Mockingbird [2/?]
Title: Mockingbird
Author: bad_peppermint
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sam/John
Word Count: 2,137
Disclaimer: Don't own the boys.
Notes: Unbeta’d and written in the middle of the night (because my muse wants it so). All mistakes are mine. Feedback makes my world go round.
Warnings: Wincest! Spankings! (Probably.) Character Death! Sex! Not your cup of tea? Then don't touch.
Spoilers: Devil's Trap and beyond
Summary: John and Sam go to see Ellen.
Part I
Mockingbird
Chapter II
Hush,little baby, don't say a word,
I'm gonna buy you a mockingbird
+++
The truck gleamed in the sun like a freshly polished monster. John kept a tight hand on Sam’s bicep as he propelled the boy forward. Dragging Sam along made it easier for him, somehow. If he focused on keeping his son upright and moving, he didn’t have to acknowledge that he was about to do what he’d spent the last fifteen years trying to avoid. That he was about to be confronted with one of the top points on his extensive list of failures.
“Get in,” he commanded, releasing his son long enough to wrench the door open. Sam obeyed, buckling himself in on autopilot, eyes unfocused and empty.
John caught Bobby’s gaze as he crossed to the driver’s side. His friend stood on his veranda, arms crossed, watching them depart with wary eyes and the briefest nod of acknowledgement.
Throwing his folder of research and the notebook he had found in his sons’ possession into the backseat, he slid behind the steering wheel. He tightened his fingers around the leather and took a deep breath. A quick glance to the side found his son staring out the window, at nothing. He didn’t look scared or angry or despairing. He looked passive. Like the world had ended and there was simply nothing to feel anymore.
John forced himself to look away, give a brief wave to Bobby.
“Yeah, buddy,” he muttered, “don’t I wish.”
+++
The ride seemed to take forever, and they still arrived too early for John’s liking. Several decades too early. The sun had yet to rise to its peak, lighting up the roadhouse and the empty parking lot in garish brightness. John wrenched the key out of the ignition, foul mood evident on his face. He glanced at Sam, half expecting - half wanting - his son to make a bitchy comment, but no. Silence and an empty stare. Probably the same treatment he could expect to get from Ellen.
Facing down demons was nothing against this.
Sam stumbled as John dragged him to the door, but he never said a word, hardly even seemed to be aware of what was happening and that made John even angrier. He didn’t bother to knock; picking the lock was a matter of seconds, and then the door swung open, revealing the murky, dusty darkness of Harvelle’s Roadhouse.
The familiarity threatened to suffocate him as he stepped over the threshold, momentarily catapulted back to long gone days. Nothing had changed. The same bar, decorations, hell, even the same pool table. There was a man sleeping on it, long hair tousled and jeans stained.
Like the woman wasn’t standing one room over, shotgun at the ready.
He pressed his unresisting son into a chair.
“Ellen!” he called into the dusty silence, “Ellen, you here?”
“Picking my locks, John Winchester?” came a dry voice from his right, “Where are your manners?”
Ellen, her arms crossed, stood in the door to the back room, staring at him. A blonde girl in her early twenties - Christ, could that really be Jo? - was behind her, shotgun in hand, trying to peek over her shoulder.
“I don’t have time for manners.”
His tone was rough and rude, covering the guilt stirring low in his gut.
“You said you could help.”
Ellen gave her daughter a one-handed wave, some sort of instruction, before she started to move. For a moment, he was sure she’d kick him straight out, but she marched over to the pool table and the figure on it, gently snoring.
“Yeah, it’s great to see you, too,” she growled, “I dare say you know that’s Jo. Jo, John Winchester.”
She gestured at the girl who’d set the shotgun down in a corner, eyeing John curiously.
John gave her a strangled smile which she carefully returned. Of course she didn’t remember him. Instead, she rose on tiptoe, glancing at the slumped figure of Sam at a table.
“Who’s that?”
Ellen raised her head.
“That’s Sam. My son.”
“Hi, Sam,” Jo called, but the boy showed no sign of even having heard her.
“Uh, sorry,” John muttered, “he’s…”
What? Grieving? Lost his mind?
He shook his head as a signal to lay off the topic, but of course Ellen could still read him like a book. She stopped shaking the sleeping man’s shoulder and straightened, her eyes growing dark and unreadable.
“Where’s Dean, John?”
John shook his head again, managing to meet her eyes. He knew she was reading the truth in them, he could only hope she saw the plea as well.
