Supernatural fic: Prosecution [Gen, PG-13]
Title: Prosecution
Author: dotfic
Rating: Gen, PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine. They belong to Eric Kripke and the CW. I didn't mean to break them, I swear!
Time frame: pre-series, 1991
Word count: ~2,800
Summary: John takes Dean on a hunt. Everything that could go wrong, does. But there's more of the story that needs to be told.
Many, many thanks to my excellent beta readers marinarusalka and meko00, and to batyatoon for making suggestions and being a sounding board.
A/N: This is a companion piece to Immunity, which happened because of a comment iamstealthyone made. This happened because eloise_bright suggested doing Immunity from John's POV. I have trouble saying no to the plot bunnies.
"Dean, drop!" John orders, and he does.
John fires over his son's head, hitting the powrie that had been reaching for Dean. But there are five more making a beeline towards them and one hanging from the remnants of the chandelier, ready to jump down and attack.
"Upstairs, now Dean, go."
There's no hesitation, just instant obedience. He watches his twelve-year-old take the main stairs of the decrepit mansion two at a time. There's more decisiveness and speed in his movements than some of the guys he'd seen in the war, and a grace John is pretty sure Dean didn't get from him. Dean holds his sawed-off shotgun like it weighs nothing, which is odd because John swears the boy was struggling with it only last week, arms straining a little to hold steady on the target.
Boy's going to make a darned good soldier.
John takes out the powrie on the chandelier first, timing it so the creature lands on the five running towards him.
While they're disentangling themselves, John turns for the stairs and--fuck it--four more appear in the archway of the mansion's main hall. He runs up a few steps to get the higher ground, turns and fires.
John reloads as he runs up the stairs, taking them two at a time like his son just did. There's a crescent moon shining through the high windows at the first landing, giving him dim light. Iron boots clatter on the stairs below him and he hears small feral cries.
This was supposed to be a dry run, a hunt with no real danger. He thought it would be a good training exercise for Dean. Four small powries, according to one of the construction workers who got attacked three nights ago. The old Hofstadt place had been grand in its day until the family went bankrupt, then died out. It became a smallpox hospital, then sat empty. Someone had bought it and wanted to turn it into a museum.
Four powries, not a battalion.
He ignores the little voice in his head that wonders why he didn't check the place out ahead of time by himself. Christ, he'd been tired lately. Pastor Jim had discovered a rare book of spells and incantations carelessly tossed in a basket at a thrift shop, and John had been staying up nights translating and transcribing.
As John races up the last stretch of steps, he hears powrie shrieks, but they're above him, not below. There's the sharp crack of breaking wood.
The sweat on his forehead and the back of his neck turns ice-cold.
"Dean," he shouts, and is startled when he has hardly any voice at all.
The powries from below are almost on his heels. He stops, turns on the stairs, and makes his stand. He doesn't wait to see the last one tumble down the stairs, flashes of red hats and shining claws in the moonlight, but leaps up the last four steps. He lands heavily on the floorboards.
A long corridor stretches ahead of him, and it seems dizzyingly, ridiculously narrow and long, like a nightmare. In the hint of moonlight from a window at the far end, John spots the splintered door.
You should have checked, the little voice whispers. Why didn't you check?
John runs to the door. He hears a thud inside, and the shrieks of the creatures. He's already kicking what's left of the door to shreds when he hears Dean shout "Dad!" from within the room, and it's more frantic than he's used to hearing his son sound.
Inside he finds Dean surrounded by powries, swinging his shotgun like it's a baseball bat and contacting solidly with each swing. Brittle bones crack. The situation has gone from SNAFU to FUBAR but John's chest still hurts with pride. He does wonder why Dean hasn't fired at them, but at tight quarters the clubbing shows quick thinking and resourcefulness.
Dean gets away from them. He reaches the window and crawls out onto the construction scaffolding. John shoots the powries that try to follow his son, but a few are too quick and get outside. He's at the window in two strides, pulls the casement wider, and then climbs out onto the scaffolding.
