FIC: Taking Back Control (1/1)
Author: Wilwarin1
Rating: PG
Type of story: Supernatural pre-series
Pairing: John, Wee!Sam and Wee!Dean
Spoilers: Pilot
Disclaimers: I´m just borrowing the characters of Supernatural. Eventually I will give them back, scarred, but otherwise okay.
Summary: He saw only fire, that ceiling and his wife in flames.
Authors notes: Completely unbeta-ed, so any mistakes are my own. Enjoy! Feedback is very much welcomed.
He should have seen it coming. It had been pity and empathy at first, then something else, something he didn’t fully place until much later. Until that day in December.
He should have seen it, but Mary dying had hit him hard, like a hard fist to his solar plexus, had left him reeling with the impact. For those first terrible days he barely existed, breathing, yeah, and eating whatever food the people around him put in front of him. He was aware of his sons close by, Sammy crying a lot and Dean so terribly quiet.
Other than that nothing made sense. He saw only fire, that ceiling and his wife in flames. He felt only sadness and hopelessness so profound that he very much doubted ever feeling different.
Then anger, a steady stream of rage, pure venom directed at the thing that had killed Mary. Thoughts of revenge took shape, fantasies of him finding that thing and killing it ever so slowly, taking days, years even, while the thing screamed in the same unbearable pain John now felt.
He moved into a cheap rental home on the other side of Lawrence not long after. His friends and Mary’s parents naturally didn’t agree, but he paid them no mind. He didn’t need their pity and disapproval. He needed solitude, his sons close by and time.
That was when he found Missouri Mosely and he learned that the thing in his mind really existed and was called a demon. He had no idea if a thing like that could be killed or not, but he promised himself to die trying. Dean and Sam would never be safe otherwise. A plan took shape. He started to prepare.
He sold his half of the shop to a totally bewildered Marty and used the money to stock up on guns and ammo, through a guy he knew from his days as a Marine.
That was a mistake. Not the buying in itself, which when it came right down to it, was his right as an American citizen.
But the day he brought them back to what passed for home these days, but never could be, he unpacked them, on by one, ran his hands over the smooth, cool metal of the barrels. He placed them on the kitchen table in front of him and just looked at them, feeling in control for the first time since November 2nd. These guns meant he could protect his sons, like he hadn’t been able to protect Mary. Too little, too late. Well, not this time. Let evil come. He was ready.
Marty clearly wasn’t when he stepped into the kitchen later that night, intend on just sharing a few beers with his best friend. He stopped short on seeing the guns, shock and worry in his face.
“John, what are you doing?” He asked. John smiled at him.
“Taking back my life.”
“What? I don’t…”
“You can’t, Marty. You’ll never be able to understand. Don’t worry. It’ll be okay, I promise.”
Marty left not long after, the six pack he’d brought untouched on the kitchen counter. John could care less. It didn’t matter. Not anymore.
He put the guns in an old duffel bag that he placed under his bed. The one hand gun he put under his pillow, within easy reach.
He looked over at his two boys where they shared a bed in the corner of the room. He’d put them in the other room at first, but after one night of Sammy crying and Dean waking up screaming he’d moved them in here with him. Made more sense anyway. Here he could keep an eye on them.
Sammy was sound asleep, curled against his brother’s chest, safe within his protective arms. But above Sammy’s soft hair two eyes glinted at him. Dean was wide awake.
John crouched down next to the bed and smiled.
“Hey buddy, you doing okay?” Mentally he kicked himself. Stupid question. Of course Dean wasn’t doing okay. He had seen his mother murdered, hadn’t said a word since. Does the word trauma mean anything?
Dean didn’t answer, all dark, liquid eyes in the dim light. His quiet unnerved John.
“You need anything?” Wow, another stupid one. Dean needed his mother and it just was the one thing John could not get him. Tears burned behind his eyes and in his throat and he cleared it softly before he found his voice again.
“Try to get some sleep, Ace.” He murmured. He softly stroked his son’s hair for a moment before getting up and lying down in his own bed.
For the first time since November 2nd he slept through the night, his hand curled around the grip of the gun under his pillow.
~:~:~
Daybreak came with faint sunlight and frost on the grass in the front lawn.
Standing by the window John yawned and stretched, shivering in the cold air of the room. A glance to his left showed him Dean still sleeping, jaw slack and a thin line of dribble at the corner of his mouth. Next to him Sammy blinked at him. He smiled, and the kid gurgled in answer, sticking his chubby arms up to him.
In the small kitchen John baked bacon and eggs, warmed formula for Sammy, waited for his coffee.
He’d just finished feeding Sam when a car engine outside drew his attention to the window. Marty’s truck pulled up, but he wasn’t alone. Just behind it a squad car, and behind that one that made his heart do a sickening summersault in his chest.
Child Services.
Oh shit no!
In record time he stuffed his meagre belongings in the car. There wasn’t much, just the duffel from under his bed, Sammy’s diaper bag and bear, Dean’s small backpack and the few clothes he’d bought for himself since the fire. Whatever else he might need he could buy along the way. There was enough money left from selling his part of the workshop.
While the cops pounded on the front door of the rundown rental a sleek black 1967 Chevrolet tore through the still quiet streets of Lawrence, Kansas.
John kept on driving for nearly three hours and didn’t start breathing again until he was well past the state line.
About an hour into Iowa he pulled the Impala over to the shoulder of a quiet two lane road and killed the engine. He leaned back against the seat, covered his face with his hands and cried.
What the hell was he doing? Had he completely lost it? Sure felt like it, or he wouldn’t be here now; homeless with two very young children in tow, hunting down a demon he didn’t know how to find or kill, a trunk full of weapons. It had all made so much sense back when the idea had first popped into his head, but now? He had no idea where to go, or what to do next.
Two small arms suddenly wrapped themselves around him from behind and a soft cheek was pressed against his own rough one.
“Daddy? It’s okay,” Dean whispered softly, voice rough from not speaking for so long. He hadn’t said a word since November 2nd.
Today was December 16th.
John nodded through his tears, collected himself and started the engine again. He pulled out into the light morning traffic and headed toward un uncertain future.
The End