[FIC] Father's Gun (13/?)
Title: Father's Gun
Authors: diana_lucifera & tersichore
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: Mature
Warnings: minor character death, mentions of torture, the slowest of burns, and excessive bed-sharing
Summary: After the events of "Brother's Blood," Sam and Dean are faced with teaming up with John to hunt the Yellow-Eyed Demon, all while keeping Sam's powers a secret and dodging their dad's questions about just why things between them are so... different.
Notes: Hope you all enjoy the chapter! Just so you know, we'll be on vacation in Japan next week, so there won't be an update until the Sunday after next. See you then!
Previous Chapter | Master Post
The silence stretches out, grows cold and awkward in the dim light of the closed bar, the only sounds the clink of ice in John's glass and the occasional 'zzt' of the bug zapper.
Dean slows down, switches from Jack to draft when it starts getting hard to swallow the questions that keep cropping up, that would get him a sharp word or an even sharper cuff to the head if he ever, ever said them aloud.
Sitting in a bar, having a drink with his dad. No hunt to research, no scam to pull, no Sammy in the corner scowling and bitching about the seats being sticky and him having school in the morning.
Once upon a time, this would've been something he'd dream of. Serious 'best afternoon ever' material.
Now it's just uncomfortable.
He just wants Sam to come back downstairs. To bring that damn journal and solve this damn case and make things fucking normal again, because Dean's life, always a parade of freaky and unsettling shit, is taking a quick turn down fucked-up-as-hell lane, and he's gettin' real tired of it.
It is entirely possible those last few shots of Jack were a bad idea.
“No more mentions of Elkins in the journal,” Sam announces, striding back into the bar and setting the worn book on countertop, “but I figure no news is good news there. If he'd have packed up or something, pretty sure Bill would've known about it. Seems like he was a pretty personable guy, kept up with people like no other hunter I've ever seen.”
“I keep up with people,” Dean grumbles into his beer, and he sees Sam's eyes snap to him, note the shot glass, the tense line of Dean's shoulders, the level of whisky in the bottle at John's elbow.
“Name three people that you called this week,” Sam challenges, taking the seat next to Dean and letting their knees bump together, slouching on the bar stool so that their shoulders touch, their elbows jockey for real estate on the scarred countertop.
“No hunters and no hookups,” he stipulates, holding up a finger as Dean opens his mouth to answer.
“That doesn't prove anything,” Dean pouts as he comes up empty, taking another sip and nudging Sam with his shoulder.
“Proves you're antisocial,” Sam grins, lightly elbowing Dean in retaliation.
“So all we've got is the town Elkins might have lived in ten years ago?” John demands. “Not exactly a hot lead, boys.”
“Well, it's more than we had last night,” Sam snaps, glaring at John, and he's about to open his mouth, about to go after John again for everything their dad ever did, real or imagined, and Dean is just not ready for that, not after today.
“Sammy, you wanna go grab your laptop?” he asks, digging out the keys to the Impala and sliding them over. “We run a check on Elkinses in Manning, it could give us an address, maybe a little more to go on.”
“Dean,” Sam bitches and Dean catches the look his brother shoots him, gets the resentment at having to run and fetch, being sent off to grab this or that while the grownups talked.
Dean gets it, he does. Remembers tiny, teenaged Sammy fuming about it on more than one occasion, but this is the next step, the smart thing to do, and hell if having Sam and Dad in the same room, his father's gun out of sight but not out of mind isn't a recipe for disaster right now, doesn't have Dean paranoid as fuck, just waiting for John or Sam to say the wrong thing or do the wrong thing, for the goddamn bell to ring and the Mexican standoff that is their whole fucking family dynamic these days to be on again.
So yeah, he sent Sam off to grab the fucking journal and to grab the fucking laptop, and he's gonna catch hell about that later, he knows, but if Dean's choices are getting bitched at in private and watching Sam and Dad tear into each other in a room full of guns, booze, and glass bottles, he'll take Sammy giving him an earful over Sam and Dad finally having their ultimate showdown of ultimate destiny any day.