The wind outside is cold, whistling along the mansion's stone walls and rattling the boards. Plastic sheeting flaps loose about four yards down. There's a stack of two-by-fours a few feet away, a bucket, and a metal bin crusted with dried cement. John spots the powries and he has a second of mind-seizing panic when he spies Dean's shotgun lying on the boards, but he can't see Dean.
"Dean?"
"Up here," Dean says, faintly, the wind carrying his voice away.
He looks up.
His boy's about halfway up to the next level of scaffold, clinging to the metal struts. It looks like the wind is trying to tear him from his perch.
"Hold still," John orders, although Dean hasn't moved. He's clinging to the metal bars like a limpet on the side of a boat hull.
The powries are right below Dean, reaching for him and any second now they're going to start climbing up, they're going to...John's shotgun clicks emptily. He grabs a magazine from the pocket of his jacket, but his hands are shaking so much he almost drops the gun before he gets it loaded, clicks the bolt into place, and fires.
When the last powrie falls, John lowers his gun and calls up, "All clear."
But Dean doesn't move. John takes a step closer to the metal struts. Something cold drips onto the back of his hand, the one not holding the shotgun. He looks down, and the moon is just bright enough to make the drop of blood gleam.
Slowly, John looks up. Dean moves his head to look back down at him.
"Are you--" John starts to ask when he catches the flicker of movement from above. "Swing left!" John shouts.
Immediately, Dean does. The movement causes the powrie to miss its grasp, but as it falls its claws graze Dean's shoulder, and John's whole body jerks in response.
Dean lowers his head, resting his forehead against his arm. He still makes no move to climb down and that's when John realizes: he can't.
His boy is bleeding, probably in shock--they must have cut him earlier, during his struggle with them in the room.
John leans the shotgun up against the sandbags, then climbs up onto the metal struts. He inches over until finally, finally he can rest his palm against his son's back. Dean is shaking and there's a dark, wet stain at his mid-section. For a second John smells smoke.
"It's okay son," he says softly, and the wind steals his words. He doesn't even know if his son can hear him. "It's okay, Dean, it's okay, it's going to be okay." With one hand firmly gripping the cross-beam, John coaxes Dean's own grip to loosen. Dean's arms go around John's neck, although Dean's feet are still braced against the metal. John carefully lowers them both back to the scaffold platform.
The moment Dean's tennis shoes meet the boards his knees buckle. John catches him. He grabs Dean by the shoulders and kneels to meet his eyes.
"Dean? You stay awake. You hear me?"
"Yes sir," Dean mumbles.
He flips up Dean's shirt, and doesn't realize he's holding his breath until he lets it out. There's blood (so much blood) but the cut is long and thin, not deep. The cut on his ankle looks worse.
John stands and goes to pick Dean up but he protests, "I can walk!" almost angrily.
So John carries both shotguns instead. Dean leans against him as they backtrack their way through the dank hollows of the mansion.
The wind is less bitter on the ground. He settles Dean in the front seat of the Impala and hands him a clean towel from the emergency duffel bag in the trunk.
"Hold this against your stomach and don't stop. Keep up steady pressure," John orders. Dean just nods tiredly. John wonders if he's going to pass out after all. "Stay awake.
"Yeah, okay," says Dean.
They're out on the road, moving at a good clip, when John says "I think you may need the ER this time, kiddo."
"No!" Dean sits up straight, still holding the towel, now blood-stained, tightly against himself. "No, please."
He's not sure where his boy got his fear of hospitals. As far as he can tell it's the only thing Dean is terrified of.
"I really think you..."
"No!"
The alarm in his son's voice is so acute, John concedes, if only to soothe him. "All right. We'll go back to Pastor Jim's, and then see how you're doing." He glances at the road ahead of them, at the headlights carving through the darkness, then looks back at Dean. "Cut's not deep," he says, trying to sound reassuring.
He hopes to God he's right, and his son will be okay without the ER visit.
Dean stares straight ahead through the windshield. He doesn't answer.
Powrie claws aren't the cleanest things ever, so he uses scotch on the wound before he bandages it, and it's clear how hard his son is clenching his teeth. Hardly a sound breaks free of Dean except for one small whimper, quickly muffled, and John thinks he'll hear that sound in his head for years.
