Supernatural: House of Cards 6/?
Title: House of Cards
Author: Ada
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG
Spoilers: AU where anything's game.
Characters: Sam/Jess, Dean, John, and more
Disclaimer: I don't own 'Supernatural' or Dean or Sam... too bad.
Note: My Marty Guenther is modeled after 'Mr. Guenther' who co-owned the garage with John and was shown in the episode 'Home'. This story was partially inspired by the cut scene with the longer conversation between the boys and Mr. Guenther.
Summary: AU. John had been declared mentally incompetent by the state, his boys split up and raised by two different families. Now, 20 years later, John sends Dean to his naive little brother, to tell him that the demon is coming for him.
One misstep and everything they'd built could collapse like a house of cards.
Chapters: One, Two, Three, Four, Five
House of Cards
Chapter 6
“It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend.” -William Blake
“So then, Tim takes a swing at me, completely taking me by surprise, the kid was a bully but I never thought he had the balls. I’m nursing my sore eye and about to pop him one when my mom comes running out of the house screeching with a broom in her hand and actually started whacking him with it. I couldn’t believe it, the whole thing was insane,” Dean laughed, tipping his beer bottle to drink from it.
Sam was laughing across from him, a strange sort of giggling sound that he had begun making after his second beer. Now on his third, Sam was becoming more and more odd. Dean found it sort of endearing, so he did nothing to stop him from continuing to drink.
After their conversation at the apartment, Dean and Sam had split up, giving Sam a chance to mull over everything that had been said and allow Dean to call his mother with an update. She had sounded odd, worried and strained as she spoke to him, and something about her tone made Dean think she had done something that she shouldn’t have. But as was the way with Ella Guenther, he would wait until she came clean, and it would probably only be another day before she did. He had then spoken to Marty, whose first question had been to ask when Dean was coming home. Yeah, something was definitely going on.
Dean had eaten dinner, gone through a local newspaper for any signs of demonic activity (John Winchester, for all his faults, had taught him how to know if something was coming) and then met up with Sam at some bar that seemed a little off the beaten path for a college student, and Dean couldn’t help but wonder if maybe Sam chose that one to be sure he wouldn’t run into anyone he knew.
His doubts and concerns about Sam had been slowly diminished as the pair drank and shared stories. Dean was careful to keep all of his tales off the topic of John or Mary or their life as kids, not wanting to inadvertently alienate Sam, and instead regaled him with stories of his years with the Guenthers, being sure to not make it sound like a jibe at Sam when he mentioned the people who would’ve been Sam’s parents too.
Sam for his part had shared some pretty interesting stories; apparently there was more to the Stanford student than designer labels and a too-clean apartment. Sam followed up Dean’s broom-abuse story with one of his father getting them lost in hillbilly country on a trip to visit relatives in New Mexico.
“We stop at this gas station to ask for directions - a major concession on my dad’s part, the man absolutely hates being wrong - and these two men come out with shotguns. My dad just sort of looks between them, and then turns, shoves me back in the car, and takes off as fast as he can. He was so sure they were going to chase him that he just took any turns he could find and ended up getting us more lost. He stopped at this clinic he saw, thinking that maybe you know, since he’s a doctor, him and whoever owns it would get along. We got there just as some woman was giving birth and I ended up eating hard candy in the waiting room for over an hour while my dad assisted.”
“Did you ever make it to your family’s place?” Dean asked.
“Yeah, the other doctor gave Dad directions and we got there just before they were getting ready to send out a search party.” Sam looked at the beer he had just finished, and seemed to be contemplating something. He shook his head slightly and then turned to Dean again, who was watching him quizzically. “Three’s my cutoff,” he said by way of explanation.
Dean was pulled out of the happy, content state he had existed in for the past two hours, eyes darting to the clock to prove that it had really only been the two. Sam had pushed the bottle away and seemed about to leave. Dean didn’t want him to go. While at the bar the two of them had been getting along, chatting, laughing, and he needed that. He needed some sort of connection to this Sam, to adult Sam who he still didn’t really know. Ever since John had told him to find Sam, there had been a clock ticking in Dean’s head, counting down from the illusive time when the demon would make its presence know and come for Sam. He found himself needing every minute, every second of the time before that happened to be with Sam. He needed to learn about his brother, to know him so well that he could anticipate Sam’s actions and reactions, to know what he liked, what bothered him, what his life had been. That way, when everything came crashing down, when this house of cards that they had so painstakingly built over the years came down around Sam’s head, Sam would trust him to help him.