God, Dean's gonna get a fucking ulcer, this goes on much longer.
Sam stomps back in, laptop bag slung over his shoulder, bitchface firmly applied, and throws himself back into the barstool at Dean's side, digging out the battered computer and firing it up in petulant silence.
“Elkins is careful,” John gravels, pouring himself a few more fingers of whisky and eyeing Sam with a look Dean can't quite decipher. “No way you're just gonna be able to look him up in the Yellow Pages.”
Sam snorts, a grin that's more than a little smug playing at the corner of his mouth as he works.
“That's why I'm going deeper,” he explains. “County Clerk's Office, Probate, DMV, State Troopers, local PD, Social Security. He might not have his name in the phonebook, but if he's gotten a driver's license, parking ticket, or Social Security check any time in the last ten years, we can find him.”
“And if he's using a fake name?” John challenges, putting back more of the booze. Dean should probably defend Sammy here, step in as their dad tries his damnedest to poke holes in Sammy's research, but the kid is good, and Sam'd never admit it himself, but he likes to show off, just a little.
Dean sits back, lets his brother have his fun. 'Sides, it's nice to see Sammy in his element like this, on the trail of some obscure name or date or bit of knowledge. He gets this look on his face, this half a smile, half a quirked eyebrow, and he's interested, engaged, that huge brain just going a mile a minute, every thought and theory playing across his face, a thousand possibilities rising and being dismissed, replaced, refined until he finds it, zeroes in on what he's been looking for, and gets this satisfied, triumphant grin on his face.
And Dean’d be lyin’ if he said that little grin wasn’t one of his favorite things to see on a hunt, that first hint of them having it locked up, having the thing, whatever it is, beat. 'Cause once Sammy finds their answers? Once they know what they're up against? Well, then it's only a matter of time.
Sam shrugs easily in response to John's question, keeps tapping away.
“Harvelle never mentions one,” he dismisses, “and even if he is, Manning's not that big, and it's definitely not bursting with paranoid ex-hunters. If he's there, we'll find him.”
“I'm hearin' a lot of 'if's,” John grumbles, pouring himself another glass.
Dean feels Sam tense beside him as he watches John put down the drink, sits up, gets a hand on Sammy’s sleeve, ready to defuse the next fight.
“If you want,” Sam begins, “I could tell you the address for Daniel James Elkins, born August 8, 1938, Social Security number 183-33-4786, resident of Manning, Colorado instead?”
Sam is grinning, and Dean is so, so damn proud of him in that moment he can't help the grin the spreads across his face.
“That might be a new record for you, Sammy,” he laughs, clapping him on the back and peering at the screen where, sure enough, spelled out in neat, organized government records and receipts, is everything they'd ever want to know about Dan Elkins.
“How the hell-?” John starts, but Sammy cuts him off. Dean can't really blame him. That one was going nowhere good.
“Property tax records,” Sam supplies, rooting around in his laptop bag until he snags their journal, scribbling down the address on a fresh page, right behind the notes Dean had written as they were looking into the murders in Chicago. “He may be a paranoid, antisocial bastard, but he's a paranoid, antisocial bastard that does his civic duty.”
“Sloppy of him,” John grumbles, staring past Sam and taking another drink.
“So, we hit the road, get into Manning in a few hours, then see what Elkins knows about this gun,” Dean outlines. “Sounds good.”
“I'm hitting the road,” John corrects, refilling his glass. “You boys bunk down here. Sam, gonna need that address.”
“The hell you will,” Sam snaps, his hand clenching around the journal with the address in it so tight, his knuckles are a stark, sharp white against the black leather cover. “If we're going, we're going together.”
“Dad, I thought we were gonna go after this thing as a family,” Dean adds quietly.
“Elkins is jumpy. Doesn't like strangers,” John explains, but there's something in his eyes as he says it, something about the way he looks down…
“Then we'll wait in the car,” Sam bites out, his teeth clenched.
