Fic: Imperfectly, 1/3 (SPN: Wincest)
Title: Imperfectly (Chapter 1 of 3; completed)
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG13 this chapter; NC17 overall
Genre: Plotty Wincest
Pairing/Characters: Sam/Dean
Disclaimer: All the property of people not me
Beta: parenthetical has gone the extra million miles betaing this fic. Without her encouragement and support I never would've written it at all, and her amazing attention to detail has transformed my writing. Needless to say, any remaining errors are my own.
Summary: We get a little further from perfection each year on the road.
Future fic: 5 years hence. Sam and Dean are still learning how to go on living.
Author's notes: The idea for this fic was originally sparked off by Ani DiFranco's song 'Imperfectly', from which I have taken the title and the line in the summary, although it's not a 'songfic'. When I started writing I thought it would be a short oneshot... not sure what happened there! Our boys just took over.
Feedback is very welcome!
They don't show up at the Roadhouse too often these days. There aren't many people around who knew them back in the old days - demon hunters aren't a long-lived crew - but Ellen and Jo know them pretty damn well, and most times that's just weird. Jo's hooked up with someone now - well, she hooked up with several someones, but the one she's got at the moment seems like he's fixing to stay - and has a couple of kids. She's still working the bar more often than not, though, and that 'guy she never fucked' itch still wants scratching when it comes to Dean. That, coupled with the fact that she and Ellen both know all about Sam and Dean and their family, means they tend not to go there too often. After everything that happened with the Demon, it's hard to keep a low profile on the hunting circuit, but it's been long enough and the story is fantastical enough that the Winchester boys have part-faded into legend. Fact has blended with rumour until the truth's so uncertain they can mostly blur it where it suits them. Not with Ellen, though, who never was the kind of lady who'd stand for any blurring, even on the things that didn't really matter.
They have enough of an understanding with the Roadhouse folks, though, that when they find themselves bloody and bruised after an encounter with a kurrag just 50 miles down the road from the saloon, they don't hesitate for more than a moment before heading there. Turning up the road to the saloon, Dean realises it's been more than a year since they last came this way. He tells himself that's not so long, but he knows they've both been more than usually slow to suggest showing their faces.
The sun's just coming up by the time they've driven over there. The bar door's standing propped open, but when Dean strides in no one's there. Sam slinks in after him, and Dean can see him flinching in anticipation of a greeting, then looking relieved when he sees the room is empty. Dean almost flinches himself at the sight, but he can't let Sammy see that on his face.
'Whisky breakfast, Sammy boy?' he says instead, voice coming out just this side of too loud and cheerful.
Sam doesn't seem to notice, though: he just rolls his eyes and says, 'I'll stick with orange juice, I think. And don't go messing about behind the bar; you know Ellen will have your head if you do.'
'Truer words were never spoken,' Ellen's voice rings out from behind them, and they turn to see her in the doorway, mail in one hand and a bucket of something unidentifiable in the other.
'Bart's dropping by this afternoon,' she says when Dean raises one eyebrow at the bucket. 'Needs some cow guts for bait.' Then she catches sight of Sam's face as he turns reflexively to pay better attention to the conversation, and her voice changes. 'Oh, Sam,' she says sadly, and Dean sees Sam flinch again at the pity in her voice. The silence stretches out for a moment, and then Ellen's her usual brisk self again, asking what happened the way she's always demanded reports on their news. Sam's voice is calm and matter-of-fact as he explains their fight with the snaketail. 'At least it missed my eye,' he says as he always does, and Dean knows that he'll be OK with Ellen now. It's only the first moments of a meeting which worry Sam, the part where he has to watch people's shock and sympathy and wonder whether they're going to make a big deal out of it. Then he slips back into being as relaxed and easy as he's always been.
Dean wishes he could do the same.
That's the real reason they've stayed away from the Roadhouse so long this time - because it's easier to be around people who didn't know Sam at all, before. People like Ellen are especially hard: she knew their dad, and Dean feels like any second now she's going to ask him one of the millions of questions he can't answer, accuse him of failing John, or of being like him.
