[Fic] Robbing Peter
Title: Robbing Peter
Author: Ginzai
Genre/Characters: Gen, hurt/comfort, John, Dean, Sam, Bobby
Word Count: ~5750
Timeline: Preseries. Dean is 19, Sam 15, and Adam ~8.
Warnings: Contains explicit foul language and references to violence, sexual violence, and prostitution. Also hurt!Dean, which is sadly kind of a given in my stories. Slight AU in that John here found out about Adam years before he did in canon.
Notes: So several months ago, I wrote a short story where John's refusal to take action resulted in Dean having to take desperate measures in order to provide for himself and Sam while John was away. It was a prompt response to a specific set up and never really fit with what I saw John as doing if that scenario ever came up. When a similar sounding prompt came up recently, I wanted to try my hand at a more in character take. Hopefully, that's what has resulted.
Summary: John's attempt to catch a few stolen moments of peace wind up costing him far more than he can bear.
~*~
The hunt was over faster than he'd expectd. Rare thing, that; John was more used to hunts that stretched out an extra day or ten then anything actually working in his favor, but it turned out that it was just a sprite and not a redcap. Sprites were easy enough to appease. They just wanted some attention and weren't too smart about when the humans they took to play with were ready to be done. Or just done; two had died before John had been able to give them a small gift of milk and honey to send them scurrying back underhill.
Milk and fucking honey. It was a fucking joke.
But if it meant no other deaths, then he wouldn't complain. He stayed an extra day, just to be sure, but the small town of Olsbrook, Iowa stayed calm and quiet, so he packed up and headed back east. Just one stop to make, and then he could go and collect his boys.
Dean had been pissed off that he'd been left behind and Sam hadn't been much better. Neither of them particularly liked Gerald Jones and the crew that he ran with, but John had hunted with Jones before and knew the man had a deft hand at research and specialty in witch lore. He'd left his boys there with the hope that they might pick something of it up. Every little bit helped. Jones had seemed interested in allowing the boys to earn their keep and a bit of research in exchange for two weeks' room and board wouldn't hurt anyone, even if it did mean that John had to put up with Dean's complaints at the enforced study session.
Besides, Jim was out of the country and John and Bobby were on the outs again. Money was tight, tighter than usual. Keeping up separate motel rooms for the two weeks he'd thought it would take for this job would have been rough. Then there was the matter of Dean's busted arm and Sam's bruised up face, courtesy of their last hunt. CPS had already started sniffing around and for all that Dean was finally legal (if not as legal as his fake ID claimed), John didn't want to take his chances with those sorts of injuries. Better to hightail it out of there.
He could have taken them with him. Thought about it, but there was another reason to leave his sons behind and it had everything to do with the family secret that not even Sam and Dean knew about.
John hadn't seen Adam in almost six months. He'd already let two of his boys down and had been a piss poor father to the third. The desire to spend just a few days in town with his youngest had been growing in his bones for weeks.
The short hunt just seemed serendipitous. Like a sign from above.
Later, John would think back on those words and want to throttle something. He was a Winchester. He should have known better than to believe that he could have something good without paying for it elsewhere.
The call came in just as he was getting off the highway to Windom. John glanced at the phone and debated picking up, then shrugged and dismissed it. He had voicemail. He even knew how to use it, thanks to Sam's guidance. Whoever it was could wait.
Adam's thrilled welcome helped to offset Kate's somewhat more sour reception, but that was fair enough. His own damn fault for not calling first, but after the way things had been going recently, John hadn't liked the odds of her telling him not to come if he'd given anything resembling fair warning. She gave him a distinctly unimpressed look, arms folded over her chest like another blonde woman he'd once known, and he'd had to swallow sharply at the sight. Best not to think about it.
Instead he took his youngest boy fishing, showed him how to put a worm in place without it falling right off again and tried not to grin at his disgusted face when its guts leaked out around the hook. The twist to his expression looked so much like Sam when he was younger that it hit him again like another punch to the gut.
Fuck it. He was letting Dean and Sam down with each second that he spent here, each stolen moment where he could pretend that he wasn't a hunter, that he was just a regular father out on a daytrip with his regular son, but for now, for just a few minutes, he could breathe. And it had been such a long, long time since he'd been in the company of the innocent. He just needed a little longer.
Kate offered to put him up that night but he abstained as politely as he could manage. It would have been too hard on Adam, not to mention on Kate who he knew harbored hopes that shouldn't be encouraged. He'd never said anything about them. He might have his faults, but he wasn't a hypocrite.
When he checked the phone that night, there were three messages waiting. He groaned, not wanting to deal with any of them. A couple of days more. That's all he wanted.
But that wasn't what he was getting and John wasn't a whiner, content to bitch and moan at fate, dragging his feet along to avoid doing his duty. He picked up the cell and jabbed the numbers in with a bit more force than was strictly necessary to connect to his messages.
The first was from Caleb, nothing unusual there. Needed advice on lore for a ghast. John had tackled one of those in '93 and it wouldn't hurt anything to pass some knowledge along. He made a mental note to refresh himself on the data from his journal and call back in the morning.
The other two were the problem. They were both from Dean, he recognized the number from the second cell phone that he'd finally caved in to purchase last year. No message was left for the first one. The second was just a terse "Dad, call me back."
It was enough to piss off the Good Humor Man. Dean knew better than to bother him when he was on a hunt. Knew better than to distract him unless it was a real emergency and if it had been one, he wouldn't have been pussyfooting around. He'd have told John the details straight up, as efficiently as he'd been taught fifteen years ago. It didn't matter that the hunt was over; Dean hadn't known that and the frustration at having this ever increasingly rare time interrupted slicked across his nerves.
John glanced at the clock. It was nearing midnight but that didn't mean much. Dean would be awake or he'd have the phone by him. He'd better have the phone by him if he knew what was good for him.
He dialed, flat irritation coloring each movement. Dean picked up midway through the second ring.
"Dad-" he said and he sounded tense. Annoyed. Well, he could join the club.
"Dean, what the hell is it?" He knew that his voice was gruffer than Dean probably deserved but dammit, being here in Windom with Kate and Adam was supposed to be a refuge. Dean was almost twenty now. He should be able to handle things by himself for a few days. Not like he hadn't been doing it for years already.
There was a pause on the other end of the line and then his eldest spoke up again. "Where are you at? I need to get me and Sam out of here."
A flash of something hot and dark flickered behind his eyes. "The hell you do. You're going to stay put."
Again a pause, then a cautious "Dad, you don't understand. Jones wants me to-"
He cut off, a note of something in his voice, but John was tired and the stress of having his regular life colliding with this sanctuary was just too much.
"Do what, Dean? Work for a bit? Do some honest labor?" He snorted. "Dammit, son, he ain't asking for anything you can't give, so give it already and let me get back to business."
