Mockingbird [1/?]
Title: Mockingbird
Author: bad_peppermint
Rating: Differs, probably ranging up to hard R
Pairing: Sam/John
Word Count: 1,641
Disclaimer: Don't own the Supernatural, nor am I making any money off it.
Notes: Totally experimental, totally unbeta'd. Any and all feedback is appreciated. :)
Warnings: Wincest! Spankings! (Probably.) Character Death! Sex! Not your cup of tea? Then don't touch.
Spoilers: Devil's Trap and beyond
Summary: “Sorry,” the demon said with a cocky grin and a wink, “I guess your darling offspring is going to die.”
Mockingbird
Chapter I
Sorry,” the demon said with a cocky grin and a wink, “I guess your darling offspring is going to die.”
+++
“Time of death: 10:41 AM.”
John remembered reading that people later had only blurred recollections of the days after something awful. Not him, though. Not remembering would have been a blessing, but he could recall every painstaking detail. The hard seat of the chair as he sat, sifting through paperwork - his son was dead, and he was signing papers -, the plastic yellow of the pen as it scratched signature after signature. He remembered the feel of the doctor’s callous-free hand in his, the mumbled assurances that everyone had “done their best”. Except that their best hadn’t nearly been good enough.
He could still see the face of the perky little nurse before him, with the dark ponytail and a warm face that actually managed to have you believe she cared. She’d been the one to finally find Sam, sitting in the foyer with his eyes closed and his head slumped back against the wall. She’d asked if he was okay and John had managed to smile tightly and mutter “Fine” so he wouldn’t start laughing.
Okay.
Okay.
He could still recall the way Sam had stood, slumped into himself like a marionette, so lifeless, eyes so dead that John couldn’t bear to look at him. He still couldn’t, almost a week later. He couldn’t look at Sam’s face that shut the world out more effectively than a nuclear bunker. He could only lie and stare at the ceiling, nursing his whiskey bottle, waiting for the blurring that never came.
John Winchester couldn’t even grieve normally.
+++
In the end, it was probably all Bobby’s credit that everything didn’t get shot to Hell right then and there.
Bobby who hadn’t gotten out the shotgun but instead taken one look at Sam’s ashen face and John’s stiff posture before his eyes had flicked downwards underneath his base cap, silent condolences that John appreciated more than all the kind words of the hospital staff put together. They’d also hurt more, because if Bobby knew that Dean was gone, then it was probably true.
Bobby marched into the guest-room one day, kicking the door open with his boot, and dropped a bag of tools on John’s chest.
“Get’cha ass out of bed, Winchester,” he growled, “I got your truck.”
John sat up blearily, head protesting at the sudden movement.
“My truck?”
“Yeah, your truck. It’s in the lot and I don’t want it, so you better get yourself out there and start fixing those tires.”
Truck. Right.
John managed to heave himself upright and swing his legs out of bed, boots clinking against empty bottles that rolled away over the dusty floorboards. He was fully dressed, it had been days since he’d last changed. Or shaved. Or showered, for that matter.
“Where’d you get my truck?” he asked as he trotted into the kitchen behind Bobby, dragging the bag of tools dutifully along, allowing the man to press a mug of lukewarm coffee into his hand.
“Towed it,” came the rough reply, “Was still were you left it, slashed tires and all.”
John nodded, marveling at how a few sips of liquid that tasted only marginally better than dirty dishwater could make him feel so much more like a human being.
Bobby gave him a hard look from where he leaned against the kitchen counter, arms folded in front of his chest.
“I got you the parts you need so you can get to fixin’ it right away. And you still need to decide on what to do with the…”
He trailed off, maybe because of the look on John’s face, but didn’t avert his eyes. John set the now empty cup on the table and nodded.
“I’ll start working on the truck,” he muttered.
Bobby wrinkled his nose at him as he grabbed the mugs and let them clatter into the sink overflowing with used dishes.
“I recommend a shower first,” he said with thinly veiled disgust that had John smiling sourly at him.
“What, you afraid I’ll dirty on your precious car wrecks?”
Bobby didn’t smile.
“It’s not that unlikely.”
