(no subject)
John had been keeping to himself lately.
Well, moreso than usual. With the demon gone and no sign of any impending threats (and John was watching everything like a hawk, just waiting for a hint of something), John felt restless. Idleness had never suited him, not even before he'd become a hunter. There was a way about John Winchester, a way reminiscent of electricity, of a current buried just beneath the skin. That way had often got him into trouble with folk, but it had long been a part of him and there was no way in hell he was going to part with it. It was as connected to him as his boys were.
But he'd been feeling useless lately, like he had no direction. And so, he'd been scarce.
With the onslaught of snow, it wasn't as though he could go out patrolling the island for hours like he normally would have. Lately he'd been finding a spot and holing himself up in it for hours, pouring over his notes and reading up on demons and rituals in old books the bookshelf saw fit to give him.
Today, though, was different. Instead of freezing his ass off in the jungle or skulking around the outside of the compound or hiding somewhere and reading, John Winchester decided he'd try like hell to make the perfect cup of coffee.
So far he was on pot number six and no closer to figuring out how to do that.
Taking a sip from the mug he'd just filled, John's nose automatically wrinkled and his mouth scrunched up. "What the hell's the secret?" he grumbled, practically slamming the mug back on the counter top.
Well, moreso than usual. With the demon gone and no sign of any impending threats (and John was watching everything like a hawk, just waiting for a hint of something), John felt restless. Idleness had never suited him, not even before he'd become a hunter. There was a way about John Winchester, a way reminiscent of electricity, of a current buried just beneath the skin. That way had often got him into trouble with folk, but it had long been a part of him and there was no way in hell he was going to part with it. It was as connected to him as his boys were.
But he'd been feeling useless lately, like he had no direction. And so, he'd been scarce.
With the onslaught of snow, it wasn't as though he could go out patrolling the island for hours like he normally would have. Lately he'd been finding a spot and holing himself up in it for hours, pouring over his notes and reading up on demons and rituals in old books the bookshelf saw fit to give him.
Today, though, was different. Instead of freezing his ass off in the jungle or skulking around the outside of the compound or hiding somewhere and reading, John Winchester decided he'd try like hell to make the perfect cup of coffee.
So far he was on pot number six and no closer to figuring out how to do that.
Taking a sip from the mug he'd just filled, John's nose automatically wrinkled and his mouth scrunched up. "What the hell's the secret?" he grumbled, practically slamming the mug back on the counter top.