Dean didn't respond and after a moment John added, "We clear?"
His tone was sharper than intended, ugly, and it jabbed a response.
"Yes," Dean said, voice somewhere between shocked and mutinous.
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, sir. We're clear."
And with that, John hung up, rolled over, and tried to get some sleep.
It wasn't until the end of the week that he got another call. Bobby Singer this time, just as surly as he'd been the last time John had spoken to the man, full of piss and vinegar.
"John, you'd better haul ass over to my place," the voicemail had said. "Yer boys are over here."
Which was just perfect, really. The flash of anger he'd felt when Dean had tried to weasel out of helping Jones ignited into a flare of actual rage before simmering down to bank in his bones, hot and furious. Damn Dean for running out on his responsibilities. And damn fucking Singer for giving him shelter.
He made his apologies to Kate, and then more sincerely and regretfully to Adam, who looked as pathetic as a half drowned puppy when he told him that his stay would have to be cut short.
"Got an emergency back home," he said, and Kate had nodded even as Adam's eyes filled up and started to brim. Just once it would have been nice to not make one of his boys cry. That was all he'd asked for. Would have been nice to get it, just this once.
It was a long drive to South Dakota. The radio was on the fritz, which meant that he had absolutely nothing to distract him from his increasingly dark thoughts. He had a temper. He'd always known he had a temper. What got him was that Dean knew he had a temper and he'd told his boy to stay put, dammit, and this blatant defiance was the reaction he got?
It was late afternoon when he pulled in, the autumn air crisp and cool, a tacit reminder that it was coming up on November again and the Winchesters' fifteenth anniversary of the start of his hunt. The only birthday that was ever celebrated anymore, and John intended to spend this year like he had all the rest, with the cold comfort that a half full bottle of Jack could provide. Maybe he'd get started on that a bit earlier than usual, if he was going to have a delayed outburst of teenage rebellion from Dean as his side dish.
The light was golden and thick, pooling like honey shimmered across Singer's graveyard of dead cars. John parked and tried to ignore the yowling of Bobby's current guard dog as he made his way across the gravel to pound on the front door.
Sam opened it a minute or so later. His son was getting taller; he had to be twice Adam's size now, slouched over and still almost as tall as John but still rake thin, no meat on his bones. He eyed John for a moment, then stepped aside. John stepped over the salted trench, then made his way past the devil's trap engraved on the ceiling. and into the kitchen proper Singer was a paranoid man, but what the hell. Whatever kept you alive.
"Where's your brother?" he grunted at Sam, who scowled at him.
"Upstairs. Asleep." Sleeping. Figured. John must have pulled a face because Sam huffed at him, an incredulous twist to his shoulders and an expression smeared across his face that wasn't too far removed to be a pout. Would have been a proper one, a couple of years back. "Leave him alone, Dad. He needs it."
"Why, he sick?" Dean being sick was probably the only thing that could have salvaged this whole situation, provided he was damn near on his death bed. Couldn't keep an eye out on Sam if he were ill.
"No," Sam snapped back. "How could you have left us there?"
"For fuck's sake, Sam," John growled and might have said something he regretted except that Singer trudged down the stairs at just that moment and sidled up to them. He looked tense, drawn in on himself, all coiled up like a snake on a hot grill.
"Winchester," He said and for all that his face was pinched in, his tone was remarkably even.
"Singer," John replied, knowing and not particularly caring that he sounded mulish. He had his own bones to pick with Singer.
"I've got to talk to you," Singer said. "About Dean."
"Funny, I wanted to talk to you about him as well but it'll need to wait a minute. You mind moving so I can get past you?"
"Why yes, actually," Looked like John hadn't been forgiven after their last blow out yet. Singer could do sarcasm with the best of them, really. It was easy enough to forget until you got on the wrong end of his sharpened tongue. "Because this sure as shit is important and you've got to sit your stubborn ass down and listen to me for once."
"The hell I do," John's voice raised up a notch and he took a half step forward. Singer didn't back down an inch. He pulled himself up to his full height, eyes snapping and face flushed.
"You stupid, arrogant sonnovabitch. Get your head out of your ass for once in your bleeding life-" he hissed right at the same moment that Sam started to try and talk over them, considerably louder than either adult.
"Dad?"
And there was the source of the trouble. John turned his head to glare at his eldest, tall and slender as he stood in the doorway heading up to the stairs.
Bobby cursed once under his breath and then fell silent.
"Step outside with me for a minute."
"Dad," Sam tried again, "You need to-"
Thankfully Dean shut him up, a quick, terse shake to his head as he grabbed a jacket and headed towards the door. He had to brush by John on the way and John refused to step aside to make it easier for him.
"You listen to your son," Singer said, "Don't just-"
"I'll decide what's best for my son," John snapped. "Sam, get your stuff packed. We're leaving in five."
Sam looked like he wanted to protest again, never had known when to just roll with things and make it easier for himself, but John didn't stand around to wait and find out. He stepped outside again and let the door bang shut after him.
Dean was waiting for him, turned away and leaning over the closed hood of the Impala. He looked stiff, worried. Well, good. He had something to be worried about.
"You want to tell me," John said quietly, "what the hell was going through your mind?"
Dean straightened up, green eyes wide as they met John's own. "Dad-" he started, but John didn't hesitate to cut him off again.
"Did I not tell you to stay there?"
Dean's mouth moved for a moment, then he gritted his teeth and came to full attention. "Yessir."
"Then why the fuck are you here? Was it that much to ask that you contribute a bit to this family?"
Dean looked like he'd been slapped and John knew, distantly, that he'd regret saying that in the morning. That it was unfair, spectacularly so, but it wasn't morning yet and his ire was up and running fast and hot.
Dean's mouth was pressed in a firm line, almost white in the gathering twilight. "I did it, sir. I gave Jones what he wanted."
"So what was the problem?" John's arms fell open, wide and questioning, like the entire junkyard was under interrogation.
"It wasn't enough-" Dean looked down, gaze distant and tight, somewhere in the vicinity of John's knees. "What I was doing, Jones said it wasn't good enough."
"Well, how hard could it have been?" John couldn't help the words from flooding out. Research had never been Dean's preference. Getting him to buckle down and study something from texts had always been difficult, even if the boy was damn good at it when he put his mind to the task. Christ, it was like high school all over again.
Dean swallowed hard. "I tried, okay? I couldn't just-" But he didn't finish the sentence and John was getting pretty damned tired of people trailing off in the middle of a thought.
He shook his head, disappointment flickering in behind the anger now. "I didn't think it was that much to ask, Dean. Jones is a valuable contact; I thought you'd learn something from him."