In truth, there's barely any chance of Ellen doing any of those things: she knew John Winchester, good and bad, and doesn't expect his boys to be any more or less imperfect than he was. Dean still hears his dad's voice, though, when they're around his friends, and it doesn't help him feel any less guilty about what's happened with Sammy.
Oh well.
'Ash around, Ellen?' he asks.
'In back,' she says, and continues her conversation with Sam.
Dean heads out beyond the bar, into the poky corridor that leads into the living quarters.
'He won't thank you for waking him up,' Sam calls after him.
Dean flips him the bird and keeps heading for Ash's room. It's true that it's a bit early to be banging on his door - Ash probably only went to bed a couple of hours ago - but Dean's not planning on winning any prizes for Mr. Social Graces 2012. He does knock on Ash's door, though, rather than hammering the way he usually does. To his surprise, the door pops open straight away and Ash peers warily out, half-obscured by a wave of dope smoke. Less surprisingly, he's naked from the waist up, but - Dean notes with relief - he is wearing pants.
'Dean, my man! Long time no see! C'mon in and join the party!'
Ash never seems to change, no matter how long they leave it between visits. He has the same ratty mullet and the same young-old face set on top of his scrawny roadie body. Dean finds him soothing: even though his scarily souped-up brain leaves even geek-boy Sam's in the dust, he sticks to the same restful routine of drinking and sleeping and listening to the greatest hits of seventies rock. His mind might be jumping around like a grasshopper on steroids, but he's always happy to apply it to whatever they're currently researching and he never asks questions Dean doesn't want to answer.
'Hey, dude, good to see you! I was thinking of you a couple of months back - we were fighting this peyotl demon out in Mexico and I swear it had your hairstyle.'
'A demon with taste, man, who knew?' Ash casts a nervous eye up the corridor for any sign that Ellen's about to swoop down and ask him to do some work, before opening the door wide enough to let Dean in.
Dean shakes his head at the memory. 'Shit, I tell you, that was a crazy few days. Beats me why people take acid, I can tell you that much.' He follows Ash into the room and accepts his offer of a spliff. Normally he wouldn't indulge - weed's too risky, slows him down too much - but this is a safe place as places go, and they can hang here for a day or so. Anyway, it's pretty much a moot point, given that you could probably get stoned just by breathing in here. He kicks back and stares up at the mandala painted on Ash's ceiling. He hasn't slept for months, not properly, but lulled by the dope and the strains of 'Hell or Heaven' drifting up from Ash's tinny little speakers he feels himself drifting off. Sam'll hang with Ellen for a few hours; they can come looking if they need him.
'Hell or Heaven' finishes and the record moves on to the slightly less soothing notes of 'Mad Hatter', but Dean's out for the count.
Someone hammers on the door and Dean wakes up with a start. Ash is gone, and since he never opens his blackout blinds Dean can't get any clue to the time from the sun. He sits up and feels his head spin a bit - he can't have been out that long if he's still in the drifty part of stoned rather than the twitchy not-headache he usually has the morning after. He stumbles to the door and opens it. Sam pushes in at the same moment and Dean stumbles and almost falls on his ass. He sits back down on the bed instead.
'Clumsy, dude, losing your edge,' Sam laughs, then stops when Dean blinks and ducks his head away. 'Sorry, man, were you sleeping? I wish I'd known, I would've left you be.'
Sam hasn't missed the fact that Dean hasn't been getting a lot of shut-eye, however hard Dean's tried to hide it. They've both been pretty twitchy since Sam's... accident, and Dean's been doing all the driving. Sam rests his hand on the back of Dean's neck, warm against his skin, and Dean leans into the touch for a second before pulling away.
'Nah, time I woke up anyway, I'm starved. Haven't you ladies had time to cook me up some delicious feast?'
Sam swats at Dean lightly with the back of his hand, but laughs good-humouredly.
'That's what I was coming to tell you: Ellen's making pancakes. She says we better get out there quick before the kids come and eat the lot.'
