakin' sense, because no matter what, Dean ends up ordering a cheeseburger with extra bacon and a coke. Fries or onion rings is the only real variable in Dean's diet.
Sam orders his tossed salat to give Dean just that much longer to stare at his choice of processed meat.
"I'll have some coke and a cheeseburger," Dean beams up at the waitress. "Extra bacon, side of onion rings."
She juts down Dean's order and is just about to leave when Dad holds up his hand. Dean sits up straighter in their booth, Sam feels his own back straighten, the waitress stops moving.
"No onion rings," he says, looking at no one in particular. "He'll have a small salad instead."
Dean's mouth falls open. Sam waits for the outraged complaint that doesn't come. Dean keeps staring and the waitress scribbles down the changes without ever once glancing his way. "Vitamin's are important," she nods, shooting John another smile.
Sam snickers until Dean drives his elbow into his ribs.
"And you're gonna have some goddamn protein," John snaps. "Put some beef stripes on that salad of his."
Sam feels the anger bubbling up, burning hot, deep inside his gut and he barely manages to hold back the angry hiss until the waitress finally walks away. "What the hell, Dad?"
Dean crashes the heel of his boot against Sam's toes.
"Watch your mouth," Dad warns quietly. He doesn't even look at Sam, just keeps staring down at his journal and it makes Sam want to scream.
"We're in out twenties." His voice rises high at the end, his throat strangling the last word and Sam is all too aware it makes him sound like a whiny teenager. "You can't decide what we eat."
Dad looks at him for a long moment, not exactly mad, but close enough to tell Sam that he's pushing dangerously close to the edge of Dad's temper. "Looks like I just did."
:: :: ::
It's barely been a week and already the cracks are showing. All that talk of working together and being stronger as a family flies right out the window as soon as Dad says something that sounds a tiny bit too much like a command and Sam's temper flies right over the edge, flaming torches and loaded guns, no questions asked.
They're at each other's throats within seconds, Sam pushing Dad's buttons and Dad going right along with it, like they're physically incapable of any other sort of interaction.
Dean is bouncing on the balls of his feet, every muscle in his body tense as a bowstring. Not quite ready to intervene yet, definitely not comfortable sitting on the bed watching them tear each other apart.
It's like Sam never left, but in all the wrong ways.
"You know what?" Dad says in that calm, vaguely threatening way that by all rights should make Sam back the fuck off. "Nobody asked you to come back. Your brother and me, we were doin' just fine without you."
"Hey." The bark scratches against Dean's throat, loud enough to echo around in his own head where it twirls around the angry static until the room is pulsing with the incessant noise. Sam and Dad don't even glance his way.
"Fine, well maybe I'll just leave again."
"Sammy!"
"Maybe you should if all you can do is bitch and mope day in and day out."
They're standing nose to nose again. Too fucking close.
"You ever think that maybe I wouldn't be such an inconvenience to you, if you just pulled your head out of your ass for one second and - "
A slow shudder runs up Dad's back, makes his shoulders tense up with angry angles and Sam keeps reciting the angry lines he's been hurling at their father since he turned thirteen. The tension travels down Dad's arm and why doesn't Sam see? Dean starts moving the exact same moment Dad's hand shoots up.
It curls into the fabric of Sam's collar, pulling them even closer and Dean has to push himself in between them, one palm on each of their chests. He pulls them apart, feels them pushing back with enough force to make getting them to back off hard. "That's enough."
"You're taking his side?" Sam spits, his voice high and whiny and outraged at Dean's betrayal.
Dean screws his eyes shut against the sudden urge to scream and run. He turns around where Dad is mirroring Sam's steely glare, raising his chin, silently demanding an answer to Sam's question.
Dean forces himself to stand his ground. He's pretty sure he manages to keep a tight enough lid on the suddenly trembles that are trying to overtake his entire body.
"I said enough," he tells them again, hoarse and throaty. The hand that's still pressed against Dad's chest twists into the frayed flannel. "I'm not taking any sides."
They both back off, still glaring at each other with mirror expressions of dark anger simmering just below the surface, like Dean standing in the middle of the room is the only thing that's keeping them from ripping each other apart then and there.