That got a twitch from his son. "What? You mean so I could do it again?" There was a vaguely horrified tinge to his tone.
John snorted. "It's not like it was so much to ask."
"You really-" Dean managed, voice sounding tight. "You want me to-" His face twisted for a moment, a flare of disgust visible before fading again. Something jolted in John's chest at the sight of it, like a thrummed note sounding just out of tune.
Dean shook his head slowly. "Okay. Fine. If I have to, if that's what it'll take, then fine. But Dad," he looked up again, eyes pleading, "He wanted Sam to join in."
"So?" Sam excelled at research, he should have been over the moon to have an opportunity to get up close and personal with all that nonsense. There was something going on here, John could scent it. He pushed a little harder, trying to figure it out. "It's not like it would kill him to do some work himself."
John had perhaps a couple of seconds after that to watch the impact of his words on Dean, first shock and then a stricken look, and then a flash of ice cold fury but before he had really registered that he'd made a mistake, that they had to be talking about differnt things, his son's fist slammed itself into the side of his face. A white hot rush of pain engulfed his jaw and he staggered to one side to spit blood out onto the dust. Instinct had him ready for another blow, but Dean had pulled back out of reach, fully in a defensive posture and ready. It took a minute for the ringing in his ears to subside enough for him to catch the words Dean was spitting out at him, voice low and hot and sounding like it had been scraped up from the bottom of salt pit.
"Dad, I ever hear you say something like that again, I'll take Sam and we'll be gone. You won't find us, I swear to God. If one of us has to work-" his voice twisted with the word as though he was saying something dirty, "then I'll do it, but you leave Sam the fuck out of it. He doesn't know. He doesn't get involved. And he sure as hell isn't going back to Jones' place again. I don't care now valuable a contact he is."
John's initial flare of temper cut out as the words began to make sense. Except that they didn't make any sense at all because Dean would never react like this to just some research, working with hex bags and spell books and old burned up baby bones. Yeah, it was dangerous to mix it up with that shit but they did dangerous things all the time. This didn't compute.
He knew in his bones that something was very, very wrong before the possibility solidified in his mind.
"Dean," he said, calm as he could manage, "What the hell kind of work are we talking about here?"
Dean's glare was hot and furious, but behind the anger John could see for the first time a brittle sort of thing, dark and wounded and hurting.
"Dean," he tried again. "Tell me."
"What," Dean snapped, pulling back a step and shoving the fingers of one hand through his hair, "You really want all the dirty details, Dad? Want to make sure I gave them their money's worth?"
Oh no. Oh, no, no, no.
"Tell me." He didn't want to know. Didn't want to hear confirmation of the fear that had just scrambled his mind, but he sucked it up anyway and made the demand. No longer a request, but now an order and Dean knew the difference loud and clear.
"Jones had me suck him off," Dean said and the expressionless tone to his voice was worse than any accusation could ever have been, "But he said that I wasn't good enough at it, so I'd have to let him fuck me instead. Said that I needed practice so he told me to come to his room each morning to get a lesson in. Said that he was paying you good money for my services and that he'd have to demand a refund if I didn't get my act together."
All of the breath was gone from John's body. His chest had been carved open and his ribs were left hollow and empty, the world a distant, cold buzz.
"He said that you two had it all worked out. That we'd never have to worry about money again because he was gonna put you in contact with some of his friends so we'd always have a good customer base at the ready. I didn't believe him but I called you and you said to get back to work already and so I did. I did exactly what you told me to. I did my job. But the next day he said I wasn't enough. That maybe Sam would be better at it and I'm sorry, Dad, but that's not gonna happen. Sam stays out of this. He doesn't- you don't let anyone touch him, are we clear?"
Holy fuck. Nausea roiled up in his gut, heavy, and the taste of sick lashed against the back of his tongue.
"And that's when you got Sam and made it here?" It took an effort to make his mouth form the words.
Dean sniffed, tone still angry but his eyes had never been able to hide his true self. Not from his family. What they reflected was a hell of a lot worse than just outrage or even pure pain. "Beat the crap out of him for suggesting it and stole his car first."
"Good," John tried and his voice broke in the middle. "Dean-"
He stumbled a half step forward and reached out, but Dean shied away, skittering back. John swallowed and then tried once more. When he moved forward again, Dean's face fell from anger into resigned dispassion and fuck, that wasn't what John wanted, but he was a selfish man, he knew that he was, and he needed, needed right at that second to have his son in his arms.
Dean went stock still when he finally managed to pull him in close, a slip thin figure whose body hadn't caught up completely with his height. Not yet. Not as noticeable as Sam, but Christ in Heaven, his boy was still young. Still so painfully, terribly young.
"Listen to me," he said and he could hear his own voice trembling, but right that second he didn't give a flying fuck. "Listen to me, Dean. I didn't make any deals with Jones for that. I swear to God, I didn't."
Dean started at the words, tried to pull back, but John held on tighter and refused to let go.
"Listen. I would never, never, ask you to do that. He said he had honest work for you. Help with a case he was working on. I thought-" He choked off for a second. "Fuck, Dean."
"Dad?" Dean's voice shoke, and then his shoulders joined in a second later, a minute motion that could have been just a violent shiver if John didn't know better.
"Never. Anyone ever tell you that I tried, that I would..." It was hard to get the word out. "Sell you like that, you tell them to go to Hell. You tell them that I'll kill them."
And he would. Jones had put hands on his son.
He gripped Dean tight, feeling hot wetness escape from his eyes and trickle down his face, and a moment later Dean's hands came up to clench in the front of his jacket. Dean's forehead came down to rest against his shoulder and John pressed his eyes shut to try and block out the world.
The same deep feelings of shame and sorrow twined up from his gut, heavy and familiar as old friends. Christ, he'd been off fishing when Dean had, had-
He couldn't finish the thought. It was simply beyond him.
"You did good, son," He offered instead. "You got yourself and Sammy out of there. That was good."
It was a fucking lie. That Dean had ever thought that John would have, could have, approved this, it wasn't all right. It wasn't okay. It was wrong and twisted and how could he have failed so much, failed so hard as to think that Dean would ever have believed this to be acceptable?
"He didn't touch Sam," Dean's words were muffled, spoken more into the leather of his jacket than to John himself. "I made sure of it. I promise. He didn't- I didn't let him, Dad."
He wanted to be sick.
"That's good." One hand crept up to cradle the top of Dean's head, so tall now but still not quite John's height. He rested it there, heavy, as if he could keep somehow use it as a shield against all the horrors of the world, all the monsters who were all too human. "That's good."
It was a while before they could straighten themselves out enough to make it back in. He wanted to push harder, wanted to rage at Dean for ever thinking he'd demand that of him, but the anger flickered out in his belly before it could even begin. He was numb instead.