"Never think you know the terrain if you haven't actually been through before. And even if you have, you don't know what might be lurking. Do a full sweep of the area first."
John starts to lift the fresh clean undershirt Dean is wearing. He wants to recheck the bandage on Dean's stomach one more time. This has to be absolutely right.
But Dean shifts his body away, avoiding John's hands.
John gathers the loose bits of gauze off the bedspread, his gut hollow as an empty oil drum and his heart feeling about as rusty.
Dean must hate him.
It's John's fault, after all. He didn't scout the location out properly. He sent his son not into a training ground but a front-line skirmish, before he was ready.
Except he was ready.
What's leering at him is that Dean is likely alive right now because of Dean. Not because of him.
"The workmen said they only saw four powries."
Shut up, John the little voice in his head whispers.
"Never assume." Relentless, he goes on. Maybe his boy can learn from John's mistakes. There's no way in hell Dean is going to forget this night. "And don't go hunting sleep-deprived if you can avoid it. If you can't get a full night's sleep, make sure you get a two-hour catnap."
"My gun jammed," Dean says, the first words he's spoken for what feels like hours.
"Gun won't jam if it's properly maintained and cleaned regularly."
This isn't what John meant to say at all. Just after dinner, before they left for the hunt, Dean sat at Jim's kitchen table with its cheerful red-and-white checked tablecloth. His movements were confident and skilled as he oiled and cleaned each part under John's watchful, approving eye.
The words are out there, no taking them back.
He doesn't dare look at Dean.
Guns sometimes jammed even if they were cleaned. Life was a motherfucker like that. But at least if he can get the idea drilled into his son's head, it'll reduce the chances that Dean's gun will ever jam again in the future.
In the meanwhile, he's retiring the one his son used tonight.
Gathering up the remnants of the first aid kit and the bottle of scotch, John heads for the bedroom door. As he crosses the room his foot snags on the forlorn bundle of clothing Dean dropped in the shadows by the dresser: the bloodstained t-shirt and tennis shoes.
John stares down at his dirt-spattered shoe against the bloody shirt. His vision swims. He leaves the room and shuts the door behind him.
Pastor Jim and Sam are waiting at the foot of the stairs, both faces turned upwards as he descends, Jim's worn, quiet concern and Sammy's bright, wide-eyed worry.
"How is he?" Jim asks.
"All right," says John. He rests his palm gently on Sam's head a moment. "I bandaged him up and he's got antibiotics in him." He swallows and coughs, thinking of the aching silence in that room. "Sammy," John says, "I have a mission for you."
"Yes, sir?" Sam says, his back going straighter.
"Go upstairs and sit with your brother."
Without hesitation, Sam races up the stairs with all the noise and exuberance a boy his age should have.
Jim's keeping his expression tactfully blank, but he's not much good at hiding the sympathy in his eyes. John turns his back on him, goes into the kitchen, snags a glass from the cabinet, and pours himself a glass of scotch.
It's a relief to step out onto the porch, into the cold Minnesota night. The lawn chair creaks as he settles his body into it. John grips the glass with both hands and stares down at the chipped blue paint of the porch boards. Light from the front room shines out faintly through the curtains of the windows behind him.
He takes a sip of scotch, closing his eyes as he swallows. After a few minutes he hears the porch door squeak open and the creak as Jim sits down on the porch swing.
"You want to tell me what happened?" Jim stops the swing, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees, and fixes John with a sharp glance. Even when he's not in his collar, Jim still seems to be on duty, always ready to listen and offer advice.
"Dean's shotgun jammed. And the construction worker was wrong about how many powries there were."
John takes another sip of his scotch, rolling the taste on his tongue. Eyes flash in the old tree next the porch, then vanish, probably a raccoon.
"Okay." Jim leans back in the swing and leans his elbow on the arm rest. "So you want to tell me what happened?" He says drily.
I know I promised you. I swore I'd keep them safe no matter what it takes. I'm sorry, Mary. I'm sorry I screwed up so bad.