Dean can't help but be with Sammy on this one. There's no reason for them to stay here, no reason they'd need to be parked at the Roadhouse being babysat by Ellen Harvelle like little kids.
If Elkins gives them a lead, something they could follow to the gun and the demon and ending this thing once and for all, it'd be better if they were in the same place at the same time on the same page, especially with demons on their tail all the damn time. Especially if anyone, anywhere, could be the enemy wearing a civilian's face, just waiting for the chance to take them out.
Sticking together makes sense, lines up with everything John's ever taught them, so why's their dad so dead-set against it?
John's about to speak up, to fire back at Sam, when the Roadhouse's front door swings open, revealing Ellen and Jo, weighed down with groceries and enough food to satisfy an army.
“Got four large pizzas, two meat lovers, two supremes, three things of hot wings,” Ellen lists, passing the groceries off to Jo to carry on to the back and setting the pizzas down on one of the tables near the bar. “And a chicken Cesar salad for you, Sam honey. Hope that's okay.”
“It's great, thanks Ellen,” Sam answers, flushing a little. “You really didn't have to.”
“Don't worry about it, hon,” she dismisses as Jo walks back into the bar with plates. “S'time for lunch anyway, and Jo here doesn't look like it, but she can put it away like a goddamn linebacker.”
“Mom,” Jo hisses, shooting a glance at the Winchesters and trying to hide the blush creeping up her neck. It's cute and a hundred percent embarrassed teenager, which has Dean very worried that a van is gonna pull up and haul him away any second now for makin’ a move on her earlier. Seriously, how old is she anyway?
“Sweetie, it's lunchtime and your stomach's been grumblin' since you busted Dean here in the face,” Ellen laughs, pushing two of the tables together and putting her hands on her hips. “If it was ever a secret, it wasn't gonna be one for long. Now, ya'll wanna keep sitting at that bar like bumps on a log or do you wanna come over here and have somethin' to eat?”
Sam and Dean take the hint, grab some beers and follow Jo over to the tables to take a seat, John trailing at a sullen, reluctant pace behind them, refilled tumbler firmly clenched in one hand.
Dean considers it a minor miracle he didn't bring the whole bottle in protest.
“You boys find what you're lookin' for?” Ellen asks brightly, gamely ignoring Jo's continuing embarrassment in favor of passing out plates and doling out pizza slices and wings.
“Did we ever,” Dean answers, shooting a grin at Sam, who's adding dressing to his salad and trying to hide a blush of his own. “Sammy here busted it wide open, got us everything we need to track Elkins down.”
“Now John,” Ellen starts, snagging some pizza and wings for herself and twisting the cap off of a beer. “S'been a while since I've seen it myself, but from what I recall, that ain't exactly what your happy face looks like.”
“We gonna eat or just run our mouths all day?” John grumbles, snagging a second slice of meat lover's and setting into it with a glare.
“It is a relief to know you're just as charmin' as always,” Ellen says, before turning to her daughter, who's sitting at her elbow, putting away slice after slice of supreme. “Jo, honey, could you go get Ash up? He sleeps any later, we're gonna be pullin' him outta the pinball circuits by closin' time.”
“Mom,” Jo complains, swallowing a mouthful of mushrooms and peppers.
“Joanna, Sam and Dean are young men, got their whole lives ahead of 'em,” Ellen interrupts. “Ain't no need for them to be subject to a sight like that, not without warning and at least a week of prep first.”
“Fine,” Jo bites out and stomps across the bar to disappear through battered side door.
Sam and Dean keep their eyes tactfully on their plates, pointedly not looking at either Ellen or each other.
John drinks, completely unfazed by the entire exchange. Dean's pretty sure Ellen could do a fan dance with a slice of meat lovers and a hot wing, and the only thing on Dad's mind would be that she was wasting perfectly good pizza.
When Jo stomps back later, dragging a rumpled, mulleted, flannel-wearing something that she plops in front of the pizza before reclaiming her seat, Dean has to put down his food and figure out what the hell he's looking at here.