“The demon?” she asked softly, expression softening at the tilt of his head. Jo’s eyes snapped from one to the other, eager and confused and sympathetic all in one.
“I’m sorry.”
Ellen’s gentle voice carried across the room, raising goose bumps on his arms. He was the one who should be apologizing, God damn it.
Jo was still looking back and forth, trying to catch on to what was happening, but John let his gaze drop to the worn-out floorboards and Ellen went back to the sleeping man’s shoulder.
“Ash!” she finally snapped, losing her patience, and he jolted upright with an incoherent exclaim.
Ellen gave him a wide smile.
“Come on, Ash. Duty calls.”
+++
Ash was quite ready to get to work right away, but Ellen sent him to grab a shower and as anxious as John was to get out of there, he had to agree it was necessary. So he sat, perched on a bar stool, his folder in front of him like a suit of armor. A glass of whiskey helped to flush away the discomfort a little, and so he managed not to run for the hills when Ellen took to cleaning the counter right across from him.
Barely.
“How are you doing, John?” she asked softly, and God, he’d hoped to avoid this.
“Not so good,” he mumbled with a shrug because he never had managed lying to the woman. They stayed silent for a long while, the only sound the rhythmic squeaking of wet cloth against glass and some song Jo had picked on the jukebox.
He’d almost worked up the nerve to comment on Bill’s little girl when Ellen stopped wiping her glass long enough to give a nod over his shoulder.
“What’s up with him?” she asked with the same rough, warm tone he’d known so well, once upon a time.
John followed her gaze, over to where Sam was still sitting where he’d been put. Jo was currently trying - and failing - to strike up a conversation with him, sighing when he met her “How long’ve you been hunting?” with a blank stare.
“Dealin’,” was all John managed. He reached for the bottle. Ellen made no move to stop him, so he poured himself another generous glass and nearly drained it in one go before he forced himself to meet her calculating gaze.
“John,” she said softly and he flinched at the familiar weight of her hand on his arm, “Your boy, how long ago was that?”
He swallowed heavily, reaching for the bottle again.
“Nine- Nine days.”
“Jesus.”
Her other hand grasped one of his, squeezing it tightly.
“I’m sorry, John.”
He shook his head.
“I’m so sorry,” she repeated, “I know how hard you tried to keep them safe.”
John couldn’t help laughing at that, shaky and just bordering on hysterical.
“Oh Ellen,” he said, waving her frown off with his hand, “you have no idea.”
His cryptic answer was spared questioning as Ash plopped down next to him, wet hair trailing over his shoulders and leaving dark spots on his shirt.
“Okay, so let me see what you’ve got.”
Taking the folder John shoved at him, Ash let it fall open and started sorting. Jo, apparently giving up on Sam, wandered over to peer over John’s shoulder - and he couldn’t shake the image of a little blonde girl pressed against her father’s side, eyes wide and curious - and even Ellen came to take a look, wiping her hands on her towel.
Ash let out a low whistle.
“You been tracking a demon this way?” he asked, something John figured might be awe creeping into his voice.
He nodded, even as Jo (glued to his elbow) gaped at him and Ellen was suitably unimpressed.
“For about a year, yes.”
Ash shuffled through maps and charts, raising a newspaper clipping into the light before giving him a wary look.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, man, but you’re a genius.”
To his surprise, John found a smile twisting his mouth into a grimace.
“Thanks.”
“Sure thing, dude,” Ash assured him, “So what do you need me for?”
John took one of the paper, folding a corner back and forth as he glanced at his son, then Jo who seemed to be hanging on his every word, then over to Ellen who fixed him with a ‘You do what you gotta do’-stare.
“I just,” he began, “Can you set up an alarm system? Let me know if there are any signs?”
The man nodded.
“Sure.”
Allowing himself a relieved sigh, John slid off his barstool.
“Good. Ellen has my number. Contact me if there’s anything. Even if you think it meansnothing.”
“Uhm,” Ash interrupted his rush for freedom carefully, “If you need these papers back-“
“Keep ‘em,” he said with a nonchalant wave, “I don’t need them anymore. Come on, Sam, let’s go.”
He nearly tripped over his feet as he turned, not bothering to offer to pay because he did not want to die just yet, thank you. Not meeting Ellen’s eyes, either. He knew she could tell how eager he was to get out of there, shame painting his cheeks crimson. There was a painful, seemingly endless moment as they all just stood, Ellen and Jo and Ash just watching him stare at the floor, and then Sam actually got to his feet.
John resisted the urge to hug him, ushering him to the door instead, Ellen close on his heels.