John scowled at him, but when he caught a whiff of himself as he made his way onto the bathroom, pulling his old shirt over his head as he went, he figured his friend might have a point.
+++
The truck stood in the sun, gleaming black despite the traces of rain and mud that coated it. John stared at it, tools in hand. For a moment, he wasn’t even sure what he was doing here, but Bobby’s gently forceful hand on his back, pushing him forward, reminded him quickly that he didn’t really have any choice in the matter. He brushed a hand over the sleek metal, opened his weapon hold purely out of habit. He ran his fingers over the medals, the knives, the guns. He was still a hunter. Death in his hands had an instantaneous effect on his body, more than Bobby or alcohol or coffee had managed all week. Every fibre of his body tightened, sending a clear message to his brain that even if his mind wasn’t willing, his muscles still were.
He swore softly, running a hand over his eyes. If Mary had known he would end up this way, she’d have kicked his ass into the next century.
Of course, she would have also taken him apart for every other choice he had ever made since she died.
Not that he could blame her.
And here he was, 23 years later, back to where he’d started, covered in sweat and oil as he slaved away under the glaring sun. It actually helped, too - fixing cars gave him this oddly satisfying feeling that there was at least something he could do right. He had his truck running in a day - giving the motor a good once-over while he was at it - and moved right on to the next car wreck in the lot. Every car he could fix, he did (even if he did make a wide berth around the battered rump of what had once been his beloved Impala).
And even if Bobby shook his head at his behavior, he didn’t say a word.
He did comment on him having no more cars to strip if John carried on like that one late morning when he came to bring John a spare part and a bottle of water so the man wouldn’t completely dehydrate under the hot sun.
“Thanks,” John muttered as the water was set down next to his legs sticking out from under the matellic carcass of his current patient.
“You need to do something about your boy,” Bobby said without warning. John nearly smashed his forehead against the underside of the carriage as he raised his head to glance at Sam.
The boy was sitting on the steps to the porch, just out of earshot. He was staring at his feet, or staring at nothing, probably not even noticing the sun that was slowly turning the back of his neck a nice, cherry red. He didn’t seem to care about anything these days, staying silent when he had usually been the first to voice an opinion. In fact, John couldn’t remember him saying more “Fine” or “Yeah” since they’d arrived at Singer’s yard, and if he hadn’t convinced his son to come outside - convinced as in “dragged Sam from the couch he had been sitting on, staring at nothing, and practically shoved him outside” -, he would probably still be in that dusty house, posing as alive.
It wasn’t that he was being rebellious - quite the opposite, in fact. He sat where he’d been put, ate what he’d been told to eat, showered, not once showing the slightest sign of resistance. Or that he was still alive. Sam had followed every single order John had given him since they left the hospital.
He’d always said he was going to lay off using the Lord’s name in vain for at least a day if that ever happened, but now it was reality, all it did was put a sour taste in his mouth and a hollow feeling in his stomach.
“You need to do something about your boy,” Bobby repeated when John gave no indication that he had even heard him.
John stuck out a hand and caught the wrench Bobby tossed him with ease.
“Like what?”
“Like getting the both of you off your asses.”
Bobby’s voice was raw and hard, but there was a warm undercurrent of concern there that had John sitting up slowly. He reached for the bottle almost automatically, unscrewing the cap with uncertain fingers. Bobby was right. He knew that, he’d known all week , known even when he’d walked away from the pyre, unable to stand the sight of the flames licking at his son’s body.
John stared at his greasy hands.
“I will,” he promised hoarsely, not sure if he was speaking to Bobby or Sam or himself, “I will.”
+++
It took him forever and several shots of whiskey to pick up the phone and call his voice mail. Several tries later, he even managed to listen to Ellen’s voice for more than a second. Her words brought a rush of old memories - some good, some bad, and all of them painful - but even as the tinny recording informed him he was being stubborn, he had made up his mind.
Colt or no Colt, he needed to hunt that bastard. They needed to hunt it. He was going mad. Sam was breaking (if he hadn’t broken already) and the boy was all John had left.
Maybe he was the worst father in the world, but he was not losing another son.