"No," says John.
This is one of the things he likes about Jim: that instead of pressing further, he just sits, letting the porch swing sway back and forth a little. He's a patient man, slow to anger, and John swears that's the only reason they don't fight the way he fights with Daniel or Bobby. John knows he can be a pain in the ass to be around; sometimes it takes a near-saint.
He finishes his drink but keeps holding onto the glass, wondering what Jim would say if he went in and poured himself another round. He'd likely object, but it was just as likely Jim might have a glass with him.
"Go up to him, John," Jim says finally.
"He's mad at me. Besides..." John stops. "He's got Sam."
"He needs you," Jim says quietly. "That boy has always worshipped the ground upon which you tread. Finding out you're only human isn't going to make him turn away from you."
"I almost got him killed."
"He's not mad at you, John. He's scared." Jim stands up and takes John's glass from him. "Good night, John." He goes inside the house, the screen door slapping closed behind him.
When John opens the bedroom door, the light from the hall falls across the bed. Both boys are sound asleep. Dean's on his back with some of the blanket over him; Sammy's next to him, tangled up in a lot more of the blanket. There are comic books strewn among the valleys and peaks of the covers.
He moves closer to the bed and studies Dean. In the slice of light from the hallway, the freckles stand out brightly because he's pale. John touches his forehead, and it's hot. They'll have to watch carefully for infection. Dean stirs faintly, and John pulls his hand away. He straightens the blanket over both boys, distributing it more evenly.
Sam wakes up. "Daddy?" He says sleepily.
"Hey, Sammy," John whispers, and reaches across Dean to pick Sam up. John settles into the chair next to Dean's side of the bed, tucking Sam's legs comfortably over the arm.
"Is Dean going to be okay?" Sam whispers, his head falling against John's chest..
"Yes," John says.
"You killed all the monsters that got him, right?"
He can hardly swallow. He struggles before he's able to say yes.
Sam's eyes close and soon his breathing becomes more slow and regular, his body heavier as he slides back into deep sleep.
John sits watching Dean, Sam a comforting weight in his arms, and waits for morning.
~END~
Author: dotfic
Rating: Gen, PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine. They belong to Eric Kripke and the CW. I didn't mean to break them, I swear!
Time frame: pre-series, 1991
Word count: ~2,800
Summary: John takes Dean on a hunt. Everything that could go wrong, does. But there's more of the story that needs to be told.
Many, many thanks to my excellent beta readers marinarusalka and meko00, and to batyatoon for making suggestions and being a sounding board.
A/N: This is a companion piece to Immunity, which happened because of a comment iamstealthyone made. This happened because eloise_bright suggested doing Immunity from John's POV. I have trouble saying no to the plot bunnies.
"Dean, drop!" John orders, and he does.
John fires over his son's head, hitting the powrie that had been reaching for Dean. But there are five more making a beeline towards them and one hanging from the remnants of the chandelier, ready to jump down and attack.
"Upstairs, now Dean, go."
There's no hesitation, just instant obedience. He watches his twelve-year-old take the main stairs of the decrepit mansion two at a time. There's more decisiveness and speed in his movements than some of the guys he'd seen in the war, and a grace John is pretty sure Dean didn't get from him. Dean holds his sawed-off shotgun like it weighs nothing, which is odd because John swears the boy was struggling with it only last week, arms straining a little to hold steady on the target.
Boy's going to make a darned good soldier.
John takes out the powrie on the chandelier first, timing it so the creature lands on the five running towards him.
While they're disentangling themselves, John turns for the stairs and--fuck it--four more appear in the archway of the mansion's main hall. He runs up a few steps to get the higher ground, turns and fires.
John reloads as he runs up the stairs, taking them two at a time like his son just did. There's a crescent moon shining through the high windows at the first landing, giving him dim light. Iron boots clatter on the stairs below him and he hears small feral cries.
This was supposed to be a dry run, a hunt with no real danger. He thought it would be a good training exercise for Dean. Four small powries, according to one of the construction workers who got attacked three nights ago. The old Hofstadt place had been grand in its day until the family went bankrupt, then died out. It became a smallpox hospital, then sat empty. Someone had bought it and wanted to turn it into a museum.