How could John think that a stranger, a complete stranger, would believe any of their nonsense about demons and murder, and how could he expect that a stranger would trust either of them with his life?
Dean was panicking, his hands shaking, and fire filled his vision as he saw Sam reaching for his jacket. And apparently Sam noticed, because he felt a hand rest lightly on his shoulder, and through the hiss and crackling of flames, he heard Sam’s voice, gently saying, “Hey man, are you okay? What’s wrong?”
Sam’s voice snapped Dean out of his fear. “Yeah, yeah, sorry,” he said, trying to shake off the after-effects of his miniature panic attack. “But hey, are those pool tables? Come on, Sam, let’s play a round,” Dean suggested, regaining some of his swagger and ego.
Sam glanced hesitantly at the billiard tables and then back at Dean. “Dean… I don’t know, I told Jess I would be home sort of early and…”
“Oh come on, she’ll understand. Besides, it’s not like she needs to worry, you’re with your brother, right?” Dean laughed, clapping Sam on the shoulder and making his way to the back of the bar, Sam following just behind him.
--------------------------------
Sam didn’t drink anymore after that third beer, and his goofiness began to subside slightly, but he did indulge Dean in over an hour or heavily concentrated pool playing. Sam was better at it than Dean expected, although Dean managed to beat him at every game. He thought about betting with the men at the next table over, two on two, but he wasn’t sure if Sam would be okay with that, and decided not to push his luck.
At the end of the second game, Sam convinced Dean it was time to leave, and so the two walked out into the parking lot together. Dean watched as Sam wandered towards a red convertible with racing stripes and paused. “That your car?” he questioned.
“Yeah, just bought her a couple weeks ago,” Sam responded with a smile. “You like her?”
Dean walked over, running his hands lightly over the hood. “It’s nice. But a little new for my taste.”
“It’s a 2003,” Sam shrugged. He had bought the car used, but the previous owner had taken good care of her.
“Yeah, mine’s a 1967.”
“What make?” Sam asked, following Dean over to the other end of the parking lot.
“Chevy Impala,” Dean announced with pride, passing a beat up pick-up truck to reveal his pride and joy.
“Wow,” Sam breathed, honestly impressed as he took in the sight of the car. “It’s in such great condition, where did you find it?”
“Belonged to my mom - our mom,” Dean said, pausing slightly before he specified the woman as Mary Winchester.
Sam froze, his hand hovering over the car where he had been about to touch it. “You know… I think I remember this,” he said quietly after a moment, finally lowering his hand to rest on the roof. “Looks familiar anyway.”
“Well it should, this car was like our home,” Dean said with a smile. “After mom died we never really settled anywhere for good, and it was the one constant in our lives.”
“I should go, it’s late,” Sam murmured, stepping away from the Impala and waving a goodbye to Dean before heading back to his car.
-----------------------------------------
“Hey Bobby, it’s John Winchester… Yeah, I’m going in California tomorrow and I need you to get my supplies ready… Right… I need enough for three… That’s right, me and my two sons… they’re in their twenties.”
John was standing at a phone booth outside of the Sunoco station near the sanitarium where he had spent the last twenty years of his life. He had been released an hour ago, and was already preparing for what he would need to fight the demon when he arrived in California. He hoped Dean had already filled in Sam and was getting him ready for what was about to happen. The last thing he needed was to find out that Sam knew nothing about the demon, or his mother’s murder or anything important.
He had been lucky enough to be assigned a doctor who hunted on his weekends, and he didn’t mean deer or rabbit hunting, more like spirits and poltergeists. The man taught him everything he knew, and even gave him some field training, signing him out of the sanitarium and then back in after a couple days of rock salt and gunfire. It had been a pretty good set-up for him, room and board provided by the state and some free mentoring in the art of supernatural hunting. Of course the downside had been the lack of contact with his sons, but at least they had been well taken care of, and allowed him the freedom to do what he needed to do.
His ‘doctor’ had also given him contacts in the world of hunting, and one of the contacts, Bobby Singer, had agreed to collect the items he would need to go hunting fulltime. Mentally incompetent John Winchester buying shotguns would definitely send up a red-flag in the system. Bobby agreed to meet him in Palo Alto with the necessary items, and from there he would stock the trunk of Dean’s Impala, and the truck he had waiting for him in California.