Dean keeps standing there in the middle of the room, fresh waves of adrenaline rushing over him again and again.
He wonders what will happen when Dad's fist won't be going for Sammy's shirt anymore.
:: :: ::
It's nothing but a small gash on the forehead really, but it's bleeding like a bitch and the way Dean keeps probing and prodding it, sends new waves of dark red blood cascading down his face every single time.
"Don't touch that," John snaps, batting Dean's hand away from the wound. Dean rolls his eyes and John can practically feel Sammy's disapproving frown behind his back.
He tries to gentle his probing fingers to make up for the harshness and Dean does his best to keep from flinching.
John wipes his boy's blood on a clean white towel, takes Dean's chin between his fingers to turn the wound towards the bedside lamp.
Dean looks at him from the corner of his eye. He's sucking his lips between his teeth, quickly cuts his eyes to the bedspread, when John meets his gaze.
"Quick salt'n'burn, huh?" he asks with a soft chuckle that doesn't fool either of them.
John sighs. He should have seen it coming. None of them are used to covering two people's backs anymore and it was only a matter of time before Dean got too focused on watching out for both of them while nobody was watching out for him.
Dean's eyes slam shut reflexively when John sews the wound closed with three quick stitches.
That was a great move, John wants to tell him.
You're a better shot than I could ever dream of being.
Good job protecting your brother.
John can taste the words on the tip of his tongue, but his throat closes up before he has a chance to get them out.
"Wasn't watching my back," Dean says quietly. "Sorry."
John nods, taps his fingers against the boy's cheek.
"Don't let it happen again."
:: :: ::
Sam shifts under his covers, kicks the mattress with one twitching foot, slams his palm down on the second pillow where his brother's head should be.
John almost feels bad for Dean, making him sleep in the same bed as his giant little brother again. Almost. He tells them they can't afford two rooms right now in that voice that tells them he knows he's full of shit but questions won't be tolerated.
Sam twitches again, twists his left hand into the already torn fabric of his pillow, moans softly into his mattress. Low whimpers start tumbling off his lips; not quite crying, but pretty damn close.
John is still watching him over the edge of his journal when Dean jumps up from the table under the window and rushes over to his brother's side. He never even bothers to glance at John on the other bed, just grabs Sam by the shoulders until they're as close to hugging as he's seen them in at least a decade. His hands are moving over Sam's back, fluid, never-ending, gentle circles. John thinks he hears him whispering low under his breath, words that aren't meant for John's ears.
Sam calms down then, nuzzles his face deeper into his pillow with a small sigh and Dean gets back up, a tired smile playing over his features.
"He gets nightmares," he says quietly in John's general direction. He looks like he's blushing in the dark between the lamp over John's bed and the one on the formica table. "'m just takin' care of him."
John nods numbly. He wonders when he decided that helping his baby boy through a nightmare was nothing more than a chore, easily delegated to someone else who'd rather take it.
Dean makes a small noise, out in the dark, like a bitten off sigh and walks back to the knives he's lined up in a neat row under the window.
John watches him hold one of the bowie knives up against the warm glow of the table lamp, turning the blade between his fingers, searching until he finds the tiniest imperfection. John wants to tell him to wait until morning, that the dim light isn't nearly enough.
He coughs slightly when the words get stuck in his throat and returns to studying his journal. He can hear te soft swich, every time Dean slides the blade over his thumbnail. Slow, methodical, too familiar with the deadly weapon than any kid should ever be.
The journal's different than John remembers. Updated in the way he taught his boys, years before he ever let them touch it.
Neat lists here and there, entire new entries Sam filed into the back. Little notes and additions, jammed into the edges of John's old entries, barely readable in Dean's impatient scrawl.
There is a tiny note in the upper left corner of the shtriga entry.
Zapped. The word is dark black. John can read the faint imprints of the letters four pages later. A small surge of fear and regret punches against John's chest when he looks at the photograph of the hand print tucked in between the pages.
It takes him a second before he realizes the constant swishing sounds have stopped.
"Dean?" he asks and flinches when the word comes out hard and loud in the small room.
Dean has his eyes trained on some point around John's knee, one hand still wrapped around his knife.
"Wekilledher," he forces out, low and jumbled together under his breath.