Four powries, not a battalion.
He ignores the little voice in his head that wonders why he didn't check the place out ahead of time by himself. Christ, he'd been tired lately. Pastor Jim had discovered a rare book of spells and incantations carelessly tossed in a basket at a thrift shop, and John had been staying up nights translating and transcribing.
As John races up the last stretch of steps, he hears powrie shrieks, but they're above him, not below. There's the sharp crack of breaking wood.
The sweat on his forehead and the back of his neck turns ice-cold.
"Dean," he shouts, and is startled when he has hardly any voice at all.
The powries from below are almost on his heels. He stops, turns on the stairs, and makes his stand. He doesn't wait to see the last one tumble down the stairs, flashes of red hats and shining claws in the moonlight, but leaps up the last four steps. He lands heavily on the floorboards.
A long corridor stretches ahead of him, and it seems dizzyingly, ridiculously narrow and long, like a nightmare. In the hint of moonlight from a window at the far end, John spots the splintered door.
You should have checked, the little voice whispers. Why didn't you check?
John runs to the door. He hears a thud inside, and the shrieks of the creatures. He's already kicking what's left of the door to shreds when he hears Dean shout "Dad!" from within the room, and it's more frantic than he's used to hearing his son sound.
Inside he finds Dean surrounded by powries, swinging his shotgun like it's a baseball bat and contacting solidly with each swing. Brittle bones crack. The situation has gone from SNAFU to FUBAR but John's chest still hurts with pride. He does wonder why Dean hasn't fired at them, but at tight quarters the clubbing shows quick thinking and resourcefulness.
Dean gets away from them. He reaches the window and crawls out onto the construction scaffolding. John shoots the powries that try to follow his son, but a few are too quick and get outside. He's at the window in two strides, pulls the casement wider, and then climbs out onto the scaffolding.
The wind outside is cold, whistling along the mansion's stone walls and rattling the boards. Plastic sheeting flaps loose about four yards down. There's a stack of two-by-fours a few feet away, a bucket, and a metal bin crusted with dried cement. John spots the powries and he has a second of mind-seizing panic when he spies Dean's shotgun lying on the boards, but he can't see Dean.
"Dean?"
"Up here," Dean says, faintly, the wind carrying his voice away.
He looks up.
His boy's about halfway up to the next level of scaffold, clinging to the metal struts. It looks like the wind is trying to tear him from his perch.
"Hold still," John orders, although Dean hasn't moved. He's clinging to the metal bars like a limpet on the side of a boat hull.
The powries are right below Dean, reaching for him and any second now they're going to start climbing up, they're going to...John's shotgun clicks emptily. He grabs a magazine from the pocket of his jacket, but his hands are shaking so much he almost drops the gun before he gets it loaded, clicks the bolt into place, and fires.
When the last powrie falls, John lowers his gun and calls up, "All clear."
But Dean doesn't move. John takes a step closer to the metal struts. Something cold drips onto the back of his hand, the one not holding the shotgun. He looks down, and the moon is just bright enough to make the drop of blood gleam.
Slowly, John looks up. Dean moves his head to look back down at him.
"Are you--" John starts to ask when he catches the flicker of movement from above. "Swing left!" John shouts.
Immediately, Dean does. The movement causes the powrie to miss its grasp, but as it falls its claws graze Dean's shoulder, and John's whole body jerks in response.
Dean lowers his head, resting his forehead against his arm. He still makes no move to climb down and that's when John realizes: he can't.
His boy is bleeding, probably in shock--they must have cut him earlier, during his struggle with them in the room.
John leans the shotgun up against the sandbags, then climbs up onto the metal struts. He inches over until finally, finally he can rest his palm against his son's back. Dean is shaking and there's a dark, wet stain at his mid-section. For a second John smells smoke.
"It's okay son," he says softly, and the wind steals his words. He doesn't even know if his son can hear him. "It's okay, Dean, it's okay, it's going to be okay." With one hand firmly gripping the cross-beam, John coaxes Dean's own grip to loosen. Dean's arms go around John's neck, although Dean's feet are still braced against the metal. John carefully lowers them both back to the scaffold platform.