His plane left in four hours, but he needed to stop somewhere first.
-----------------------------------
John hadn’t seen the Guenther house in twenty years. But he had to admit, not much had changed. The farmhouse’s peeling yellow paint still needed a touch-up, and the fence around the front yard was still rotting. As he approached the porch, he heard sounds of talking from behind the screen door. He could make out Marty’s deep voice and Ella’s slightly panicky tone. The woman was wound so tight he was surprised she hadn’t been killed by a heart attack long before now.
He rapped lightly on the door, and all sounds inside ceased. A chair creaked as someone got to their feet, and footsteps came towards him. Marty Guenther appeared behind the screen and completely froze as he saw John.
Marty had changed. He had less hair than the last time John saw him, and had grown a beer gut. Of course the last time he spoke to Marty he could barely see through the haze of anger that clouded his vision. Marty had expressed his concern over John selling his share of the garage, and buying the guns, and when John had tried to blow him off, Marty threatened to call social services on him and have his children taken away. He never believed Marty would actually do it, and he recognized that as one of his biggest mistakes. He knew now to always expect the worst in people.
Marty had visited him a couple of times in the sanitarium, told him about his plan to foster the boys until John was ‘well’. He had refused to speak to Marty at all, except to shout obscenities at him, and eventually Marty stopped coming. One year after John had been institutionalized Marty came to see him again. They had one last drag-out argument and Marty left with the parting words “I hope you never get released.”
Clearly Marty’s hope had not been granted.
“Marty,” John said slowly.
“John,” Marty responded, unfreezing but still seeming incredibly uncomfortable. “They let you out?”
“Yes. Are you going to invite an old friend in, or are you just going to talk through the screen the whole time.”
Marty seemed to contemplate if it was worth it to slam the storm door shut, and if it would really keep John out, but then thought better of it and slowly opened the screen door, stepping aside to allow John in.
Ella stood just beyond the living room that opened into the entryway, and as she looked at John her stomach dropped. She had thought he might be joking when he said he was being released. Really, who in their right mind would have let that man out? But there he was, in their living room, and there was nothing she could do to get rid of him, to neutralize the threat he posed to her family.
“They let you out,” she said. It wasn’t a question; it couldn’t be, what with the evidence right in front of her.
“Marty and I have some things to discuss, Ella. So if you wouldn’t mind going elsewhere?”
“I do mind,” she stated defiantly.
“You’ve already told me everything she wanted to say,” John said steadily, his hand rubbing against the bruise she had left on his face.
“Ella, let John and I have some time to talk,” Marty suggested. Ella glared at John but then left the room. John looked over to see Marty standing toe-to-toe with him, built up to his full height as if posturing him; trying to intimidate him.
Well that was one thing that wasn’t going to happen. No one intimidated John Winchester.
----------------------------------
“You took my sons from me.” They had been sitting in uncomfortable silence for too long when John decided to break it with absolutely no grace or tact.
“John…” Marty began, heaving a sigh. “You needed help.”
“You’re right, I did,” John answered, but his words were too smug to be completely sincere, and Marty could almost hear John’s thoughts of ‘but not the kind you thought.’ “And I received the help I needed, and now I will be able to protect my boys.” Marty decided not to respond and John’s eyes flashed dangerously. “But whatever your motivation, you’re responsible for the last twenty years that I spent without them.”
“No John, you’re responsible for that!” Marty shouted, rising to his feet as his voice grew louder. “How dare you come into my house after all this time and toss around unfounded accusations!? All I ever did was try and help you! I told you John, remember I said that I was only going to be a foster parent to your boys, that after you got well you’d have them back, I never planned what happened, but I won’t apologize for it either!” Receiving permanent custody of Dean was one of the best things that ever happened to Marty, and as much as it hurt John, he couldn’t bring himself to feel much sympathy. After all, the man had his chance, and he wasted it.
“ ‘Foster’ my kids! You couldn’t wait to steal them from me! Giving me a couple hours notice before calling social services! We were supposed to be friends, Marty. We built that garage together from the ground up, our wives were friends, we were always around each other, and you thought I had a problem, so rather than come to me about it you called the feds? I would say you have a lot to apologize for!” The anger he had felt fester and grow for twenty years was finally finding its target; finally granted reprieve on the one person at the moment John felt really deserved it.