“Boyfriend or brother?” he asks, his eyes going from Ellen to Jo. Sam chokes on a bite of salad next to him, and their dad smirks into his tumbler of whisky.
“Neither,” Jo bites out with a glare over her mother's chuckles. “Ash helps out around here. He's a genius. Could probably give your brother here a run for his money.”
“Seriously?” Dean snorts, gesturing at the guy sitting across from their dad, diving into the pizza with abandon. “I mean, I dig the hair, but this guy's not a genius. He's a Lynyrd Skynyrd roadie.”
“Tell 'em where you went to school, Ash,” Jo prompts, smug grin on her face.
“MIT,” Ash nods, digging out a chicken wing and dunking it in the blue cheese, a look of bliss on his face. “Got bounced for fightin' though. Uptight sons-of-bitches.”
“What'd you go for?” Sam asks, and clearly he's interested because the salad fork has been completely abandoned, left to drop down in the bottom of the bowl with a dull 'clunk.'
“Computer sciences,” Ash answers through a mouthful of wing, adding his chicken bones to the small pile growing on his plate. “Software engineering, programming, all that jazz. Pocket protectors in that joint never knew what hit 'em. Buncha uptight Jobs fans, too busy drawin' tits on their Newtons and droolin' over their buddies' mp3 collections to see the programming revolution happening around them.”
“You’re a Linux fan, aren’t you?” Sam asks, smirking.
“Hey, man, Ubuntu all the way,” Ash grins, and that has Sam out of his chair, dragging Ash off to the laptop at the bar and into the land of computers and science and jokes that go way over Dean's head.
He's not jealous. He's really not, ‘cause Sam looks like Christmas just came early and Jo's scowlin' like someone swapped her slice of pizza with a rotten lemon, and that suits Dean just fine.
She's a cute kid, but she's crazy as hell if she ever thought she could win a game of “My Nerd Can Beat Up Your Nerd” with Dean's little brother in the room.
Chapter 14
Authors: diana_lucifera & tersichore
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: Mature
Warnings: minor character death, mentions of torture, the slowest of burns, and excessive bed-sharing
Summary: After the events of "Brother's Blood," Sam and Dean are faced with teaming up with John to hunt the Yellow-Eyed Demon, all while keeping Sam's powers a secret and dodging their dad's questions about just why things between them are so... different.
Notes: Hope you all enjoy the chapter! Just so you know, we'll be on vacation in Japan next week, so there won't be an update until the Sunday after next. See you then!
Previous Chapter | Master Post
The silence stretches out, grows cold and awkward in the dim light of the closed bar, the only sounds the clink of ice in John's glass and the occasional 'zzt' of the bug zapper.
Dean slows down, switches from Jack to draft when it starts getting hard to swallow the questions that keep cropping up, that would get him a sharp word or an even sharper cuff to the head if he ever, ever said them aloud.
Sitting in a bar, having a drink with his dad. No hunt to research, no scam to pull, no Sammy in the corner scowling and bitching about the seats being sticky and him having school in the morning.
Once upon a time, this would've been something he'd dream of. Serious 'best afternoon ever' material.
Now it's just uncomfortable.
He just wants Sam to come back downstairs. To bring that damn journal and solve this damn case and make things fucking normal again, because Dean's life, always a parade of freaky and unsettling shit, is taking a quick turn down fucked-up-as-hell lane, and he's gettin' real tired of it.
It is entirely possible those last few shots of Jack were a bad idea.
“No more mentions of Elkins in the journal,” Sam announces, striding back into the bar and setting the worn book on countertop, “but I figure no news is good news there. If he'd have packed up or something, pretty sure Bill would've known about it. Seems like he was a pretty personable guy, kept up with people like no other hunter I've ever seen.”
“I keep up with people,” Dean grumbles into his beer, and he sees Sam's eyes snap to him, note the shot glass, the tense line of Dean's shoulders, the level of whisky in the bottle at John's elbow.