The moment Dean's tennis shoes meet the boards his knees buckle. John catches him. He grabs Dean by the shoulders and kneels to meet his eyes.
"Dean? You stay awake. You hear me?"
"Yes sir," Dean mumbles.
He flips up Dean's shirt, and doesn't realize he's holding his breath until he lets it out. There's blood (so much blood) but the cut is long and thin, not deep. The cut on his ankle looks worse.
John stands and goes to pick Dean up but he protests, "I can walk!" almost angrily.
So John carries both shotguns instead. Dean leans against him as they backtrack their way through the dank hollows of the mansion.
The wind is less bitter on the ground. He settles Dean in the front seat of the Impala and hands him a clean towel from the emergency duffel bag in the trunk.
"Hold this against your stomach and don't stop. Keep up steady pressure," John orders. Dean just nods tiredly. John wonders if he's going to pass out after all. "Stay awake.
"Yeah, okay," says Dean.
They're out on the road, moving at a good clip, when John says "I think you may need the ER this time, kiddo."
"No!" Dean sits up straight, still holding the towel, now blood-stained, tightly against himself. "No, please."
He's not sure where his boy got his fear of hospitals. As far as he can tell it's the only thing Dean is terrified of.
"I really think you..."
"No!"
The alarm in his son's voice is so acute, John concedes, if only to soothe him. "All right. We'll go back to Pastor Jim's, and then see how you're doing." He glances at the road ahead of them, at the headlights carving through the darkness, then looks back at Dean. "Cut's not deep," he says, trying to sound reassuring.
He hopes to God he's right, and his son will be okay without the ER visit.
Dean stares straight ahead through the windshield. He doesn't answer.
Powrie claws aren't the cleanest things ever, so he uses scotch on the wound before he bandages it, and it's clear how hard his son is clenching his teeth. Hardly a sound breaks free of Dean except for one small whimper, quickly muffled, and John thinks he'll hear that sound in his head for years.
"Never think you know the terrain if you haven't actually been through before. And even if you have, you don't know what might be lurking. Do a full sweep of the area first."
John starts to lift the fresh clean undershirt Dean is wearing. He wants to recheck the bandage on Dean's stomach one more time. This has to be absolutely right.
But Dean shifts his body away, avoiding John's hands.
John gathers the loose bits of gauze off the bedspread, his gut hollow as an empty oil drum and his heart feeling about as rusty.
Dean must hate him.
It's John's fault, after all. He didn't scout the location out properly. He sent his son not into a training ground but a front-line skirmish, before he was ready.
Except he was ready.
What's leering at him is that Dean is likely alive right now because of Dean. Not because of him.
"The workmen said they only saw four powries."
Shut up, John the little voice in his head whispers.
"Never assume." Relentless, he goes on. Maybe his boy can learn from John's mistakes. There's no way in hell Dean is going to forget this night. "And don't go hunting sleep-deprived if you can avoid it. If you can't get a full night's sleep, make sure you get a two-hour catnap."
"My gun jammed," Dean says, the first words he's spoken for what feels like hours.
"Gun won't jam if it's properly maintained and cleaned regularly."
This isn't what John meant to say at all. Just after dinner, before they left for the hunt, Dean sat at Jim's kitchen table with its cheerful red-and-white checked tablecloth. His movements were confident and skilled as he oiled and cleaned each part under John's watchful, approving eye.
The words are out there, no taking them back.
He doesn't dare look at Dean.
Guns sometimes jammed even if they were cleaned. Life was a motherfucker like that. But at least if he can get the idea drilled into his son's head, it'll reduce the chances that Dean's gun will ever jam again in the future.
In the meanwhile, he's retiring the one his son used tonight.
Gathering up the remnants of the first aid kit and the bottle of scotch, John heads for the bedroom door. As he crosses the room his foot snags on the forlorn bundle of clothing Dean dropped in the shadows by the dresser: the bloodstained t-shirt and tennis shoes.