They head out through the bar and back towards Ellen's kitchen, Dean blinking in the bright mid-morning light. When they get there Jo's two boys are already seated, staring intently at the maple syrup and chocolate chips set in the middle of the table. Dean's guiltily reminded of how long it's been since they last stopped by here when he realises that the chubby toddler in the highchair is Harvey, the tiny baby they saw on their last visit.
Eyes on the food, Sam makes hastily for the empty seats across from the kids, but Dean's arrested for a moment by the way the light falls across the kitchen, casting the table and the kids in a rosy glow like something out of a magazine.
'Jordy, you remember Sam and Dean, don't you?' Ellen says, turning from the stove with a platter of pancakes stacked high as her chin. She catches the whiff of weed coming from Dean as she passes and gives him a disapproving look, but doesn't comment.
'Yes,' says the older boy, eyes still on the chocolate chips.
'"Yes" what?' Ellen demands, setting the platter down next to Sam, just out of the little boy's reach.
'Yes, ma'am,' Jordy replies meekly, turning to face his grandmother.
Sensing that everyone's attention is elsewhere, the baby, Harvey, makes a spirited attempt to reach the maple syrup. Dean notices just in time that the kid's managed to wriggle out of the straps of his highchair and leans forward to catch him.
'Thanks, Dean,' Ellen says. 'He's a terror for doing that, it's his latest trick.'
Dean bends to tighten the straps back up. 'No problem. I remember Sammy was just the same at that age. Jeez, we had an awful time keeping him in the car seat. Dad used to post me next to him with orders to keep tying him up as fast as he could get out. I remember he did it fifteen times on the road between Topeka and Kansas City - damn, but that was a long journey.'
Sam rolls his eyes as he always does when Dean talks about when they were kids. 'Yeah, yeah, I was the craziest toddler in fifty states. Don't get him started, Ellen, or he'll be showing you the baby photos next.'
'Dude, no one wants to see that ugly a baby,' Dean shoots back, struggling with the buckles, which seem a lot more complicated than the ones they used to have on Sam's old highchair. He's still fiddling with them when Jo sweeps in through the back door and sits herself down.
'Hi, guys,' she says. Her eyes linger on Sam's scar for a moment, but she doesn't look too shocked or ask any questions, so Dean figures Ellen's already filled her in.
He finishes buckling Harvey back into the chair and looks around for a seat. He's not too pleased to realise that Jo's taken the chair to Sammy's left, the position Dean always takes these days. He has the choice of sitting down next to Jo, or squishing in between the two kids. Tempting as this second option is, he figures he'll leave Ellen the grandmotherly delights of chopping up bits of pancake and being smeared with maple syrup.
Sam's eyeing the pancakes with almost as much intensity as the kids, but he and Dean both know better than to reach for anything on the table before Ellen's said grace. Dean doesn't quite get Ellen's insistence on observing the religious proprieties, because in his opinion anyone who's seen all the decidedly non-angelic things that are out there can have no illusions about the idea there's any divine power looking out for people. It's one thing to use holy water and the invocatio and all the rest, but it's strictly business as far as Dean's concerned. Still, he guesses it's all part and parcel of the way Ellen runs a tight ship, akin to the Marine routines Dad used to make them run through when they were kids. Dean figures maybe all families have their own rituals - it doesn't much matter what they are, as long as you stick close to your own.
Finally grace is done and Ellen dishes out the pancakes. They're really good, and for a while there's mostly silence while they all apply themselves to the meal - or as much silence as is possible when you have a two-year-old and a five-year-old at the table. Ellen's kept pretty busy feeding the kids; Dean keeps an eye out too, and from time to time he reaches out to stop Harvey toppling his milk or plunging a chubby hand into the chocolate chips. The kid really does remind him of Sam at the same age: same single-minded determination to get into everything and taste whatever he can get his hands on.
Eventually Jo finishes up her pancakes and clears her throat. 'So, it's been a while since we've seen you guys. You staying long?'