Dean retreated immediately as soon as they entered the house. John heard the pipes creak a moment later as a shower started up somewhere. Sam had been waiting, tense and pinched all together, but he didn't say a word to John, just hesitated a second and then trailed on up after Dean. He wouldn't follow his brother into the bathroom. Probably not. Not if he knew what was good for him. But he'd lurk right outside the door when Dean emerged.
Just as well. John was fucking up all over the place today. Might as well let someone else give it a shot, see if they could provide comfort where John kept failing.
Bobby glanced over at him, gaze carefully neutral. He was at the stove, stirring something that might have been food or might have been for one of his spells.
Witchcraft and lore. He should have sucked it up and sent the boys here instead. They could have learned plenty, no matter how bad the argument had been the last time John and Bobby'd seen each other.
John kicked one of the benches out and half collapsed into it. The room was silent except for the scraping of a wooden spoon against the iron pot.
"You didn't listen." A glass clunked down in front of him. A moment later and it was half filled with the strong scent of Bobby's cheap ass whiskey. John stared at it dully.
"You stupid idiot," Bobby's voice was just as bland as his expression. "Drink up, you dumb fuck. You'll need it."
It took John a moment to comply. The glass was cool against his fingers in perfect counterpoint to the rush of fire down his throat as he tipped the shot back. When he dropped the glass again, Bobby didn't offer a refill.
"You know what happened?" The words were dull.
"You mean did Dean or Sam tell me what was going on? 'Course not. They're Winchesters. But I ain't quite as dumb as I look. I can guess."
John leaned forward, elbows locked and head resting against his deadened hands.
"Can they stay here?" It actually hurt to make the request, but he had some things he'd need to take care of. Best not to have an audience for it. "For a while, I mean."
"Don't think the boys would much appreciate that."
"Yeah, well, they don't need to be a part of this."
Bobby hmmed, a thick sound from the back of his throat. "You know you don't even got to ask."
"When'd they get here?" Each morning Dean had said. He needed to know how many days he was looking at.
"Last night, pretty late." Last night, and John had dropped them off six days ago. He'd gotten the call from Dean, Christ, it must have been three days back. Right, then.
John glanced up slightly and Bobby must have been able to read the silent pleading in them because he grudgingly went on a moment later. "They hitchhiked for most of the way, then walked in from town. Dean wasn't saying anything, but you just had to look at him to know something was wrong."
"And Sam?"
"Pissed off, as per usual. Worried. I don't know if he's got all the details, but he's a smart kid. He knows something's up. He keeps hovering over Dean like a momma bear."
John nodded, thoughts of the preparations he'd need to take starting to come over him. Jones wasn't an idiot. He would have had to have known that John would be after his ass as soon as the truth came out. He wasn't so stupid as to think that Dean wouldn't tell. He'd be laying low. It didn't matter. He couldn't lay low enough after this.
John sat in silent contemplation as the pipes groaned around him. There was plenty to think about.
He wound up leaving that night. He'd told Dean that there were some things he'd still needed to take care of for the hunt. Telling him the truth wouldn't have worked. He'd have tried to stop John from going. It wasn't the first time that John had hunted a human, but Dean didn't like it. Wouldn't understand it coming on his behalf. Better to just go and do what needed to be done and not stress him about it.
Still, he was pretty sure that Dean had figured it out by the look he got when he announced his departure. Dean didn't say anything though. It might have been a lie, and Dean might have known that it was a lie, but as long as they all pretended it was the truth, it seemed to be enough to keep the peace.
It was Sam who was waiting out on the hood of the Impala for him, dark hair whipping down over his face in the stiff chilly breeze. His eyes glittered demon dark, cold enough to burn.
"Sammy," John acknowledged. He let his hands rest in his pockets and waited.
Sam didn't even bother to correct the nickname. "I want to go with you."
"No." John's refusal was flat.
Sam nodded but his face hadn't lost that expression. For the first time, John looked at his son and realized that he could be dangerous. This wasn't a childish tantrum; it was adult fury - tempered and solid as steel.
"That it?"
"It wasn't just Jones," Sam looked directly at him as he spoke, watching with casual disinterest as John's world lurched sideways once more. "Dean wouldn't tell me what they were doing, what they were-" He struggled for a moment, then turned to one side and spat on the ground. "But it wasn't just Jones."
"How many?" He had to know. Had to know all the details so he could plan out the appropriate vengeance.
"He had a couple of friends. Paul Abrams and Cole Johnson."
John filed the names away carefully, letting them sink into the depths of his mind. "Anything else I should know?"
Sam shrugged. "Dean didn't say anything, but he was pretty banged up after... After that first night. I think... I think he fought back. I didn't figure it out until we'd left. I don't think Dean has even realized that I know."
They were silent for a moment, then John moved forward to clap a hand against his son's shoulder. "Keep an eye on your brother. You need anything - anything - you call me. You hear?"
Sam looked up at him from under the spiked fan of his lashes and John knew that he wanted to ask whether it would make a difference. Whether John would bother to pick up this time. But in the end, he kept his silence.
"Take care of them for us, Dad. I'll take care of Dean." He lurched up to his feet, and John felt a flicker of shock when he had to raise his chin up ever so slightly to meet his son's gaze. When had he gotten so tall?
"You do that. I'll be back soon." He watched as Sam moved away, back to the warmth and light of the house, long, coltish limbs bearing him with unconscious grace. He waited until Sam had made it inside and the door had banged shut again before slipping down into the Impala. She revved up under his touch, forgiving as always, and John moved onto the road. He left his boys behind and took shame as his copilot instead.
No matter. He'd do what needed to be done. There was time enough to worry about how Dean could ever have thought he'd approve of that, time enough to worry about the flicker of suppressed violence in Sam's face. Time enough to contemplate exactly how badly he'd messed up with his oldest two, and how much damage he was sure to do to his youngest in good time. Time enough to set things right, or as right as they ever were in their world.
Right now, he had a job to do and there were some monsters that needed to be hunted.
~*~
As a final note, I do like John. He made a mistake here because he was exhausted and allowed his irritation to get the better of him. A factor involved here is that it's coming up on the 15th anniversary of Mary's death and my John doesn't do well on November 2nd any year. A big anniversary like that is going to put him even more on edge than usual. He wouldn't be quite this short sighted if it weren't for these other factors ganging up on him. So don't hate me, John!fans? He's really quite spiffy, I promise, he's just going through a really rough time right here.
This theme in general is one that I'm uncomfortable with writing and I'm still not sure I've done it justice here. If I have not done so, then please accept my apologies. This is one of those stories that has been nagging at me ever since I wrote the other ficlet in May 2009 and I just had to get it out. If you have a moment to spare though, whether you liked it or hated it, I would very much appreciate hearing your thoughts.