John stares down at his dirt-spattered shoe against the bloody shirt. His vision swims. He leaves the room and shuts the door behind him.
Pastor Jim and Sam are waiting at the foot of the stairs, both faces turned upwards as he descends, Jim's worn, quiet concern and Sammy's bright, wide-eyed worry.
"How is he?" Jim asks.
"All right," says John. He rests his palm gently on Sam's head a moment. "I bandaged him up and he's got antibiotics in him." He swallows and coughs, thinking of the aching silence in that room. "Sammy," John says, "I have a mission for you."
"Yes, sir?" Sam says, his back going straighter.
"Go upstairs and sit with your brother."
Without hesitation, Sam races up the stairs with all the noise and exuberance a boy his age should have.
Jim's keeping his expression tactfully blank, but he's not much good at hiding the sympathy in his eyes. John turns his back on him, goes into the kitchen, snags a glass from the cabinet, and pours himself a glass of scotch.
It's a relief to step out onto the porch, into the cold Minnesota night. The lawn chair creaks as he settles his body into it. John grips the glass with both hands and stares down at the chipped blue paint of the porch boards. Light from the front room shines out faintly through the curtains of the windows behind him.
He takes a sip of scotch, closing his eyes as he swallows. After a few minutes he hears the porch door squeak open and the creak as Jim sits down on the porch swing.
"You want to tell me what happened?" Jim stops the swing, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees, and fixes John with a sharp glance. Even when he's not in his collar, Jim still seems to be on duty, always ready to listen and offer advice.
"Dean's shotgun jammed. And the construction worker was wrong about how many powries there were."
John takes another sip of his scotch, rolling the taste on his tongue. Eyes flash in the old tree next the porch, then vanish, probably a raccoon.
"Okay." Jim leans back in the swing and leans his elbow on the arm rest. "So you want to tell me what happened?" He says drily.
I know I promised you. I swore I'd keep them safe no matter what it takes. I'm sorry, Mary. I'm sorry I screwed up so bad.
"No," says John.
This is one of the things he likes about Jim: that instead of pressing further, he just sits, letting the porch swing sway back and forth a little. He's a patient man, slow to anger, and John swears that's the only reason they don't fight the way he fights with Daniel or Bobby. John knows he can be a pain in the ass to be around; sometimes it takes a near-saint.
He finishes his drink but keeps holding onto the glass, wondering what Jim would say if he went in and poured himself another round. He'd likely object, but it was just as likely Jim might have a glass with him.
"Go up to him, John," Jim says finally.
"He's mad at me. Besides..." John stops. "He's got Sam."
"He needs you," Jim says quietly. "That boy has always worshipped the ground upon which you tread. Finding out you're only human isn't going to make him turn away from you."
"I almost got him killed."
"He's not mad at you, John. He's scared." Jim stands up and takes John's glass from him. "Good night, John." He goes inside the house, the screen door slapping closed behind him.
When John opens the bedroom door, the light from the hall falls across the bed. Both boys are sound asleep. Dean's on his back with some of the blanket over him; Sammy's next to him, tangled up in a lot more of the blanket. There are comic books strewn among the valleys and peaks of the covers.
He moves closer to the bed and studies Dean. In the slice of light from the hallway, the freckles stand out brightly because he's pale. John touches his forehead, and it's hot. They'll have to watch carefully for infection. Dean stirs faintly, and John pulls his hand away. He straightens the blanket over both boys, distributing it more evenly.
Sam wakes up. "Daddy?" He says sleepily.
"Hey, Sammy," John whispers, and reaches across Dean to pick Sam up. John settles into the chair next to Dean's side of the bed, tucking Sam's legs comfortably over the arm.
"Is Dean going to be okay?" Sam whispers, his head falling against John's chest..
"Yes," John says.
"You killed all the monsters that got him, right?"
He can hardly swallow. He struggles before he's able to say yes.
Sam's eyes close and soon his breathing becomes more slow and regular, his body heavier as he slides back into deep sleep.
John sits watching Dean, Sam a comforting weight in his arms, and waits for morning.
~END~