John puts the book down on his outstretched leg, raises one eyebrow in question. "What's that?"
Dean wets his lips, his eyes nervously flicker to meet John's for a second before he quickly glances back down at the knife in his hands.
"Nothin', sir."
John nods and gets back to his notes.
:: :: ::
"That's her birthday, the year before you were born," Dad says, holds up the fading photograph.
Sam reaches out, but lets his hand fall back onto the table when it's clear that Dad isn't planning on handing it over.
Dean froze the moment Dad found the box in the trunk, hidden under several bags of rock salt. Sam could hear the sharp intake of breath, the way the air wheezed through his brother's clenched teeth.
Dad barely turned around, never even took his eyes off the box when he quietly asked them where they found this.
Lawrence, Dean muttered, voice brittle and soft under the angry growl.
He hasn't come over to join Sam and Dad in their reminiscing. Just keeps sitting there in the corner with his knives, pretending to be appalled by their chick-flicky-ness. Sure, I'll be Jodie fuckin' Sweetin and we can all hug and cry while soft music plays in the background.
Dad twists the picture in his hands, bends it in half and lets it snap back open. Sam wants to reach out and make him stop before he puts a permanent crease right through Mom's face, but Dad puts it down before Sam has the chance.
"She was dead pissed when I took that picture," he says, his eyes glued to the blonde curls, the vibrant smile. Something softens around his mouth, smoothes over the deep wrinkles around his eyes and for a minute Sam is reminded that Dad used to be young. Barely older than Dean is now, when that picture was taken.
"What'cha do?"
Dad cards his hand through his hair until it stands up in every kind of direction. "I may have let Dean use some of my power tools to help me make a crib for the new baby."
Sam snorts and Dad starts laughing right along with him.
"It was perfectly safe," he defends himself with a fond roll of his eyes. "Not like I let him run around with a chainsaw."
Sam cuts his eyes to Dean in his corner, the tense shoulders, the way he's staring at his weapons like they're the skin mags they stole from Caleb when Sam was twelve. The rag and oils are lying next to him, abandoned.
Mom's birthday the year before Sam was born. December.
Sam laughs softly. His eyes wander over the picture again.
Dad's fingers gently stroke over the picture, stopping over Mom's belly.
:: :: ::
He can see them in the rear view mirror. Sam slouched against the window, feigning annoyance while Dean is playing a wild drum solo on the steering wheel.
It's strange they way they can still act like kids when their childhood ended over twenty years ago. John wonders if things would have been different. If he'd fed Dean some line about crappy wiring. If Sam hadn't sat him down that Christmas, demanding to know everything.
Would things have been different?
John asked Dean the same question a couple of years ago, in some bar when they were both too drunk to care.
Seriously, Dad? You wanna go all Full House on my ass all of a sudden?
Dean grinned. John almost fell out of his chair (he was really drunk).
John sees something in the rear view mirror. The Impala swerves, a truck blares its horn, just about manages to avoid a full on collision.
Sam is still half draped over the front seat when the car reappears in John's line of vision. Probably tried to strangle his brother right there on the highway.
John flashes his taillights once in warning. Dean gives him a sharp salute, his lips move ever so slightly and next to him Sam cracks up, actually slides down in his seat until all John can see is his hair sticking out over the dash.
He rolls his eyes, fumbles with the buttons on the radio until a loud, obnoxious guitar is blasting through the car, calming the shock of almost seeing his boys flattened by a six-wheeler.
John remembers when they were little. How he wanted to beat them bloody sometimes.
The loud, too-high laughter from the backseat. The way they could never sit still when all he needed was to curl up in his car around a bottle of tequila and a hot cup of coffee. Wanted to slam them against the nearest wall and put the fear of God into them.
He sighs and turns the music up some more.
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 3500
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: Late S1: Conversations between Sir and his boys. In which no one talks about shtrigas or the impala or Lawrence. Because Winchesters don't do healthy.
Written for the fic_art_remix for geckoholic's Last ever Lone Gunman fan-mix and fill for 'Arguments/Fighting' on my dark_bingo card and 'Trust Issues' on my hc_bingo card.