“You had your chance, John,” Marty hissed, voice low. John was standing just in front of him now, leaning over him slightly, using his stature to intimidate Marty. Marty might not have been a Marine, but he saw his fair share of hatred and violence in the Vietnam during his time in the Army, and he’d be damned if he backed down or let John scare him. “You were released just a year after I called social services, and you could’ve gotten your boys back; the courts would have given Sam back to you too, but you just couldn’t do things the right way. No, you’re John Winchester and so you have to do everything your way!”
“Don’t you throw that night back in my face!” John shouted angrily, towering over Marty, so enraged his vision flashed red as he fought to forget the night he made such a terrible mistake; the fear in his son’s eyes - eyes that hadn’t even recognized him!
“Why not, John? Is the truth just a little too hard to swallow? Well too bad! Do you really think Sam will want anything to do with you, Johnny?” Marty remained toe-to-toe with Winchester; not backing down, almost daring the other man to make a move against him; to use something other than his voice to attack him.
“That’s none of your concern!” John felt his ire rise as he stared at Marty, and his hands clenched into fists. But he looked into Marty’s eyes and didn’t see the same burning anger reflected back at him, but the expression of a steadfast friend who had never intended to hurt him.
Then something else filled his mind and his emotions blurred. He remembered Sunday barbeques, Dean’s three-year-old voice shouting gleefully ‘Uncle Marty!,’ long nights at the garage trying to get it established, cold beers and bars, his best buddy critiquing his pool-playing skills, all of those times they spent together that established Marty as his friend, as someone who had really only wanted to help him.
And he thought of himself at the time, the confused, bitter man who downed alcohol to forget the smell of burning flesh and the image of Mary’s face twisted in wordless horror. He wondered what he would have done if he had been Marty, watching himself self-destruct and drag his kids down with him. He had pondered on it so many times over the years, but now, faced with the man himself, he couldn’t help but understand - just a little - what could have driven his actions, how concern and worry could lead to the destruction of someone else’s life just as easily as hatred and malice.
And so John backed down. He didn’t forgive Marty, and he would never be his friend again, but he couldn’t be too angry with him either. And that didn’t sit right with John, he didn’t like the ambiguity of not knowing what to think or how to act, and so he left.
Author: Ada
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG
Spoilers: AU where anything's game.
Characters: Sam/Jess, Dean, John, and more
Disclaimer: I don't own 'Supernatural' or Dean or Sam... too bad.
Note: My Marty Guenther is modeled after 'Mr. Guenther' who co-owned the garage with John and was shown in the episode 'Home'. This story was partially inspired by the cut scene with the longer conversation between the boys and Mr. Guenther.
Summary: AU. John had been declared mentally incompetent by the state, his boys split up and raised by two different families. Now, 20 years later, John sends Dean to his naive little brother, to tell him that the demon is coming for him.
One misstep and everything they'd built could collapse like a house of cards.
Chapters: One, Two, Three, Four, Five
House of Cards
Chapter 6
“It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend.” -William Blake
“So then, Tim takes a swing at me, completely taking me by surprise, the kid was a bully but I never thought he had the balls. I’m nursing my sore eye and about to pop him one when my mom comes running out of the house screeching with a broom in her hand and actually started whacking him with it. I couldn’t believe it, the whole thing was insane,” Dean laughed, tipping his beer bottle to drink from it.
Sam was laughing across from him, a strange sort of giggling sound that he had begun making after his second beer. Now on his third, Sam was becoming more and more odd. Dean found it sort of endearing, so he did nothing to stop him from continuing to drink.
After their conversation at the apartment, Dean and Sam had split up, giving Sam a chance to mull over everything that had been said and allow Dean to call his mother with an update. She had sounded odd, worried and strained as she spoke to him, and something about her tone made Dean think she had done something that she shouldn’t have. But as was the way with Ella Guenther, he would wait until she came clean, and it would probably only be another day before she did. He had then spoken to Marty, whose first question had been to ask when Dean was coming home. Yeah, something was definitely going on.
Dean had eaten dinner, gone through a local newspaper for any signs of demonic activity (John Winchester, for all his faults, had taught him how to know if something was coming) and then met up with Sam at some bar that seemed a little off the beaten path for a college student, and Dean couldn’t help but wonder if maybe Sam chose that one to be sure he wouldn’t run into anyone he knew.
