SPN: Only love you when they're playing, by irnan

[irnan]

Title: Only love you when they're playing
Author: 
irnan
Summary: Getting trapped in an attic by a homicidal spirit was really not the sort of father-son bonding Dean had planned on when John got back earlier that week.
Characters: Dean, John
Genre: Gen
Disclaimer: *sulks*
Word Count: 881
Challenge: If you were stuck alone on a deserted island...

“Well, this is embarrassing,” Dean said gloomily, giving the locked door a half-hearted jiggle.

Dad was standing next to him, hands in his pockets, frowning round at the darkened attic. “It doesn’t make sense,” he said. “We burned her bones, why’s she still here? And why not just kill us?”

“Beats me.” Dean gave his flashlight a shake and then snapped it on again. The beam lit up the cluttered, dusty room for an instant like a lightening-flash before fizzing out again.

“Leave it. You’re just wasting the batteries.”

“Yessir. What now? Sit here till morning?”

John turned to look at him, one eyebrow quirked, Dean knew, even though the light wasn’t good enough to see his Dad’s expression. “It’s not far off. Besides, there’s no cell reception, so we can’t call Sammy.”

“When he gets back from his study-spree, he’ll notice something’s up,” Dean said.

“No, he won’t. He’ll assume you’re with a pretty girl, and I’m… aaah. God only knows what he thinks I spend my days doing.”

Was there the faintest trace of bitterness in Dad’s voice, or was it all weary regret? Dean couldn’t tell. The fights had been getting more frequent, and worse every time, and lately he’d started to put metaphorical hands over his ears and stopped listening to them. Anything else, and he’d go crazy.

“When we still don’t show after he gets back from school tomorrow he’ll come looking,” he said with more confidence than he felt.

“He’ll throw a party first,” Dad replied, but Dean could hear the amusement in his voice now.

They ended up sitting side-by-side against the wall next to the door in familiar comfortable silence. Outside, Lucinda Green’s spirit occasionally swept past with a rush of cold air and a noise of soft footsteps, but other than that, nothing. She never even tried to get in.

All in all, Dean suspected they were more likely to die of dehydration than by vengeful spirit.

“Maybe there’s something in here she wants us to find,” John mused after the third or fourth ice-cold breeze had passed over them. “Something that’ll put her to rest, you know?”

Dean just grunted in answer. Dad had been pretty busy lately, always away on hunts, and now that the two of them were trapped in an attic together, the last thing he wanted to talk about was the job.

Not that he was sure what he did want to talk about. Just… something else.

“Hey, Dad. Top five all-time desert island albums.”

John laughed. “Now?”

“Yeah, sure. For all the stuff we can get to right now, we might as well be on a desert island, right? So we’re in a position to know what we’re missing. No guessing necessary.”

“Oh, OK then. You wanna go first?”

“Nope,” Dean said cheerfully. Dad was enjoying this. Cool.

“Right. Um… Zeppelin IV. Highway to Hell. One by the Beatles - White Album or Sgt. Pepper, probably. And the Stones, but don’t ask me which. That needs long and careful consideration. And lastly, CCR’s Green River.”

“CCR? Come on, Dad! I mean, they’re good… but for a desert island? No way, man. Are you sure you’re taking this seriously?”

“Mary hated CCR too, you know.”

Dean froze up, breathless. Had Dad really meant to mention that?

“She used to sing me Stairway to Heaven,” he said, hesitating, and a little unsteady, uncertain what reaction he’d get.

“You remember that?” Dad said, soft and surprised. “I didn’t realise. Yeah, she did. Always. It put you out like a light. Going to California, too. Or Fleetwood Mac - Dreams, usually.”

“Most kids get sung lullabies about teddy bears,” Dean joked.

Dad laughed softly. “I don’t think she knew any. Her parents died when she was fourteen, you know. Car crash. I think she… deliberately forgot… a lot of stuff about her childhood after that.”

Dean was silent for a while. Then he said, “That was… kinda stupid.”

“Yeah. But that was Mary, all the way. Used to just push stuff away… she hated to dwell on things. Lived in the now, and damn anybody who thought she was being reckless or silly or not careful enough. The older you get, the more you remind me of her, actually.”

Dad's voice was soft and quiet and very slow, almost distant, as if the memories were only slowly sufacing. Dean realised he was hugging his knees against his chest, and his eyes were burning.

“How come we’ve gotta be locked in an attic by a homicidal ghost without any way to get out and no cell reception before we can talk about her?” he asked hoarsely.

Dad let out a harsh, choked laugh. “I don’t know, kiddo. I just don’t know. But I tell you this. This mess we’re in? She’d think it was hilarious.”

Dean choked out an echoing laugh, scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. Dad’s hand was heavy and warm on the back of his neck. When he looked up, he could see pale pre-dawn light creeping through the grimy skylights.