John wakes before the first rays of sunshine have a chance to filter through the thin curtains. His ability to sleep in got lost a lifetime ago, somewhere between Suoi Chau Pha and Lawrence.
He swipes a heavy hand over his aching eyes and clears his throat. The bed squeaks and screams under his shifting weight when he sits up to survey the room. Sam is sprawled over both sides of the boys' bed, sheets tangled up around his huge frame, his head shoved under his brother's pillow.
John leans forward with a new symphony of squeaking to check the bathroom, but the door opens to an empty room. A small, quick flash of fear makes John's heart jump before he remembers that his boys aren't fragile children anymore.
"Dean?"
Sam shifts under his blankets, mumbles something that sounds a lot like "JustfivemoreminutesDad."
John sighs and forces himself out of bed. He decidedly ignores the aches and kinks in his back, put there by countless nights on too-hard mattresses.
He finds Dean in the parking lot, bent over his car, jeans and shirt soaked with soap and sweat, his face and hands stained black.
"Morning, sunshine," John smiles. He fishes his morning beer out of his jacket, digs his fingernail into the tab.
Dean nods, keeps his eyes trained on the wheel rim he's working on. "'m almost done." His voice sounds rough. Weak and painful, like it's been dragged through gravel.
John shakes his head. The seat of Dean's jeans is almost worn through. God knows when the boys last stopped to stack up on clothes. "How long've you been out here?"
John starts at the harshness in his own voice. Dean sniffs, quickly swipes the back of his arm across his nose. "I got enough sleep," he croaks.
John decided he wouldn't put that look on Dean's face again - the one that's been there constantly, every time they walk past the damn car - so he forces down the anger that is quick to rise up in his chest when he knows he's being lied to. "She's lookin' good."
Dean turns around then. His eyes are huge with barely masked surprise, shining in the warm morning light. "Uh, thanks," he says, smearing black paint all over his face when he reaches up to swipe a nervous hand across his jaw. "Sir."
John mimics the nervous gesture, shoots Dean a quick smile that makes the boy stare at his boots, his ears burning bright pink.
John feels his heart give a quick, painful twitch against his ribs. He has no idea how to talk to his son.
He extends the can in his hand, already half empty and littered with little dents where his fingertips pushed to hard. "Want some?" he asks. His teeth hurt in the morning cold.
Dean's expression is carefully blank when he shakes his head and turns back to his car.
John stares at him, realizes he's holding his breath for no reason at all. He lets a couple deep gulps wash away some of the overbearing awkwardness. The beer is cool and soothing but it does nothing to alleviate the painful burning sensation that's making his throat close up.
"Need some help?" He blurts and his fist spasms around his can until it crumples between his fingers, beer spilling everywhere.
"No sir, I'm good."
John can't even remember the last time he heard Dad more often than he heard sir.
"I'll go wake up your brother," he mutters and Dean nods hastily, glad to see him gone. "Make sure you're ready. We're leaving in ten."
:: :: ::
The watch on Sam's wrist beeps quietly. 12am.
Not five minutes later Dad pulls into the parking lot of the closest diner. Sam has tried to tell him a hundred times over that he's never hungry this early, but Dad has his schedule and Dean'd rather bite his own tongue off than admit that most days the two of them skip lunch all together.
"It's not even a diner," Sam complains loudly to Dean, as soon as he's sure Dad is out of his truck where he can hear every word even with his back turned. "It's a chain."
Dean rolls his eyes, shoots Sam a dark look that's threat and plea at the same time and takes off, jogging after Dad.
"This thing's responsible for all the mom'n'pop places going out of business," Sam mutters at their backs, glaring unhappily at the brightly colored sign above the door.
Dad slides into a booth, facing the door, gun hand to the isle. Dean nudges Sam with his hip until he has to sit down across from Dad, squashed in between the wall and Dean. It makes him want to roll his eyes and huff and call them names for treating him like a little kid. Dad especially, because Sam saved his ass, back in Manning and he knows Dean told him about all the things Sam's wasted in the past eight months and still it doesn't change a goddamn thing. The waitress is sauntering towards them though, so Sam keeps his mouth shut.
"What can I get you boys?" she asks, her voice heavy and breathless the way women tend to get around his brother, but when Sam looks up, her eyes are completely glues to Dad, which, just, ew.