His doubts and concerns about Sam had been slowly diminished as the pair drank and shared stories. Dean was careful to keep all of his tales off the topic of John or Mary or their life as kids, not wanting to inadvertently alienate Sam, and instead regaled him with stories of his years with the Guenthers, being sure to not make it sound like a jibe at Sam when he mentioned the people who would’ve been Sam’s parents too.
Sam for his part had shared some pretty interesting stories; apparently there was more to the Stanford student than designer labels and a too-clean apartment. Sam followed up Dean’s broom-abuse story with one of his father getting them lost in hillbilly country on a trip to visit relatives in New Mexico.
“We stop at this gas station to ask for directions - a major concession on my dad’s part, the man absolutely hates being wrong - and these two men come out with shotguns. My dad just sort of looks between them, and then turns, shoves me back in the car, and takes off as fast as he can. He was so sure they were going to chase him that he just took any turns he could find and ended up getting us more lost. He stopped at this clinic he saw, thinking that maybe you know, since he’s a doctor, him and whoever owns it would get along. We got there just as some woman was giving birth and I ended up eating hard candy in the waiting room for over an hour while my dad assisted.”
“Did you ever make it to your family’s place?” Dean asked.
“Yeah, the other doctor gave Dad directions and we got there just before they were getting ready to send out a search party.” Sam looked at the beer he had just finished, and seemed to be contemplating something. He shook his head slightly and then turned to Dean again, who was watching him quizzically. “Three’s my cutoff,” he said by way of explanation.
Dean was pulled out of the happy, content state he had existed in for the past two hours, eyes darting to the clock to prove that it had really only been the two. Sam had pushed the bottle away and seemed about to leave. Dean didn’t want him to go. While at the bar the two of them had been getting along, chatting, laughing, and he needed that. He needed some sort of connection to this Sam, to adult Sam who he still didn’t really know. Ever since John had told him to find Sam, there had been a clock ticking in Dean’s head, counting down from the illusive time when the demon would make its presence know and come for Sam. He found himself needing every minute, every second of the time before that happened to be with Sam. He needed to learn about his brother, to know him so well that he could anticipate Sam’s actions and reactions, to know what he liked, what bothered him, what his life had been. That way, when everything came crashing down, when this house of cards that they had so painstakingly built over the years came down around Sam’s head, Sam would trust him to help him.
How could John think that a stranger, a complete stranger, would believe any of their nonsense about demons and murder, and how could he expect that a stranger would trust either of them with his life?
Dean was panicking, his hands shaking, and fire filled his vision as he saw Sam reaching for his jacket. And apparently Sam noticed, because he felt a hand rest lightly on his shoulder, and through the hiss and crackling of flames, he heard Sam’s voice, gently saying, “Hey man, are you okay? What’s wrong?”
Sam’s voice snapped Dean out of his fear. “Yeah, yeah, sorry,” he said, trying to shake off the after-effects of his miniature panic attack. “But hey, are those pool tables? Come on, Sam, let’s play a round,” Dean suggested, regaining some of his swagger and ego.
Sam glanced hesitantly at the billiard tables and then back at Dean. “Dean… I don’t know, I told Jess I would be home sort of early and…”
“Oh come on, she’ll understand. Besides, it’s not like she needs to worry, you’re with your brother, right?” Dean laughed, clapping Sam on the shoulder and making his way to the back of the bar, Sam following just behind him.
--------------------------------
Sam didn’t drink anymore after that third beer, and his goofiness began to subside slightly, but he did indulge Dean in over an hour or heavily concentrated pool playing. Sam was better at it than Dean expected, although Dean managed to beat him at every game. He thought about betting with the men at the next table over, two on two, but he wasn’t sure if Sam would be okay with that, and decided not to push his luck.
At the end of the second game, Sam convinced Dean it was time to leave, and so the two walked out into the parking lot together. Dean watched as Sam wandered towards a red convertible with racing stripes and paused. “That your car?” he questioned.
“Yeah, just bought her a couple weeks ago,” Sam responded with a smile. “You like her?”
Dean walked over, running his hands lightly over the hood. “It’s nice. But a little new for my taste.”
“It’s a 2003,” Sam shrugged. He had bought the car used, but the previous owner had taken good care of her.
“Yeah, mine’s a 1967.”
“What make?” Sam asked, following Dean over to the other end of the parking lot.
“Chevy Impala,” Dean announced with pride, passing a beat up pick-up truck to reveal his pride and joy.