“Name three people that you called this week,” Sam challenges, taking the seat next to Dean and letting their knees bump together, slouching on the bar stool so that their shoulders touch, their elbows jockey for real estate on the scarred countertop.
“No hunters and no hookups,” he stipulates, holding up a finger as Dean opens his mouth to answer.
“That doesn't prove anything,” Dean pouts as he comes up empty, taking another sip and nudging Sam with his shoulder.
“Proves you're antisocial,” Sam grins, lightly elbowing Dean in retaliation.
“So all we've got is the town Elkins might have lived in ten years ago?” John demands. “Not exactly a hot lead, boys.”
“Well, it's more than we had last night,” Sam snaps, glaring at John, and he's about to open his mouth, about to go after John again for everything their dad ever did, real or imagined, and Dean is just not ready for that, not after today.
“Sammy, you wanna go grab your laptop?” he asks, digging out the keys to the Impala and sliding them over. “We run a check on Elkinses in Manning, it could give us an address, maybe a little more to go on.”
“Dean,” Sam bitches and Dean catches the look his brother shoots him, gets the resentment at having to run and fetch, being sent off to grab this or that while the grownups talked.
Dean gets it, he does. Remembers tiny, teenaged Sammy fuming about it on more than one occasion, but this is the next step, the smart thing to do, and hell if having Sam and Dad in the same room, his father's gun out of sight but not out of mind isn't a recipe for disaster right now, doesn't have Dean paranoid as fuck, just waiting for John or Sam to say the wrong thing or do the wrong thing, for the goddamn bell to ring and the Mexican standoff that is their whole fucking family dynamic these days to be on again.
So yeah, he sent Sam off to grab the fucking journal and to grab the fucking laptop, and he's gonna catch hell about that later, he knows, but if Dean's choices are getting bitched at in private and watching Sam and Dad tear into each other in a room full of guns, booze, and glass bottles, he'll take Sammy giving him an earful over Sam and Dad finally having their ultimate showdown of ultimate destiny any day.
God, Dean's gonna get a fucking ulcer, this goes on much longer.
Sam stomps back in, laptop bag slung over his shoulder, bitchface firmly applied, and throws himself back into the barstool at Dean's side, digging out the battered computer and firing it up in petulant silence.
“Elkins is careful,” John gravels, pouring himself a few more fingers of whisky and eyeing Sam with a look Dean can't quite decipher. “No way you're just gonna be able to look him up in the Yellow Pages.”
Sam snorts, a grin that's more than a little smug playing at the corner of his mouth as he works.
“That's why I'm going deeper,” he explains. “County Clerk's Office, Probate, DMV, State Troopers, local PD, Social Security. He might not have his name in the phonebook, but if he's gotten a driver's license, parking ticket, or Social Security check any time in the last ten years, we can find him.”
“And if he's using a fake name?” John challenges, putting back more of the booze. Dean should probably defend Sammy here, step in as their dad tries his damnedest to poke holes in Sammy's research, but the kid is good, and Sam'd never admit it himself, but he likes to show off, just a little.
Dean sits back, lets his brother have his fun. 'Sides, it's nice to see Sammy in his element like this, on the trail of some obscure name or date or bit of knowledge. He gets this look on his face, this half a smile, half a quirked eyebrow, and he's interested, engaged, that huge brain just going a mile a minute, every thought and theory playing across his face, a thousand possibilities rising and being dismissed, replaced, refined until he finds it, zeroes in on what he's been looking for, and gets this satisfied, triumphant grin on his face.
And Dean’d be lyin’ if he said that little grin wasn’t one of his favorite things to see on a hunt, that first hint of them having it locked up, having the thing, whatever it is, beat. 'Cause once Sammy finds their answers? Once they know what they're up against? Well, then it's only a matter of time.
Sam shrugs easily in response to John's question, keeps tapping away.
“Harvelle never mentions one,” he dismisses, “and even if he is, Manning's not that big, and it's definitely not bursting with paranoid ex-hunters. If he's there, we'll find him.”