Author: Ginzai
Genre/Characters: Gen, hurt/comfort, John, Dean, Sam, Bobby
Word Count: ~5750
Timeline: Preseries. Dean is 19, Sam 15, and Adam ~8.
Warnings: Contains explicit foul language and references to violence, sexual violence, and prostitution. Also hurt!Dean, which is sadly kind of a given in my stories. Slight AU in that John here found out about Adam years before he did in canon.
Notes: So several months ago, I wrote a short story where John's refusal to take action resulted in Dean having to take desperate measures in order to provide for himself and Sam while John was away. It was a prompt response to a specific set up and never really fit with what I saw John as doing if that scenario ever came up. When a similar sounding prompt came up recently, I wanted to try my hand at a more in character take. Hopefully, that's what has resulted.
Summary: John's attempt to catch a few stolen moments of peace wind up costing him far more than he can bear.
~*~
The hunt was over faster than he'd expectd. Rare thing, that; John was more used to hunts that stretched out an extra day or ten then anything actually working in his favor, but it turned out that it was just a sprite and not a redcap. Sprites were easy enough to appease. They just wanted some attention and weren't too smart about when the humans they took to play with were ready to be done. Or just done; two had died before John had been able to give them a small gift of milk and honey to send them scurrying back underhill.
Milk and fucking honey. It was a fucking joke.
But if it meant no other deaths, then he wouldn't complain. He stayed an extra day, just to be sure, but the small town of Olsbrook, Iowa stayed calm and quiet, so he packed up and headed back east. Just one stop to make, and then he could go and collect his boys.
Dean had been pissed off that he'd been left behind and Sam hadn't been much better. Neither of them particularly liked Gerald Jones and the crew that he ran with, but John had hunted with Jones before and knew the man had a deft hand at research and specialty in witch lore. He'd left his boys there with the hope that they might pick something of it up. Every little bit helped. Jones had seemed interested in allowing the boys to earn their keep and a bit of research in exchange for two weeks' room and board wouldn't hurt anyone, even if it did mean that John had to put up with Dean's complaints at the enforced study session.
Besides, Jim was out of the country and John and Bobby were on the outs again. Money was tight, tighter than usual. Keeping up separate motel rooms for the two weeks he'd thought it would take for this job would have been rough. Then there was the matter of Dean's busted arm and Sam's bruised up face, courtesy of their last hunt. CPS had already started sniffing around and for all that Dean was finally legal (if not as legal as his fake ID claimed), John didn't want to take his chances with those sorts of injuries. Better to hightail it out of there.
He could have taken them with him. Thought about it, but there was another reason to leave his sons behind and it had everything to do with the family secret that not even Sam and Dean knew about.
John hadn't seen Adam in almost six months. He'd already let two of his boys down and had been a piss poor father to the third. The desire to spend just a few days in town with his youngest had been growing in his bones for weeks.
The short hunt just seemed serendipitous. Like a sign from above.
Later, John would think back on those words and want to throttle something. He was a Winchester. He should have known better than to believe that he could have something good without paying for it elsewhere.
The call came in just as he was getting off the highway to Windom. John glanced at the phone and debated picking up, then shrugged and dismissed it. He had voicemail. He even knew how to use it, thanks to Sam's guidance. Whoever it was could wait.
Adam's thrilled welcome helped to offset Kate's somewhat more sour reception, but that was fair enough. His own damn fault for not calling first, but after the way things had been going recently, John hadn't liked the odds of her telling him not to come if he'd given anything resembling fair warning. She gave him a distinctly unimpressed look, arms folded over her chest like another blonde woman he'd once known, and he'd had to swallow sharply at the sight. Best not to think about it.
Instead he took his youngest boy fishing, showed him how to put a worm in place without it falling right off again and tried not to grin at his disgusted face when its guts leaked out around the hook. The twist to his expression looked so much like Sam when he was younger that it hit him again like another punch to the gut.
Fuck it. He was letting Dean and Sam down with each second that he spent here, each stolen moment where he could pretend that he wasn't a hunter, that he was just a regular father out on a daytrip with his regular son, but for now, for just a few minutes, he could breathe. And it had been such a long, long time since he'd been in the company of the innocent. He just needed a little longer.
Kate offered to put him up that night but he abstained as politely as he could manage. It would have been too hard on Adam, not to mention on Kate who he knew harbored hopes that shouldn't be encouraged. He'd never said anything about them. He might have his faults, but he wasn't a hypocrite.
When he checked the phone that night, there were three messages waiting. He groaned, not wanting to deal with any of them. A couple of days more. That's all he wanted.
But that wasn't what he was getting and John wasn't a whiner, content to bitch and moan at fate, dragging his feet along to avoid doing his duty. He picked up the cell and jabbed the numbers in with a bit more force than was strictly necessary to connect to his messages.
The first was from Caleb, nothing unusual there. Needed advice on lore for a ghast. John had tackled one of those in '93 and it wouldn't hurt anything to pass some knowledge along. He made a mental note to refresh himself on the data from his journal and call back in the morning.
The other two were the problem. They were both from Dean, he recognized the number from the second cell phone that he'd finally caved in to purchase last year. No message was left for the first one. The second was just a terse "Dad, call me back."
It was enough to piss off the Good Humor Man. Dean knew better than to bother him when he was on a hunt. Knew better than to distract him unless it was a real emergency and if it had been one, he wouldn't have been pussyfooting around. He'd have told John the details straight up, as efficiently as he'd been taught fifteen years ago. It didn't matter that the hunt was over; Dean hadn't known that and the frustration at having this ever increasingly rare time interrupted slicked across his nerves.
John glanced at the clock. It was nearing midnight but that didn't mean much. Dean would be awake or he'd have the phone by him. He'd better have the phone by him if he knew what was good for him.
He dialed, flat irritation coloring each movement. Dean picked up midway through the second ring.
"Dad-" he said and he sounded tense. Annoyed. Well, he could join the club.
"Dean, what the hell is it?" He knew that his voice was gruffer than Dean probably deserved but dammit, being here in Windom with Kate and Adam was supposed to be a refuge. Dean was almost twenty now. He should be able to handle things by himself for a few days. Not like he hadn't been doing it for years already.
There was a pause on the other end of the line and then his eldest spoke up again. "Where are you at? I need to get me and Sam out of here."
A flash of something hot and dark flickered behind his eyes. "The hell you do. You're going to stay put."
Again a pause, then a cautious "Dad, you don't understand. Jones wants me to-"
He cut off, a note of something in his voice, but John was tired and the stress of having his regular life colliding with this sanctuary was just too much.
"Do what, Dean? Work for a bit? Do some honest labor?" He snorted. "Dammit, son, he ain't asking for anything you can't give, so give it already and let me get back to business."