“Wow,” Sam breathed, honestly impressed as he took in the sight of the car. “It’s in such great condition, where did you find it?”
“Belonged to my mom - our mom,” Dean said, pausing slightly before he specified the woman as Mary Winchester.
Sam froze, his hand hovering over the car where he had been about to touch it. “You know… I think I remember this,” he said quietly after a moment, finally lowering his hand to rest on the roof. “Looks familiar anyway.”
“Well it should, this car was like our home,” Dean said with a smile. “After mom died we never really settled anywhere for good, and it was the one constant in our lives.”
“I should go, it’s late,” Sam murmured, stepping away from the Impala and waving a goodbye to Dean before heading back to his car.
-----------------------------------------
“Hey Bobby, it’s John Winchester… Yeah, I’m going in California tomorrow and I need you to get my supplies ready… Right… I need enough for three… That’s right, me and my two sons… they’re in their twenties.”
John was standing at a phone booth outside of the Sunoco station near the sanitarium where he had spent the last twenty years of his life. He had been released an hour ago, and was already preparing for what he would need to fight the demon when he arrived in California. He hoped Dean had already filled in Sam and was getting him ready for what was about to happen. The last thing he needed was to find out that Sam knew nothing about the demon, or his mother’s murder or anything important.
He had been lucky enough to be assigned a doctor who hunted on his weekends, and he didn’t mean deer or rabbit hunting, more like spirits and poltergeists. The man taught him everything he knew, and even gave him some field training, signing him out of the sanitarium and then back in after a couple days of rock salt and gunfire. It had been a pretty good set-up for him, room and board provided by the state and some free mentoring in the art of supernatural hunting. Of course the downside had been the lack of contact with his sons, but at least they had been well taken care of, and allowed him the freedom to do what he needed to do.
His ‘doctor’ had also given him contacts in the world of hunting, and one of the contacts, Bobby Singer, had agreed to collect the items he would need to go hunting fulltime. Mentally incompetent John Winchester buying shotguns would definitely send up a red-flag in the system. Bobby agreed to meet him in Palo Alto with the necessary items, and from there he would stock the trunk of Dean’s Impala, and the truck he had waiting for him in California.
His plane left in four hours, but he needed to stop somewhere first.
-----------------------------------
John hadn’t seen the Guenther house in twenty years. But he had to admit, not much had changed. The farmhouse’s peeling yellow paint still needed a touch-up, and the fence around the front yard was still rotting. As he approached the porch, he heard sounds of talking from behind the screen door. He could make out Marty’s deep voice and Ella’s slightly panicky tone. The woman was wound so tight he was surprised she hadn’t been killed by a heart attack long before now.
He rapped lightly on the door, and all sounds inside ceased. A chair creaked as someone got to their feet, and footsteps came towards him. Marty Guenther appeared behind the screen and completely froze as he saw John.
Marty had changed. He had less hair than the last time John saw him, and had grown a beer gut. Of course the last time he spoke to Marty he could barely see through the haze of anger that clouded his vision. Marty had expressed his concern over John selling his share of the garage, and buying the guns, and when John had tried to blow him off, Marty threatened to call social services on him and have his children taken away. He never believed Marty would actually do it, and he recognized that as one of his biggest mistakes. He knew now to always expect the worst in people.
Marty had visited him a couple of times in the sanitarium, told him about his plan to foster the boys until John was ‘well’. He had refused to speak to Marty at all, except to shout obscenities at him, and eventually Marty stopped coming. One year after John had been institutionalized Marty came to see him again. They had one last drag-out argument and Marty left with the parting words “I hope you never get released.”
Clearly Marty’s hope had not been granted.
“Marty,” John said slowly.
“John,” Marty responded, unfreezing but still seeming incredibly uncomfortable. “They let you out?”
“Yes. Are you going to invite an old friend in, or are you just going to talk through the screen the whole time.”
Marty seemed to contemplate if it was worth it to slam the storm door shut, and if it would really keep John out, but then thought better of it and slowly opened the screen door, stepping aside to allow John in.
Ella stood just beyond the living room that opened into the entryway, and as she looked at John her stomach dropped. She had thought he might be joking when he said he was being released. Really, who in their right mind would have let that man out? But there he was, in their living room, and there was nothing she could do to get rid of him, to neutralize the threat he posed to her family.