“I'm hearin' a lot of 'if's,” John grumbles, pouring himself another glass.
Dean feels Sam tense beside him as he watches John put down the drink, sits up, gets a hand on Sammy’s sleeve, ready to defuse the next fight.
“If you want,” Sam begins, “I could tell you the address for Daniel James Elkins, born August 8, 1938, Social Security number 183-33-4786, resident of Manning, Colorado instead?”
Sam is grinning, and Dean is so, so damn proud of him in that moment he can't help the grin the spreads across his face.
“That might be a new record for you, Sammy,” he laughs, clapping him on the back and peering at the screen where, sure enough, spelled out in neat, organized government records and receipts, is everything they'd ever want to know about Dan Elkins.
“How the hell-?” John starts, but Sammy cuts him off. Dean can't really blame him. That one was going nowhere good.
“Property tax records,” Sam supplies, rooting around in his laptop bag until he snags their journal, scribbling down the address on a fresh page, right behind the notes Dean had written as they were looking into the murders in Chicago. “He may be a paranoid, antisocial bastard, but he's a paranoid, antisocial bastard that does his civic duty.”
“Sloppy of him,” John grumbles, staring past Sam and taking another drink.
“So, we hit the road, get into Manning in a few hours, then see what Elkins knows about this gun,” Dean outlines. “Sounds good.”
“I'm hitting the road,” John corrects, refilling his glass. “You boys bunk down here. Sam, gonna need that address.”
“The hell you will,” Sam snaps, his hand clenching around the journal with the address in it so tight, his knuckles are a stark, sharp white against the black leather cover. “If we're going, we're going together.”
“Dad, I thought we were gonna go after this thing as a family,” Dean adds quietly.
“Elkins is jumpy. Doesn't like strangers,” John explains, but there's something in his eyes as he says it, something about the way he looks down…
“Then we'll wait in the car,” Sam bites out, his teeth clenched.
Dean can't help but be with Sammy on this one. There's no reason for them to stay here, no reason they'd need to be parked at the Roadhouse being babysat by Ellen Harvelle like little kids.
If Elkins gives them a lead, something they could follow to the gun and the demon and ending this thing once and for all, it'd be better if they were in the same place at the same time on the same page, especially with demons on their tail all the damn time. Especially if anyone, anywhere, could be the enemy wearing a civilian's face, just waiting for the chance to take them out.
Sticking together makes sense, lines up with everything John's ever taught them, so why's their dad so dead-set against it?
John's about to speak up, to fire back at Sam, when the Roadhouse's front door swings open, revealing Ellen and Jo, weighed down with groceries and enough food to satisfy an army.
“Got four large pizzas, two meat lovers, two supremes, three things of hot wings,” Ellen lists, passing the groceries off to Jo to carry on to the back and setting the pizzas down on one of the tables near the bar. “And a chicken Cesar salad for you, Sam honey. Hope that's okay.”
“It's great, thanks Ellen,” Sam answers, flushing a little. “You really didn't have to.”
“Don't worry about it, hon,” she dismisses as Jo walks back into the bar with plates. “S'time for lunch anyway, and Jo here doesn't look like it, but she can put it away like a goddamn linebacker.”
“Mom,” Jo hisses, shooting a glance at the Winchesters and trying to hide the blush creeping up her neck. It's cute and a hundred percent embarrassed teenager, which has Dean very worried that a van is gonna pull up and haul him away any second now for makin’ a move on her earlier. Seriously, how old is she anyway?
“Sweetie, it's lunchtime and your stomach's been grumblin' since you busted Dean here in the face,” Ellen laughs, pushing two of the tables together and putting her hands on her hips. “If it was ever a secret, it wasn't gonna be one for long. Now, ya'll wanna keep sitting at that bar like bumps on a log or do you wanna come over here and have somethin' to eat?”