Next to him Sam can feel Dean stiffen, but Dad ignores the waitress's wandering eyes, simply points at his menu, rasps out his order.
"Black Angus Steak, medium, side of gravy, one Coors," she ready back his order with a hopeful smile, but Dad is already busy studying his journal. "What about the two of you?"
Dean is still staring down at his menu, carefully studying each page. He always does that. Spends forever looking over his choices and it doesn't make any freakin' sense, because no matter what, Dean ends up ordering a cheeseburger with extra bacon and a coke. Fries or onion rings is the only real variable in Dean's diet.
Sam orders his tossed salat to give Dean just that much longer to stare at his choice of processed meat.
"I'll have some coke and a cheeseburger," Dean beams up at the waitress. "Extra bacon, side of onion rings."
She juts down Dean's order and is just about to leave when Dad holds up his hand. Dean sits up straighter in their booth, Sam feels his own back straighten, the waitress stops moving.
"No onion rings," he says, looking at no one in particular. "He'll have a small salad instead."
Dean's mouth falls open. Sam waits for the outraged complaint that doesn't come. Dean keeps staring and the waitress scribbles down the changes without ever once glancing his way. "Vitamin's are important," she nods, shooting John another smile.
Sam snickers until Dean drives his elbow into his ribs.
"And you're gonna have some goddamn protein," John snaps. "Put some beef stripes on that salad of his."
Sam feels the anger bubbling up, burning hot, deep inside his gut and he barely manages to hold back the angry hiss until the waitress finally walks away. "What the hell, Dad?"
Dean crashes the heel of his boot against Sam's toes.
"Watch your mouth," Dad warns quietly. He doesn't even look at Sam, just keeps staring down at his journal and it makes Sam want to scream.
"We're in out twenties." His voice rises high at the end, his throat strangling the last word and Sam is all too aware it makes him sound like a whiny teenager. "You can't decide what we eat."
Dad looks at him for a long moment, not exactly mad, but close enough to tell Sam that he's pushing dangerously close to the edge of Dad's temper. "Looks like I just did."
:: :: ::
It's barely been a week and already the cracks are showing. All that talk of working together and being stronger as a family flies right out the window as soon as Dad says something that sounds a tiny bit too much like a command and Sam's temper flies right over the edge, flaming torches and loaded guns, no questions asked.
They're at each other's throats within seconds, Sam pushing Dad's buttons and Dad going right along with it, like they're physically incapable of any other sort of interaction.
Dean is bouncing on the balls of his feet, every muscle in his body tense as a bowstring. Not quite ready to intervene yet, definitely not comfortable sitting on the bed watching them tear each other apart.
It's like Sam never left, but in all the wrong ways.
"You know what?" Dad says in that calm, vaguely threatening way that by all rights should make Sam back the fuck off. "Nobody asked you to come back. Your brother and me, we were doin' just fine without you."
"Hey." The bark scratches against Dean's throat, loud enough to echo around in his own head where it twirls around the angry static until the room is pulsing with the incessant noise. Sam and Dad don't even glance his way.
"Fine, well maybe I'll just leave again."
"Sammy!"
"Maybe you should if all you can do is bitch and mope day in and day out."
They're standing nose to nose again. Too fucking close.
"You ever think that maybe I wouldn't be such an inconvenience to you, if you just pulled your head out of your ass for one second and - "
A slow shudder runs up Dad's back, makes his shoulders tense up with angry angles and Sam keeps reciting the angry lines he's been hurling at their father since he turned thirteen. The tension travels down Dad's arm and why doesn't Sam see? Dean starts moving the exact same moment Dad's hand shoots up.
It curls into the fabric of Sam's collar, pulling them even closer and Dean has to push himself in between them, one palm on each of their chests. He pulls them apart, feels them pushing back with enough force to make getting them to back off hard. "That's enough."
"You're taking his side?" Sam spits, his voice high and whiny and outraged at Dean's betrayal.
Dean screws his eyes shut against the sudden urge to scream and run. He turns around where Dad is mirroring Sam's steely glare, raising his chin, silently demanding an answer to Sam's question.