Dean didn't respond and after a moment John added, "We clear?"
His tone was sharper than intended, ugly, and it jabbed a response.
"Yes," Dean said, voice somewhere between shocked and mutinous.
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, sir. We're clear."
And with that, John hung up, rolled over, and tried to get some sleep.
It wasn't until the end of the week that he got another call. Bobby Singer this time, just as surly as he'd been the last time John had spoken to the man, full of piss and vinegar.
"John, you'd better haul ass over to my place," the voicemail had said. "Yer boys are over here."
Which was just perfect, really. The flash of anger he'd felt when Dean had tried to weasel out of helping Jones ignited into a flare of actual rage before simmering down to bank in his bones, hot and furious. Damn Dean for running out on his responsibilities. And damn fucking Singer for giving him shelter.
He made his apologies to Kate, and then more sincerely and regretfully to Adam, who looked as pathetic as a half drowned puppy when he told him that his stay would have to be cut short.
"Got an emergency back home," he said, and Kate had nodded even as Adam's eyes filled up and started to brim. Just once it would have been nice to not make one of his boys cry. That was all he'd asked for. Would have been nice to get it, just this once.
It was a long drive to South Dakota. The radio was on the fritz, which meant that he had absolutely nothing to distract him from his increasingly dark thoughts. He had a temper. He'd always known he had a temper. What got him was that Dean knew he had a temper and he'd told his boy to stay put, dammit, and this blatant defiance was the reaction he got?
It was late afternoon when he pulled in, the autumn air crisp and cool, a tacit reminder that it was coming up on November again and the Winchesters' fifteenth anniversary of the start of his hunt. The only birthday that was ever celebrated anymore, and John intended to spend this year like he had all the rest, with the cold comfort that a half full bottle of Jack could provide. Maybe he'd get started on that a bit earlier than usual, if he was going to have a delayed outburst of teenage rebellion from Dean as his side dish.
The light was golden and thick, pooling like honey shimmered across Singer's graveyard of dead cars. John parked and tried to ignore the yowling of Bobby's current guard dog as he made his way across the gravel to pound on the front door.
Sam opened it a minute or so later. His son was getting taller; he had to be twice Adam's size now, slouched over and still almost as tall as John but still rake thin, no meat on his bones. He eyed John for a moment, then stepped aside. John stepped over the salted trench, then made his way past the devil's trap engraved on the ceiling. and into the kitchen proper Singer was a paranoid man, but what the hell. Whatever kept you alive.
"Where's your brother?" he grunted at Sam, who scowled at him.
"Upstairs. Asleep." Sleeping. Figured. John must have pulled a face because Sam huffed at him, an incredulous twist to his shoulders and an expression smeared across his face that wasn't too far removed to be a pout. Would have been a proper one, a couple of years back. "Leave him alone, Dad. He needs it."
"Why, he sick?" Dean being sick was probably the only thing that could have salvaged this whole situation, provided he was damn near on his death bed. Couldn't keep an eye out on Sam if he were ill.
"No," Sam snapped back. "How could you have left us there?"
"For fuck's sake, Sam," John growled and might have said something he regretted except that Singer trudged down the stairs at just that moment and sidled up to them. He looked tense, drawn in on himself, all coiled up like a snake on a hot grill.
"Winchester," He said and for all that his face was pinched in, his tone was remarkably even.
"Singer," John replied, knowing and not particularly caring that he sounded mulish. He had his own bones to pick with Singer.
"I've got to talk to you," Singer said. "About Dean."
"Funny, I wanted to talk to you about him as well but it'll need to wait a minute. You mind moving so I can get past you?"
"Why yes, actually," Looked like John hadn't been forgiven after their last blow out yet. Singer could do sarcasm with the best of them, really. It was easy enough to forget until you got on the wrong end of his sharpened tongue. "Because this sure as shit is important and you've got to sit your stubborn ass down and listen to me for once."
"The hell I do," John's voice raised up a notch and he took a half step forward. Singer didn't back down an inch. He pulled himself up to his full height, eyes snapping and face flushed.
"You stupid, arrogant sonnovabitch. Get your head out of your ass for once in your bleeding life-" he hissed right at the same moment that Sam started to try and talk over them, considerably louder than either adult.
"Dad?"
And there was the source of the trouble. John turned his head to glare at his eldest, tall and slender as he stood in the doorway heading up to the stairs.
Bobby cursed once under his breath and then fell silent.
"Step outside with me for a minute."
"Dad," Sam tried again, "You need to-"
Thankfully Dean shut him up, a quick, terse shake to his head as he grabbed a jacket and headed towards the door. He had to brush by John on the way and John refused to step aside to make it easier for him.
"You listen to your son," Singer said, "Don't just-"
"I'll decide what's best for my son," John snapped. "Sam, get your stuff packed. We're leaving in five."
Sam looked like he wanted to protest again, never had known when to just roll with things and make it easier for himself, but John didn't stand around to wait and find out. He stepped outside again and let the door bang shut after him.
Dean was waiting for him, turned away and leaning over the closed hood of the Impala. He looked stiff, worried. Well, good. He had something to be worried about.
"You want to tell me," John said quietly, "what the hell was going through your mind?"
Dean straightened up, green eyes wide as they met John's own. "Dad-" he started, but John didn't hesitate to cut him off again.
"Did I not tell you to stay there?"
Dean's mouth moved for a moment, then he gritted his teeth and came to full attention. "Yessir."
"Then why the fuck are you here? Was it that much to ask that you contribute a bit to this family?"
Dean looked like he'd been slapped and John knew, distantly, that he'd regret saying that in the morning. That it was unfair, spectacularly so, but it wasn't morning yet and his ire was up and running fast and hot.
Dean's mouth was pressed in a firm line, almost white in the gathering twilight. "I did it, sir. I gave Jones what he wanted."
"So what was the problem?" John's arms fell open, wide and questioning, like the entire junkyard was under interrogation.
"It wasn't enough-" Dean looked down, gaze distant and tight, somewhere in the vicinity of John's knees. "What I was doing, Jones said it wasn't good enough."
"Well, how hard could it have been?" John couldn't help the words from flooding out. Research had never been Dean's preference. Getting him to buckle down and study something from texts had always been difficult, even if the boy was damn good at it when he put his mind to the task. Christ, it was like high school all over again.
Dean swallowed hard. "I tried, okay? I couldn't just-" But he didn't finish the sentence and John was getting pretty damned tired of people trailing off in the middle of a thought.
He shook his head, disappointment flickering in behind the anger now. "I didn't think it was that much to ask, Dean. Jones is a valuable contact; I thought you'd learn something from him."
That got a twitch from his son. "What? You mean so I could do it again?" There was a vaguely horrified tinge to his tone.