Dean's eyes meet Sam's for a second before he says, 'Maybe a week. We've been up by Kenton the past couple of weeks, tracking a kurrag, and we're both pretty beat. I'd like to spend a bit of time on the car, too - been neglecting my girl.'
Sam swallows a big bite of pancake and says, 'Is that OK with you, ladies? We can easily find a motel if you've got a full house.'
Syrup drips down his chin, and Dean reflects that he's not that far different from his days of busting out of highchairs. In some ways, anyhow.
'Of course,' Jo says. 'Stay as long as you like. You can give Jordy here a bit of training in target practice, if you want to earn your keep.'
Dean sees Sam wince. He notices Ellen doesn't look all that happy either - she never was that keen on Jo getting involved in hunting, and he figures that she's not really on board with training the kids so young. Still, they're Jo's kids, so it's her decision, and the way Dean sees it it's better to start early. He's beyond thinking you can pick and choose whether you join the fight or not, so you might as well know how to defend yourself.
He still remembers the first time he fired a gun at something. He was six years old; they were staying with Pastor Jim while Dad was off on a hunt. Jim was out somewhere on the grounds with Sammy, leaving Dean alone in the house, and Dean was seized with the desire to explore. He'd been in the weapons store plenty of times before, but he'd never actually had the chance to have a really good look at Pastor Jim's arsenal. So - he sneaked down there and poked through everything he could find. Most of the weapons were locked away, but Pastor Jim had left a pistol out on the table with the cleaning stuff and a couple of cartridges. Dean was pretty fascinated - Dad had shown him how to clean and load a gun, but he never left weapons out where Dean or Sam could get hold of them - and he went through the whole routine as best he could remember. He'd just gotten the thing loaded up and was dreamily practising sighting down the barrel, the way he'd seen Dad do, when he heard a noise and glimpsed a movement at the window. He jumped about a mile out of his skin and fired the pistol in the general direction of the window before he even had time to think. The window broke, and the recoil hit him so hard that he was left too stunned to move, never mind fire again. Just as well that the movement at the window turned out to be Dad, back from his hunting trip early, and not some kind of creature hell-bent on killing them all.
Dad had whupped his ass for touching things without permission, then ruffled his hair and said, 'You did good, for your first time. We'll have to see about getting you some training'.
So yeah, Sammy can have the moral scruples about making kids into warriors. Dean will go with the target practice, thanks all the same. It's saved both their asses plenty of times.
Not enough times, though, he thinks in the back of his mind. He squashes it down and helps himself to another pancake.
'Sleep first,' he says. 'Two hours passed out on Ash's bed doesn't do it for me these days.'
Dean and Sam bunk down in the room they usually use at the Roadhouse. It's pretty basic - bare walls and skinny single beds so short that Sam's legs hang half off the end. Still, the fight of the previous day - and the months of not sleeping - has left them both exhausted. With the noonday sun blazing down outside and bellies full of pancakes, it's easy to fall asleep.
Dean wakes up about mid-afternoon, the shadows lengthening across the room. Sam's still asleep, snoring slightly, and Dean considers waking him so that he won't be too antsy when night falls. Then he reflects that Sam's probably tired enough to sleep right through to the next morning, and even if he's not, sleep is too difficult for them to come by these days to interrupt it for no real reason. So Dean scoops up his clothes and tiptoes out to the hall, figuring he can dress in the bathroom after he's taken a much-needed shower. He pauses next to Sammy's bed on the way out, watching his brother sleep. Sam's curled on his side, trying to keep as much of himself on the bed as possible, and the hurt side of his face is turned in, towards the pillow. When he's lying like this, undamaged cheek bathed in the late-afternoon sun, it's easy to imagine that he's unscathed. Dean can't let himself forget the truth, though, and his hand hovers for a moment over Sam's hair before he turns regretfully towards the door.