Sam and Dean take the hint, grab some beers and follow Jo over to the tables to take a seat, John trailing at a sullen, reluctant pace behind them, refilled tumbler firmly clenched in one hand.
Dean considers it a minor miracle he didn't bring the whole bottle in protest.
“You boys find what you're lookin' for?” Ellen asks brightly, gamely ignoring Jo's continuing embarrassment in favor of passing out plates and doling out pizza slices and wings.
“Did we ever,” Dean answers, shooting a grin at Sam, who's adding dressing to his salad and trying to hide a blush of his own. “Sammy here busted it wide open, got us everything we need to track Elkins down.”
“Now John,” Ellen starts, snagging some pizza and wings for herself and twisting the cap off of a beer. “S'been a while since I've seen it myself, but from what I recall, that ain't exactly what your happy face looks like.”
“We gonna eat or just run our mouths all day?” John grumbles, snagging a second slice of meat lover's and setting into it with a glare.
“It is a relief to know you're just as charmin' as always,” Ellen says, before turning to her daughter, who's sitting at her elbow, putting away slice after slice of supreme. “Jo, honey, could you go get Ash up? He sleeps any later, we're gonna be pullin' him outta the pinball circuits by closin' time.”
“Mom,” Jo complains, swallowing a mouthful of mushrooms and peppers.
“Joanna, Sam and Dean are young men, got their whole lives ahead of 'em,” Ellen interrupts. “Ain't no need for them to be subject to a sight like that, not without warning and at least a week of prep first.”
“Fine,” Jo bites out and stomps across the bar to disappear through battered side door.
Sam and Dean keep their eyes tactfully on their plates, pointedly not looking at either Ellen or each other.
John drinks, completely unfazed by the entire exchange. Dean's pretty sure Ellen could do a fan dance with a slice of meat lovers and a hot wing, and the only thing on Dad's mind would be that she was wasting perfectly good pizza.
When Jo stomps back later, dragging a rumpled, mulleted, flannel-wearing something that she plops in front of the pizza before reclaiming her seat, Dean has to put down his food and figure out what the hell he's looking at here.
“Boyfriend or brother?” he asks, his eyes going from Ellen to Jo. Sam chokes on a bite of salad next to him, and their dad smirks into his tumbler of whisky.
“Neither,” Jo bites out with a glare over her mother's chuckles. “Ash helps out around here. He's a genius. Could probably give your brother here a run for his money.”
“Seriously?” Dean snorts, gesturing at the guy sitting across from their dad, diving into the pizza with abandon. “I mean, I dig the hair, but this guy's not a genius. He's a Lynyrd Skynyrd roadie.”
“Tell 'em where you went to school, Ash,” Jo prompts, smug grin on her face.
“MIT,” Ash nods, digging out a chicken wing and dunking it in the blue cheese, a look of bliss on his face. “Got bounced for fightin' though. Uptight sons-of-bitches.”
“What'd you go for?” Sam asks, and clearly he's interested because the salad fork has been completely abandoned, left to drop down in the bottom of the bowl with a dull 'clunk.'
“Computer sciences,” Ash answers through a mouthful of wing, adding his chicken bones to the small pile growing on his plate. “Software engineering, programming, all that jazz. Pocket protectors in that joint never knew what hit 'em. Buncha uptight Jobs fans, too busy drawin' tits on their Newtons and droolin' over their buddies' mp3 collections to see the programming revolution happening around them.”
“You’re a Linux fan, aren’t you?” Sam asks, smirking.
“Hey, man, Ubuntu all the way,” Ash grins, and that has Sam out of his chair, dragging Ash off to the laptop at the bar and into the land of computers and science and jokes that go way over Dean's head.
He's not jealous. He's really not, ‘cause Sam looks like Christmas just came early and Jo's scowlin' like someone swapped her slice of pizza with a rotten lemon, and that suits Dean just fine.
She's a cute kid, but she's crazy as hell if she ever thought she could win a game of “My Nerd Can Beat Up Your Nerd” with Dean's little brother in the room.
Chapter 14