John snorted. "It's not like it was so much to ask."
"You really-" Dean managed, voice sounding tight. "You want me to-" His face twisted for a moment, a flare of disgust visible before fading again. Something jolted in John's chest at the sight of it, like a thrummed note sounding just out of tune.
Dean shook his head slowly. "Okay. Fine. If I have to, if that's what it'll take, then fine. But Dad," he looked up again, eyes pleading, "He wanted Sam to join in."
"So?" Sam excelled at research, he should have been over the moon to have an opportunity to get up close and personal with all that nonsense. There was something going on here, John could scent it. He pushed a little harder, trying to figure it out. "It's not like it would kill him to do some work himself."
John had perhaps a couple of seconds after that to watch the impact of his words on Dean, first shock and then a stricken look, and then a flash of ice cold fury but before he had really registered that he'd made a mistake, that they had to be talking about differnt things, his son's fist slammed itself into the side of his face. A white hot rush of pain engulfed his jaw and he staggered to one side to spit blood out onto the dust. Instinct had him ready for another blow, but Dean had pulled back out of reach, fully in a defensive posture and ready. It took a minute for the ringing in his ears to subside enough for him to catch the words Dean was spitting out at him, voice low and hot and sounding like it had been scraped up from the bottom of salt pit.
"Dad, I ever hear you say something like that again, I'll take Sam and we'll be gone. You won't find us, I swear to God. If one of us has to work-" his voice twisted with the word as though he was saying something dirty, "then I'll do it, but you leave Sam the fuck out of it. He doesn't know. He doesn't get involved. And he sure as hell isn't going back to Jones' place again. I don't care now valuable a contact he is."
John's initial flare of temper cut out as the words began to make sense. Except that they didn't make any sense at all because Dean would never react like this to just some research, working with hex bags and spell books and old burned up baby bones. Yeah, it was dangerous to mix it up with that shit but they did dangerous things all the time. This didn't compute.
He knew in his bones that something was very, very wrong before the possibility solidified in his mind.
"Dean," he said, calm as he could manage, "What the hell kind of work are we talking about here?"
Dean's glare was hot and furious, but behind the anger John could see for the first time a brittle sort of thing, dark and wounded and hurting.
"Dean," he tried again. "Tell me."
"What," Dean snapped, pulling back a step and shoving the fingers of one hand through his hair, "You really want all the dirty details, Dad? Want to make sure I gave them their money's worth?"
Oh no. Oh, no, no, no.
"Tell me." He didn't want to know. Didn't want to hear confirmation of the fear that had just scrambled his mind, but he sucked it up anyway and made the demand. No longer a request, but now an order and Dean knew the difference loud and clear.
"Jones had me suck him off," Dean said and the expressionless tone to his voice was worse than any accusation could ever have been, "But he said that I wasn't good enough at it, so I'd have to let him fuck me instead. Said that I needed practice so he told me to come to his room each morning to get a lesson in. Said that he was paying you good money for my services and that he'd have to demand a refund if I didn't get my act together."
All of the breath was gone from John's body. His chest had been carved open and his ribs were left hollow and empty, the world a distant, cold buzz.
"He said that you two had it all worked out. That we'd never have to worry about money again because he was gonna put you in contact with some of his friends so we'd always have a good customer base at the ready. I didn't believe him but I called you and you said to get back to work already and so I did. I did exactly what you told me to. I did my job. But the next day he said I wasn't enough. That maybe Sam would be better at it and I'm sorry, Dad, but that's not gonna happen. Sam stays out of this. He doesn't- you don't let anyone touch him, are we clear?"
Holy fuck. Nausea roiled up in his gut, heavy, and the taste of sick lashed against the back of his tongue.
"And that's when you got Sam and made it here?" It took an effort to make his mouth form the words.
Dean sniffed, tone still angry but his eyes had never been able to hide his true self. Not from his family. What they reflected was a hell of a lot worse than just outrage or even pure pain. "Beat the crap out of him for suggesting it and stole his car first."
"Good," John tried and his voice broke in the middle. "Dean-"
He stumbled a half step forward and reached out, but Dean shied away, skittering back. John swallowed and then tried once more. When he moved forward again, Dean's face fell from anger into resigned dispassion and fuck, that wasn't what John wanted, but he was a selfish man, he knew that he was, and he needed, needed right at that second to have his son in his arms.
Dean went stock still when he finally managed to pull him in close, a slip thin figure whose body hadn't caught up completely with his height. Not yet. Not as noticeable as Sam, but Christ in Heaven, his boy was still young. Still so painfully, terribly young.
"Listen to me," he said and he could hear his own voice trembling, but right that second he didn't give a flying fuck. "Listen to me, Dean. I didn't make any deals with Jones for that. I swear to God, I didn't."
Dean started at the words, tried to pull back, but John held on tighter and refused to let go.
"Listen. I would never, never, ask you to do that. He said he had honest work for you. Help with a case he was working on. I thought-" He choked off for a second. "Fuck, Dean."
"Dad?" Dean's voice shoke, and then his shoulders joined in a second later, a minute motion that could have been just a violent shiver if John didn't know better.
"Never. Anyone ever tell you that I tried, that I would..." It was hard to get the word out. "Sell you like that, you tell them to go to Hell. You tell them that I'll kill them."
And he would. Jones had put hands on his son.
He gripped Dean tight, feeling hot wetness escape from his eyes and trickle down his face, and a moment later Dean's hands came up to clench in the front of his jacket. Dean's forehead came down to rest against his shoulder and John pressed his eyes shut to try and block out the world.
The same deep feelings of shame and sorrow twined up from his gut, heavy and familiar as old friends. Christ, he'd been off fishing when Dean had, had-
He couldn't finish the thought. It was simply beyond him.
"You did good, son," He offered instead. "You got yourself and Sammy out of there. That was good."
It was a fucking lie. That Dean had ever thought that John would have, could have, approved this, it wasn't all right. It wasn't okay. It was wrong and twisted and how could he have failed so much, failed so hard as to think that Dean would ever have believed this to be acceptable?
"He didn't touch Sam," Dean's words were muffled, spoken more into the leather of his jacket than to John himself. "I made sure of it. I promise. He didn't- I didn't let him, Dad."
He wanted to be sick.
"That's good." One hand crept up to cradle the top of Dean's head, so tall now but still not quite John's height. He rested it there, heavy, as if he could keep somehow use it as a shield against all the horrors of the world, all the monsters who were all too human. "That's good."
It was a while before they could straighten themselves out enough to make it back in. He wanted to push harder, wanted to rage at Dean for ever thinking he'd demand that of him, but the anger flickered out in his belly before it could even begin. He was numb instead.