Dean forces himself to stand his ground. He's pretty sure he manages to keep a tight enough lid on the suddenly trembles that are trying to overtake his entire body.
"I said enough," he tells them again, hoarse and throaty. The hand that's still pressed against Dad's chest twists into the frayed flannel. "I'm not taking any sides."
They both back off, still glaring at each other with mirror expressions of dark anger simmering just below the surface, like Dean standing in the middle of the room is the only thing that's keeping them from ripping each other apart then and there.
Dean keeps standing there in the middle of the room, fresh waves of adrenaline rushing over him again and again.
He wonders what will happen when Dad's fist won't be going for Sammy's shirt anymore.
:: :: ::
It's nothing but a small gash on the forehead really, but it's bleeding like a bitch and the way Dean keeps probing and prodding it, sends new waves of dark red blood cascading down his face every single time.
"Don't touch that," John snaps, batting Dean's hand away from the wound. Dean rolls his eyes and John can practically feel Sammy's disapproving frown behind his back.
He tries to gentle his probing fingers to make up for the harshness and Dean does his best to keep from flinching.
John wipes his boy's blood on a clean white towel, takes Dean's chin between his fingers to turn the wound towards the bedside lamp.
Dean looks at him from the corner of his eye. He's sucking his lips between his teeth, quickly cuts his eyes to the bedspread, when John meets his gaze.
"Quick salt'n'burn, huh?" he asks with a soft chuckle that doesn't fool either of them.
John sighs. He should have seen it coming. None of them are used to covering two people's backs anymore and it was only a matter of time before Dean got too focused on watching out for both of them while nobody was watching out for him.
Dean's eyes slam shut reflexively when John sews the wound closed with three quick stitches.
That was a great move, John wants to tell him.
You're a better shot than I could ever dream of being.
Good job protecting your brother.
John can taste the words on the tip of his tongue, but his throat closes up before he has a chance to get them out.
"Wasn't watching my back," Dean says quietly. "Sorry."
John nods, taps his fingers against the boy's cheek.
"Don't let it happen again."
:: :: ::
Sam shifts under his covers, kicks the mattress with one twitching foot, slams his palm down on the second pillow where his brother's head should be.
John almost feels bad for Dean, making him sleep in the same bed as his giant little brother again. Almost. He tells them they can't afford two rooms right now in that voice that tells them he knows he's full of shit but questions won't be tolerated.
Sam twitches again, twists his left hand into the already torn fabric of his pillow, moans softly into his mattress. Low whimpers start tumbling off his lips; not quite crying, but pretty damn close.
John is still watching him over the edge of his journal when Dean jumps up from the table under the window and rushes over to his brother's side. He never even bothers to glance at John on the other bed, just grabs Sam by the shoulders until they're as close to hugging as he's seen them in at least a decade. His hands are moving over Sam's back, fluid, never-ending, gentle circles. John thinks he hears him whispering low under his breath, words that aren't meant for John's ears.
Sam calms down then, nuzzles his face deeper into his pillow with a small sigh and Dean gets back up, a tired smile playing over his features.
"He gets nightmares," he says quietly in John's general direction. He looks like he's blushing in the dark between the lamp over John's bed and the one on the formica table. "'m just takin' care of him."
John nods numbly. He wonders when he decided that helping his baby boy through a nightmare was nothing more than a chore, easily delegated to someone else who'd rather take it.
Dean makes a small noise, out in the dark, like a bitten off sigh and walks back to the knives he's lined up in a neat row under the window.
John watches him hold one of the bowie knives up against the warm glow of the table lamp, turning the blade between his fingers, searching until he finds the tiniest imperfection. John wants to tell him to wait until morning, that the dim light isn't nearly enough.
He coughs slightly when the words get stuck in his throat and returns to studying his journal. He can hear te soft swich, every time Dean slides the blade over his thumbnail. Slow, methodical, too familiar with the deadly weapon than any kid should ever be.
The journal's different than John remembers. Updated in the way he taught his boys, years before he ever let them touch it.
Neat lists here and there, entire new entries Sam filed into the back. Little notes and additions, jammed into the edges of John's old entries, barely readable in Dean's impatient scrawl.
There is a tiny note in the upper left corner of the shtriga entry.