+++
Chapter II
Sorry about the huge formatting mess, by the way - I'm trying to fix it. ETA: And I did. ^^
Author: bad_peppermint
Rating: Differs, probably ranging up to hard R
Pairing: Sam/John
Word Count: 1,641
Disclaimer: Don't own the Supernatural, nor am I making any money off it.
Notes: Totally experimental, totally unbeta'd. Any and all feedback is appreciated. :)
Warnings: Wincest! Spankings! (Probably.) Character Death! Sex! Not your cup of tea? Then don't touch.
Spoilers: Devil's Trap and beyond
Summary: “Sorry,” the demon said with a cocky grin and a wink, “I guess your darling offspring is going to die.”
Mockingbird
Chapter I
Sorry,” the demon said with a cocky grin and a wink, “I guess your darling offspring is going to die.”
+++
“Time of death: 10:41 AM.”
John remembered reading that people later had only blurred recollections of the days after something awful. Not him, though. Not remembering would have been a blessing, but he could recall every painstaking detail. The hard seat of the chair as he sat, sifting through paperwork - his son was dead, and he was signing papers -, the plastic yellow of the pen as it scratched signature after signature. He remembered the feel of the doctor’s callous-free hand in his, the mumbled assurances that everyone had “done their best”. Except that their best hadn’t nearly been good enough.
He could still see the face of the perky little nurse before him, with the dark ponytail and a warm face that actually managed to have you believe she cared. She’d been the one to finally find Sam, sitting in the foyer with his eyes closed and his head slumped back against the wall. She’d asked if he was okay and John had managed to smile tightly and mutter “Fine” so he wouldn’t start laughing.
Okay.
Okay.
He could still recall the way Sam had stood, slumped into himself like a marionette, so lifeless, eyes so dead that John couldn’t bear to look at him. He still couldn’t, almost a week later. He couldn’t look at Sam’s face that shut the world out more effectively than a nuclear bunker. He could only lie and stare at the ceiling, nursing his whiskey bottle, waiting for the blurring that never came.
John Winchester couldn’t even grieve normally.
+++
In the end, it was probably all Bobby’s credit that everything didn’t get shot to Hell right then and there.
Bobby who hadn’t gotten out the shotgun but instead taken one look at Sam’s ashen face and John’s stiff posture before his eyes had flicked downwards underneath his base cap, silent condolences that John appreciated more than all the kind words of the hospital staff put together. They’d also hurt more, because if Bobby knew that Dean was gone, then it was probably true.
Bobby marched into the guest-room one day, kicking the door open with his boot, and dropped a bag of tools on John’s chest.
“Get’cha ass out of bed, Winchester,” he growled, “I got your truck.”
John sat up blearily, head protesting at the sudden movement.
“My truck?”
“Yeah, your truck. It’s in the lot and I don’t want it, so you better get yourself out there and start fixing those tires.”
Truck. Right.
John managed to heave himself upright and swing his legs out of bed, boots clinking against empty bottles that rolled away over the dusty floorboards. He was fully dressed, it had been days since he’d last changed. Or shaved. Or showered, for that matter.
“Where’d you get my truck?” he asked as he trotted into the kitchen behind Bobby, dragging the bag of tools dutifully along, allowing the man to press a mug of lukewarm coffee into his hand.
“Towed it,” came the rough reply, “Was still were you left it, slashed tires and all.”
John nodded, marveling at how a few sips of liquid that tasted only marginally better than dirty dishwater could make him feel so much more like a human being.
Bobby gave him a hard look from where he leaned against the kitchen counter, arms folded in front of his chest.
“I got you the parts you need so you can get to fixin’ it right away. And you still need to decide on what to do with the…”
He trailed off, maybe because of the look on John’s face, but didn’t avert his eyes. John set the now empty cup on the table and nodded.
“I’ll start working on the truck,” he muttered.
Bobby wrinkled his nose at him as he grabbed the mugs and let them clatter into the sink overflowing with used dishes.
“I recommend a shower first,” he said with thinly veiled disgust that had John smiling sourly at him.
“What, you afraid I’ll dirty on your precious car wrecks?”
Bobby didn’t smile.
“It’s not that unlikely.”