She stepped out into the bright sunlight behind them, letting the door clatter shut, and gave his youngest a small smile and a nod.
“Goodbye, Sam.”
Sam half-turned, eyes widening in a startled expression, before he gave what might have passed for a nod.
“Get in the car, okay?” John asked over his shoulder, giving not quite a smile but a relieved nod of his own as Sam obeyed, and turned back to Ellen who cocked her head, expression hardening.
“I’d tell you not to be a stranger, but I already know you won’t be coming back unless Ash finds something.”
John tried hard not to flinch at the accusation in her voice.
“I’m sorry, Ellen.”
Her face softened to allow somewhat of a smile to shine through, a smile that had John swallowing hard to rid himself of the bitter taste in his mouth.
“Yeah, you keep saying that, John. But haven’t you ever heard that in order to achieve forgiveness, you must first forgive yourself?”
“Haven’t I ever told you that I don’t believe in Hallmark moments?” John shot back with an eye-roll that would have made Sammy proud.
“And that’s why you’re a bitter, sad, old man, John.”
“And you’re as charming as ever, Ellen.”
Leaning forward, he gave her ample time to pull away before he pressed a soft kiss to her cheek.
“Take care of yourself. And Jo.”
“And you, John.”
She stepped away, waving him towards the car impatiently.
“Now go, go. What are you waiting for!?”
John made his way to the truck without looking back, but he couldn’t help walking a little straighter, like Atlas had found someone to lift the world off his shoulders for a little while. He didn’t chance a glance at the roadhouse until he was seated and buckled in, but Ellen was still there, watching them, one hand raised to her eyes to shield them from the garish light.
He didn’t answer her short wave or her smile, instead turning his head to glance at Sam.
It was only a short flicker, so brief John almost thought he had imagined it, but for a split second his son actually met his eyes before letting his gaze drop to his hands folded in his lap.
“Dean’s dead,” he said quietly.
Silence settled between them heavy and hot, like air in a coffin. John wanted to pull out his shotgun and blow Sam’s brains out for even daring to say it, but at the same time he also wanted to pull him into his arms and let him sob like a baby.
“Yeah,” he said, dry mouth working heavily as he turned the key in the ignition, “he’s dead.”
+++
Chapter III
Also: Sam taking control makes Dean all tingly!
Author: bad_peppermint
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sam/John
Word Count: 2,137
Disclaimer: Don't own the boys.
Notes: Unbeta’d and written in the middle of the night (because my muse wants it so). All mistakes are mine. Feedback makes my world go round.
Warnings: Wincest! Spankings! (Probably.) Character Death! Sex! Not your cup of tea? Then don't touch.
Spoilers: Devil's Trap and beyond
Summary: John and Sam go to see Ellen.
Part I
Mockingbird
Chapter II
Hush,little baby, don't say a word,
I'm gonna buy you a mockingbird
+++
The truck gleamed in the sun like a freshly polished monster. John kept a tight hand on Sam’s bicep as he propelled the boy forward. Dragging Sam along made it easier for him, somehow. If he focused on keeping his son upright and moving, he didn’t have to acknowledge that he was about to do what he’d spent the last fifteen years trying to avoid. That he was about to be confronted with one of the top points on his extensive list of failures.
“Get in,” he commanded, releasing his son long enough to wrench the door open. Sam obeyed, buckling himself in on autopilot, eyes unfocused and empty.
John caught Bobby’s gaze as he crossed to the driver’s side. His friend stood on his veranda, arms crossed, watching them depart with wary eyes and the briefest nod of acknowledgement.
Throwing his folder of research and the notebook he had found in his sons’ possession into the backseat, he slid behind the steering wheel. He tightened his fingers around the leather and took a deep breath. A quick glance to the side found his son staring out the window, at nothing. He didn’t look scared or angry or despairing. He looked passive. Like the world had ended and there was simply nothing to feel anymore.
John forced himself to look away, give a brief wave to Bobby.
“Yeah, buddy,” he muttered, “don’t I wish.”
+++
The ride seemed to take forever, and they still arrived too early for John’s liking. Several decades too early. The sun had yet to rise to its peak, lighting up the roadhouse and the empty parking lot in garish brightness. John wrenched the key out of the ignition, foul mood evident on his face. He glanced at Sam, half expecting - half wanting - his son to make a bitchy comment, but no. Silence and an empty stare. Probably the same treatment he could expect to get from Ellen.
Facing down demons was nothing against this.