Zapped. The word is dark black. John can read the faint imprints of the letters four pages later. A small surge of fear and regret punches against John's chest when he looks at the photograph of the hand print tucked in between the pages.
It takes him a second before he realizes the constant swishing sounds have stopped.
"Dean?" he asks and flinches when the word comes out hard and loud in the small room.
Dean has his eyes trained on some point around John's knee, one hand still wrapped around his knife.
"Wekilledher," he forces out, low and jumbled together under his breath.
John puts the book down on his outstretched leg, raises one eyebrow in question. "What's that?"
Dean wets his lips, his eyes nervously flicker to meet John's for a second before he quickly glances back down at the knife in his hands.
"Nothin', sir."
John nods and gets back to his notes.
:: :: ::
"That's her birthday, the year before you were born," Dad says, holds up the fading photograph.
Sam reaches out, but lets his hand fall back onto the table when it's clear that Dad isn't planning on handing it over.
Dean froze the moment Dad found the box in the trunk, hidden under several bags of rock salt. Sam could hear the sharp intake of breath, the way the air wheezed through his brother's clenched teeth.
Dad barely turned around, never even took his eyes off the box when he quietly asked them where they found this.
Lawrence, Dean muttered, voice brittle and soft under the angry growl.
He hasn't come over to join Sam and Dad in their reminiscing. Just keeps sitting there in the corner with his knives, pretending to be appalled by their chick-flicky-ness. Sure, I'll be Jodie fuckin' Sweetin and we can all hug and cry while soft music plays in the background.
Dad twists the picture in his hands, bends it in half and lets it snap back open. Sam wants to reach out and make him stop before he puts a permanent crease right through Mom's face, but Dad puts it down before Sam has the chance.
"She was dead pissed when I took that picture," he says, his eyes glued to the blonde curls, the vibrant smile. Something softens around his mouth, smoothes over the deep wrinkles around his eyes and for a minute Sam is reminded that Dad used to be young. Barely older than Dean is now, when that picture was taken.
"What'cha do?"
Dad cards his hand through his hair until it stands up in every kind of direction. "I may have let Dean use some of my power tools to help me make a crib for the new baby."
Sam snorts and Dad starts laughing right along with him.
"It was perfectly safe," he defends himself with a fond roll of his eyes. "Not like I let him run around with a chainsaw."
Sam cuts his eyes to Dean in his corner, the tense shoulders, the way he's staring at his weapons like they're the skin mags they stole from Caleb when Sam was twelve. The rag and oils are lying next to him, abandoned.
Mom's birthday the year before Sam was born. December.
Sam laughs softly. His eyes wander over the picture again.
Dad's fingers gently stroke over the picture, stopping over Mom's belly.
:: :: ::
He can see them in the rear view mirror. Sam slouched against the window, feigning annoyance while Dean is playing a wild drum solo on the steering wheel.
It's strange they way they can still act like kids when their childhood ended over twenty years ago. John wonders if things would have been different. If he'd fed Dean some line about crappy wiring. If Sam hadn't sat him down that Christmas, demanding to know everything.
Would things have been different?
John asked Dean the same question a couple of years ago, in some bar when they were both too drunk to care.
Seriously, Dad? You wanna go all Full House on my ass all of a sudden?
Dean grinned. John almost fell out of his chair (he was really drunk).
John sees something in the rear view mirror. The Impala swerves, a truck blares its horn, just about manages to avoid a full on collision.
Sam is still half draped over the front seat when the car reappears in John's line of vision. Probably tried to strangle his brother right there on the highway.
John flashes his taillights once in warning. Dean gives him a sharp salute, his lips move ever so slightly and next to him Sam cracks up, actually slides down in his seat until all John can see is his hair sticking out over the dash.
He rolls his eyes, fumbles with the buttons on the radio until a loud, obnoxious guitar is blasting through the car, calming the shock of almost seeing his boys flattened by a six-wheeler.
John remembers when they were little. How he wanted to beat them bloody sometimes.
The loud, too-high laughter from the backseat. The way they could never sit still when all he needed was to curl up in his car around a bottle of tequila and a hot cup of coffee. Wanted to slam them against the nearest wall and put the fear of God into them.
He sighs and turns the music up some more.