John scowled at him, but when he caught a whiff of himself as he made his way onto the bathroom, pulling his old shirt over his head as he went, he figured his friend might have a point.
+++
The truck stood in the sun, gleaming black despite the traces of rain and mud that coated it. John stared at it, tools in hand. For a moment, he wasn’t even sure what he was doing here, but Bobby’s gently forceful hand on his back, pushing him forward, reminded him quickly that he didn’t really have any choice in the matter. He brushed a hand over the sleek metal, opened his weapon hold purely out of habit. He ran his fingers over the medals, the knives, the guns. He was still a hunter. Death in his hands had an instantaneous effect on his body, more than Bobby or alcohol or coffee had managed all week. Every fibre of his body tightened, sending a clear message to his brain that even if his mind wasn’t willing, his muscles still were.
He swore softly, running a hand over his eyes. If Mary had known he would end up this way, she’d have kicked his ass into the next century.
Of course, she would have also taken him apart for every other choice he had ever made since she died.
Not that he could blame her.
And here he was, 23 years later, back to where he’d started, covered in sweat and oil as he slaved away under the glaring sun. It actually helped, too - fixing cars gave him this oddly satisfying feeling that there was at least something he could do right. He had his truck running in a day - giving the motor a good once-over while he was at it - and moved right on to the next car wreck in the lot. Every car he could fix, he did (even if he did make a wide berth around the battered rump of what had once been his beloved Impala).
And even if Bobby shook his head at his behavior, he didn’t say a word.
He did comment on him having no more cars to strip if John carried on like that one late morning when he came to bring John a spare part and a bottle of water so the man wouldn’t completely dehydrate under the hot sun.
“Thanks,” John muttered as the water was set down next to his legs sticking out from under the matellic carcass of his current patient.
“You need to do something about your boy,” Bobby said without warning. John nearly smashed his forehead against the underside of the carriage as he raised his head to glance at Sam.
The boy was sitting on the steps to the porch, just out of earshot. He was staring at his feet, or staring at nothing, probably not even noticing the sun that was slowly turning the back of his neck a nice, cherry red. He didn’t seem to care about anything these days, staying silent when he had usually been the first to voice an opinion. In fact, John couldn’t remember him saying more “Fine” or “Yeah” since they’d arrived at Singer’s yard, and if he hadn’t convinced his son to come outside - convinced as in “dragged Sam from the couch he had been sitting on, staring at nothing, and practically shoved him outside” -, he would probably still be in that dusty house, posing as alive.
It wasn’t that he was being rebellious - quite the opposite, in fact. He sat where he’d been put, ate what he’d been told to eat, showered, not once showing the slightest sign of resistance. Or that he was still alive. Sam had followed every single order John had given him since they left the hospital.
He’d always said he was going to lay off using the Lord’s name in vain for at least a day if that ever happened, but now it was reality, all it did was put a sour taste in his mouth and a hollow feeling in his stomach.
“You need to do something about your boy,” Bobby repeated when John gave no indication that he had even heard him.
John stuck out a hand and caught the wrench Bobby tossed him with ease.
“Like what?”
“Like getting the both of you off your asses.”
Bobby’s voice was raw and hard, but there was a warm undercurrent of concern there that had John sitting up slowly. He reached for the bottle almost automatically, unscrewing the cap with uncertain fingers. Bobby was right. He knew that, he’d known all week , known even when he’d walked away from the pyre, unable to stand the sight of the flames licking at his son’s body.
John stared at his greasy hands.
“I will,” he promised hoarsely, not sure if he was speaking to Bobby or Sam or himself, “I will.”
+++
It took him forever and several shots of whiskey to pick up the phone and call his voice mail. Several tries later, he even managed to listen to Ellen’s voice for more than a second. Her words brought a rush of old memories - some good, some bad, and all of them painful - but even as the tinny recording informed him he was being stubborn, he had made up his mind.
Colt or no Colt, he needed to hunt that bastard. They needed to hunt it. He was going mad. Sam was breaking (if he hadn’t broken already) and the boy was all John had left.
Maybe he was the worst father in the world, but he was not losing another son.
+++
Chapter II
Sorry about the huge formatting mess, by the way - I'm trying to fix it. ETA: And I did. ^^