Sam stumbled as John dragged him to the door, but he never said a word, hardly even seemed to be aware of what was happening and that made John even angrier. He didn’t bother to knock; picking the lock was a matter of seconds, and then the door swung open, revealing the murky, dusty darkness of Harvelle’s Roadhouse.
The familiarity threatened to suffocate him as he stepped over the threshold, momentarily catapulted back to long gone days. Nothing had changed. The same bar, decorations, hell, even the same pool table. There was a man sleeping on it, long hair tousled and jeans stained.
Like the woman wasn’t standing one room over, shotgun at the ready.
He pressed his unresisting son into a chair.
“Ellen!” he called into the dusty silence, “Ellen, you here?”
“Picking my locks, John Winchester?” came a dry voice from his right, “Where are your manners?”
Ellen, her arms crossed, stood in the door to the back room, staring at him. A blonde girl in her early twenties - Christ, could that really be Jo? - was behind her, shotgun in hand, trying to peek over her shoulder.
“I don’t have time for manners.”
His tone was rough and rude, covering the guilt stirring low in his gut.
“You said you could help.”
Ellen gave her daughter a one-handed wave, some sort of instruction, before she started to move. For a moment, he was sure she’d kick him straight out, but she marched over to the pool table and the figure on it, gently snoring.
“Yeah, it’s great to see you, too,” she growled, “I dare say you know that’s Jo. Jo, John Winchester.”
She gestured at the girl who’d set the shotgun down in a corner, eyeing John curiously.
John gave her a strangled smile which she carefully returned. Of course she didn’t remember him. Instead, she rose on tiptoe, glancing at the slumped figure of Sam at a table.
“Who’s that?”
Ellen raised her head.
“That’s Sam. My son.”
“Hi, Sam,” Jo called, but the boy showed no sign of even having heard her.
“Uh, sorry,” John muttered, “he’s…”
What? Grieving? Lost his mind?
He shook his head as a signal to lay off the topic, but of course Ellen could still read him like a book. She stopped shaking the sleeping man’s shoulder and straightened, her eyes growing dark and unreadable.
“Where’s Dean, John?”
John shook his head again, managing to meet her eyes. He knew she was reading the truth in them, he could only hope she saw the plea as well.
“The demon?” she asked softly, expression softening at the tilt of his head. Jo’s eyes snapped from one to the other, eager and confused and sympathetic all in one.
“I’m sorry.”
Ellen’s gentle voice carried across the room, raising goose bumps on his arms. He was the one who should be apologizing, God damn it.
Jo was still looking back and forth, trying to catch on to what was happening, but John let his gaze drop to the worn-out floorboards and Ellen went back to the sleeping man’s shoulder.
“Ash!” she finally snapped, losing her patience, and he jolted upright with an incoherent exclaim.
Ellen gave him a wide smile.
“Come on, Ash. Duty calls.”
+++
Ash was quite ready to get to work right away, but Ellen sent him to grab a shower and as anxious as John was to get out of there, he had to agree it was necessary. So he sat, perched on a bar stool, his folder in front of him like a suit of armor. A glass of whiskey helped to flush away the discomfort a little, and so he managed not to run for the hills when Ellen took to cleaning the counter right across from him.
Barely.
“How are you doing, John?” she asked softly, and God, he’d hoped to avoid this.
“Not so good,” he mumbled with a shrug because he never had managed lying to the woman. They stayed silent for a long while, the only sound the rhythmic squeaking of wet cloth against glass and some song Jo had picked on the jukebox.
He’d almost worked up the nerve to comment on Bill’s little girl when Ellen stopped wiping her glass long enough to give a nod over his shoulder.
“What’s up with him?” she asked with the same rough, warm tone he’d known so well, once upon a time.
John followed her gaze, over to where Sam was still sitting where he’d been put. Jo was currently trying - and failing - to strike up a conversation with him, sighing when he met her “How long’ve you been hunting?” with a blank stare.
“Dealin’,” was all John managed. He reached for the bottle. Ellen made no move to stop him, so he poured himself another generous glass and nearly drained it in one go before he forced himself to meet her calculating gaze.
“John,” she said softly and he flinched at the familiar weight of her hand on his arm, “Your boy, how long ago was that?”
He swallowed heavily, reaching for the bottle again.
“Nine- Nine days.”
“Jesus.”
Her other hand grasped one of his, squeezing it tightly.
“I’m sorry, John.”
He shook his head.
“I’m so sorry,” she repeated, “I know how hard you tried to keep them safe.”
John couldn’t help laughing at that, shaky and just bordering on hysterical.