Dean retreated immediately as soon as they entered the house. John heard the pipes creak a moment later as a shower started up somewhere. Sam had been waiting, tense and pinched all together, but he didn't say a word to John, just hesitated a second and then trailed on up after Dean. He wouldn't follow his brother into the bathroom. Probably not. Not if he knew what was good for him. But he'd lurk right outside the door when Dean emerged.
Just as well. John was fucking up all over the place today. Might as well let someone else give it a shot, see if they could provide comfort where John kept failing.
Bobby glanced over at him, gaze carefully neutral. He was at the stove, stirring something that might have been food or might have been for one of his spells.
Witchcraft and lore. He should have sucked it up and sent the boys here instead. They could have learned plenty, no matter how bad the argument had been the last time John and Bobby'd seen each other.
John kicked one of the benches out and half collapsed into it. The room was silent except for the scraping of a wooden spoon against the iron pot.
"You didn't listen." A glass clunked down in front of him. A moment later and it was half filled with the strong scent of Bobby's cheap ass whiskey. John stared at it dully.
"You stupid idiot," Bobby's voice was just as bland as his expression. "Drink up, you dumb fuck. You'll need it."
It took John a moment to comply. The glass was cool against his fingers in perfect counterpoint to the rush of fire down his throat as he tipped the shot back. When he dropped the glass again, Bobby didn't offer a refill.
"You know what happened?" The words were dull.
"You mean did Dean or Sam tell me what was going on? 'Course not. They're Winchesters. But I ain't quite as dumb as I look. I can guess."
John leaned forward, elbows locked and head resting against his deadened hands.
"Can they stay here?" It actually hurt to make the request, but he had some things he'd need to take care of. Best not to have an audience for it. "For a while, I mean."
"Don't think the boys would much appreciate that."
"Yeah, well, they don't need to be a part of this."
Bobby hmmed, a thick sound from the back of his throat. "You know you don't even got to ask."
"When'd they get here?" Each morning Dean had said. He needed to know how many days he was looking at.
"Last night, pretty late." Last night, and John had dropped them off six days ago. He'd gotten the call from Dean, Christ, it must have been three days back. Right, then.
John glanced up slightly and Bobby must have been able to read the silent pleading in them because he grudgingly went on a moment later. "They hitchhiked for most of the way, then walked in from town. Dean wasn't saying anything, but you just had to look at him to know something was wrong."
"And Sam?"
"Pissed off, as per usual. Worried. I don't know if he's got all the details, but he's a smart kid. He knows something's up. He keeps hovering over Dean like a momma bear."
John nodded, thoughts of the preparations he'd need to take starting to come over him. Jones wasn't an idiot. He would have had to have known that John would be after his ass as soon as the truth came out. He wasn't so stupid as to think that Dean wouldn't tell. He'd be laying low. It didn't matter. He couldn't lay low enough after this.
John sat in silent contemplation as the pipes groaned around him. There was plenty to think about.
He wound up leaving that night. He'd told Dean that there were some things he'd still needed to take care of for the hunt. Telling him the truth wouldn't have worked. He'd have tried to stop John from going. It wasn't the first time that John had hunted a human, but Dean didn't like it. Wouldn't understand it coming on his behalf. Better to just go and do what needed to be done and not stress him about it.
Still, he was pretty sure that Dean had figured it out by the look he got when he announced his departure. Dean didn't say anything though. It might have been a lie, and Dean might have known that it was a lie, but as long as they all pretended it was the truth, it seemed to be enough to keep the peace.
It was Sam who was waiting out on the hood of the Impala for him, dark hair whipping down over his face in the stiff chilly breeze. His eyes glittered demon dark, cold enough to burn.
"Sammy," John acknowledged. He let his hands rest in his pockets and waited.
Sam didn't even bother to correct the nickname. "I want to go with you."
"No." John's refusal was flat.
Sam nodded but his face hadn't lost that expression. For the first time, John looked at his son and realized that he could be dangerous. This wasn't a childish tantrum; it was adult fury - tempered and solid as steel.
"That it?"
"It wasn't just Jones," Sam looked directly at him as he spoke, watching with casual disinterest as John's world lurched sideways once more. "Dean wouldn't tell me what they were doing, what they were-" He struggled for a moment, then turned to one side and spat on the ground. "But it wasn't just Jones."
"How many?" He had to know. Had to know all the details so he could plan out the appropriate vengeance.
"He had a couple of friends. Paul Abrams and Cole Johnson."
John filed the names away carefully, letting them sink into the depths of his mind. "Anything else I should know?"
Sam shrugged. "Dean didn't say anything, but he was pretty banged up after... After that first night. I think... I think he fought back. I didn't figure it out until we'd left. I don't think Dean has even realized that I know."
They were silent for a moment, then John moved forward to clap a hand against his son's shoulder. "Keep an eye on your brother. You need anything - anything - you call me. You hear?"
Sam looked up at him from under the spiked fan of his lashes and John knew that he wanted to ask whether it would make a difference. Whether John would bother to pick up this time. But in the end, he kept his silence.
"Take care of them for us, Dad. I'll take care of Dean." He lurched up to his feet, and John felt a flicker of shock when he had to raise his chin up ever so slightly to meet his son's gaze. When had he gotten so tall?
"You do that. I'll be back soon." He watched as Sam moved away, back to the warmth and light of the house, long, coltish limbs bearing him with unconscious grace. He waited until Sam had made it inside and the door had banged shut again before slipping down into the Impala. She revved up under his touch, forgiving as always, and John moved onto the road. He left his boys behind and took shame as his copilot instead.
No matter. He'd do what needed to be done. There was time enough to worry about how Dean could ever have thought he'd approve of that, time enough to worry about the flicker of suppressed violence in Sam's face. Time enough to contemplate exactly how badly he'd messed up with his oldest two, and how much damage he was sure to do to his youngest in good time. Time enough to set things right, or as right as they ever were in their world.
Right now, he had a job to do and there were some monsters that needed to be hunted.
~*~
As a final note, I do like John. He made a mistake here because he was exhausted and allowed his irritation to get the better of him. A factor involved here is that it's coming up on the 15th anniversary of Mary's death and my John doesn't do well on November 2nd any year. A big anniversary like that is going to put him even more on edge than usual. He wouldn't be quite this short sighted if it weren't for these other factors ganging up on him. So don't hate me, John!fans? He's really quite spiffy, I promise, he's just going through a really rough time right here.
This theme in general is one that I'm uncomfortable with writing and I'm still not sure I've done it justice here. If I have not done so, then please accept my apologies. This is one of those stories that has been nagging at me ever since I wrote the other ficlet in May 2009 and I just had to get it out. If you have a moment to spare though, whether you liked it or hated it, I would very much appreciate hearing your thoughts.