“They let you out,” she said. It wasn’t a question; it couldn’t be, what with the evidence right in front of her.
“Marty and I have some things to discuss, Ella. So if you wouldn’t mind going elsewhere?”
“I do mind,” she stated defiantly.
“You’ve already told me everything she wanted to say,” John said steadily, his hand rubbing against the bruise she had left on his face.
“Ella, let John and I have some time to talk,” Marty suggested. Ella glared at John but then left the room. John looked over to see Marty standing toe-to-toe with him, built up to his full height as if posturing him; trying to intimidate him.
Well that was one thing that wasn’t going to happen. No one intimidated John Winchester.
----------------------------------
“You took my sons from me.” They had been sitting in uncomfortable silence for too long when John decided to break it with absolutely no grace or tact.
“John…” Marty began, heaving a sigh. “You needed help.”
“You’re right, I did,” John answered, but his words were too smug to be completely sincere, and Marty could almost hear John’s thoughts of ‘but not the kind you thought.’ “And I received the help I needed, and now I will be able to protect my boys.” Marty decided not to respond and John’s eyes flashed dangerously. “But whatever your motivation, you’re responsible for the last twenty years that I spent without them.”
“No John, you’re responsible for that!” Marty shouted, rising to his feet as his voice grew louder. “How dare you come into my house after all this time and toss around unfounded accusations!? All I ever did was try and help you! I told you John, remember I said that I was only going to be a foster parent to your boys, that after you got well you’d have them back, I never planned what happened, but I won’t apologize for it either!” Receiving permanent custody of Dean was one of the best things that ever happened to Marty, and as much as it hurt John, he couldn’t bring himself to feel much sympathy. After all, the man had his chance, and he wasted it.
“ ‘Foster’ my kids! You couldn’t wait to steal them from me! Giving me a couple hours notice before calling social services! We were supposed to be friends, Marty. We built that garage together from the ground up, our wives were friends, we were always around each other, and you thought I had a problem, so rather than come to me about it you called the feds? I would say you have a lot to apologize for!” The anger he had felt fester and grow for twenty years was finally finding its target; finally granted reprieve on the one person at the moment John felt really deserved it.
“You had your chance, John,” Marty hissed, voice low. John was standing just in front of him now, leaning over him slightly, using his stature to intimidate Marty. Marty might not have been a Marine, but he saw his fair share of hatred and violence in the Vietnam during his time in the Army, and he’d be damned if he backed down or let John scare him. “You were released just a year after I called social services, and you could’ve gotten your boys back; the courts would have given Sam back to you too, but you just couldn’t do things the right way. No, you’re John Winchester and so you have to do everything your way!”
“Don’t you throw that night back in my face!” John shouted angrily, towering over Marty, so enraged his vision flashed red as he fought to forget the night he made such a terrible mistake; the fear in his son’s eyes - eyes that hadn’t even recognized him!
“Why not, John? Is the truth just a little too hard to swallow? Well too bad! Do you really think Sam will want anything to do with you, Johnny?” Marty remained toe-to-toe with Winchester; not backing down, almost daring the other man to make a move against him; to use something other than his voice to attack him.
“That’s none of your concern!” John felt his ire rise as he stared at Marty, and his hands clenched into fists. But he looked into Marty’s eyes and didn’t see the same burning anger reflected back at him, but the expression of a steadfast friend who had never intended to hurt him.
Then something else filled his mind and his emotions blurred. He remembered Sunday barbeques, Dean’s three-year-old voice shouting gleefully ‘Uncle Marty!,’ long nights at the garage trying to get it established, cold beers and bars, his best buddy critiquing his pool-playing skills, all of those times they spent together that established Marty as his friend, as someone who had really only wanted to help him.
And he thought of himself at the time, the confused, bitter man who downed alcohol to forget the smell of burning flesh and the image of Mary’s face twisted in wordless horror. He wondered what he would have done if he had been Marty, watching himself self-destruct and drag his kids down with him. He had pondered on it so many times over the years, but now, faced with the man himself, he couldn’t help but understand - just a little - what could have driven his actions, how concern and worry could lead to the destruction of someone else’s life just as easily as hatred and malice.
And so John backed down. He didn’t forgive Marty, and he would never be his friend again, but he couldn’t be too angry with him either. And that didn’t sit right with John, he didn’t like the ambiguity of not knowing what to think or how to act, and so he left.