“Oh Ellen,” he said, waving her frown off with his hand, “you have no idea.”
His cryptic answer was spared questioning as Ash plopped down next to him, wet hair trailing over his shoulders and leaving dark spots on his shirt.
“Okay, so let me see what you’ve got.”
Taking the folder John shoved at him, Ash let it fall open and started sorting. Jo, apparently giving up on Sam, wandered over to peer over John’s shoulder - and he couldn’t shake the image of a little blonde girl pressed against her father’s side, eyes wide and curious - and even Ellen came to take a look, wiping her hands on her towel.
Ash let out a low whistle.
“You been tracking a demon this way?” he asked, something John figured might be awe creeping into his voice.
He nodded, even as Jo (glued to his elbow) gaped at him and Ellen was suitably unimpressed.
“For about a year, yes.”
Ash shuffled through maps and charts, raising a newspaper clipping into the light before giving him a wary look.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, man, but you’re a genius.”
To his surprise, John found a smile twisting his mouth into a grimace.
“Thanks.”
“Sure thing, dude,” Ash assured him, “So what do you need me for?”
John took one of the paper, folding a corner back and forth as he glanced at his son, then Jo who seemed to be hanging on his every word, then over to Ellen who fixed him with a ‘You do what you gotta do’-stare.
“I just,” he began, “Can you set up an alarm system? Let me know if there are any signs?”
The man nodded.
“Sure.”
Allowing himself a relieved sigh, John slid off his barstool.
“Good. Ellen has my number. Contact me if there’s anything. Even if you think it meansnothing.”
“Uhm,” Ash interrupted his rush for freedom carefully, “If you need these papers back-“
“Keep ‘em,” he said with a nonchalant wave, “I don’t need them anymore. Come on, Sam, let’s go.”
He nearly tripped over his feet as he turned, not bothering to offer to pay because he did not want to die just yet, thank you. Not meeting Ellen’s eyes, either. He knew she could tell how eager he was to get out of there, shame painting his cheeks crimson. There was a painful, seemingly endless moment as they all just stood, Ellen and Jo and Ash just watching him stare at the floor, and then Sam actually got to his feet.
John resisted the urge to hug him, ushering him to the door instead, Ellen close on his heels.
She stepped out into the bright sunlight behind them, letting the door clatter shut, and gave his youngest a small smile and a nod.
“Goodbye, Sam.”
Sam half-turned, eyes widening in a startled expression, before he gave what might have passed for a nod.
“Get in the car, okay?” John asked over his shoulder, giving not quite a smile but a relieved nod of his own as Sam obeyed, and turned back to Ellen who cocked her head, expression hardening.
“I’d tell you not to be a stranger, but I already know you won’t be coming back unless Ash finds something.”
John tried hard not to flinch at the accusation in her voice.
“I’m sorry, Ellen.”
Her face softened to allow somewhat of a smile to shine through, a smile that had John swallowing hard to rid himself of the bitter taste in his mouth.
“Yeah, you keep saying that, John. But haven’t you ever heard that in order to achieve forgiveness, you must first forgive yourself?”
“Haven’t I ever told you that I don’t believe in Hallmark moments?” John shot back with an eye-roll that would have made Sammy proud.
“And that’s why you’re a bitter, sad, old man, John.”
“And you’re as charming as ever, Ellen.”
Leaning forward, he gave her ample time to pull away before he pressed a soft kiss to her cheek.
“Take care of yourself. And Jo.”
“And you, John.”
She stepped away, waving him towards the car impatiently.
“Now go, go. What are you waiting for!?”
John made his way to the truck without looking back, but he couldn’t help walking a little straighter, like Atlas had found someone to lift the world off his shoulders for a little while. He didn’t chance a glance at the roadhouse until he was seated and buckled in, but Ellen was still there, watching them, one hand raised to her eyes to shield them from the garish light.
He didn’t answer her short wave or her smile, instead turning his head to glance at Sam.
It was only a short flicker, so brief John almost thought he had imagined it, but for a split second his son actually met his eyes before letting his gaze drop to his hands folded in his lap.
“Dean’s dead,” he said quietly.
Silence settled between them heavy and hot, like air in a coffin. John wanted to pull out his shotgun and blow Sam’s brains out for even daring to say it, but at the same time he also wanted to pull him into his arms and let him sob like a baby.
“Yeah,” he said, dry mouth working heavily as he turned the key in the ignition, “he’s dead.”
+++
Chapter III
Also: Sam taking control makes Dean all tingly!