After his shower, Dean heads outside to the Impala. There's no one in sight, although he can hear Harvey and Jordy playing somewhere off beyond the house and knows that Ellen or Jo will be with them. It doesn't matter - Dean's in the mood for some time to himself and they won't mind him helping himself to a few supplies. Plenty of hunters take the opportunity to tune up their rides when they stop by the Roadhouse, so Ellen keeps a set of tools and a few cans of oil and the like out in the barn. So long as people restock what they use, they can take whatever they need.
The Impala's sitting out back, dusty and somewhat neglected-looking after the week they've spent tracking. Dean fetches a bucket of water and spends a happy hour washing her over, checking the paintwork for scratches or dents as he does so. Once the grime of the road is off, he starts a second, more thorough check, looking for anything loose or not quite as it should be. The routine feels good, soothing. The Impala's still in good shape despite all the years she's been on the road, battered and abused by the hundreds of times she's kept them safe from one evil thing or another. Sam once started a bullshit discussion about how the car was like the embodiment of some philosophical debate about identity, because what with the devastation wreaked by the Demon and a few other near-misses they've had over the years, there's not much left of the parts which made up the car originally. Dean's not interested in the philosophical whys and hows of it, he just knows that the Impala's his car, about the only thing he has that's his, and that'll be true even if he replaces every last bolt of her. Hell, he's been through at least two lives himself; might as well ask whether he's still the same person.
He's just opened up the hood and lifted the dipstick when he senses someone behind him and hears the unmistakable sound of his brother clearing his throat. He ignores it, and Sam watches him in silence for a bit before clearing his throat again. 'Want any help?'
Uh-oh. Sam knows that Dean hates anyone else working on the Impala as well as he knows that demons hate the name of God. It's never a good sign when he offers to help with the car.
'What's wrong, Sam?' Dean says, keeping his eyes focused on the oil - about time for some fresh - and his voice casual and even.
'We're sticking around here now? What's that all about?'
Dean twists round to see his brother, confused. 'Dude, I thought you agreed. We're both worn out, we need a rest, and here we can eat real food and chew the fat and spend a bit of time with some friends.'
'Dean, that's what I've been saying for years, and you've bitched about staying with anyone for more than a couple of nights. Now here you are promising Jo's kid fucking shooting lessons? What am I supposed to do, bake cookies and talk make-up with the girls?'
'Dude, try talking make-up with Jo and you'll be talking in falsetto for a week.' Dean chuckles, but he can see there's more to this conversation than he's really got a handle on, and he knows Sam's not going to be swayed by a joke. He still has no clue what he can say to his brother, though, so he turns away and studies the dipstick as if it's on the verge of revealing the deep secrets of the universe. He's still trying to think of something which will keep his brother happy, at least for now, when Jordy comes pelting around the corner of the barn and runs smack bang into Sam.
'Dean, Dean, Momma says can we have the lessons now? I got my gun right here, can we can we?'
He's waving a BB gun around his head like something out of a spaghetti Western.
Dean sees several emotions pass over his brother's face in quick succession - annoyance at the interruption, anger at the thought of Jordy careening about like this with a firearm, and then a sort of resigned patience. Sam reaches down and catches Jordy's wrist, neatly scooping the gun into his own hand. He hunkers down next to the little boy and looks him seriously in the eye.
'First lesson, man, you take care with your weapon. Don't wave it around so's it could go off accidentally, hit you or something you didn't want to hit.'
Jordy looks abashed, eyes on his battered sneaker twisting a hole in the dusty ground.
Sam straightens up and looks at Dean. 'Jesus, I'm surprised at Jo - I thought weapon safety would've been the first thing she'd have taught them. Fu- really irresponsible, letting him run around with this.'
Jordy fires up at this. 'She did teach me! She made me tell her all the rules before she bought me a gun of my own.'
His indignation is comical, eyes flashing at the notion of anyone criticising his mother, and Dean feels himself soften towards the kid. He knows Sam is right - Dad would have whupped their asses so bad if he'd seen them behaving like that - but he's touched by the little boy's loyalty to his mother.
'OK then,' he says. 'Tell us the rules.'
Jordy's shoulders straighten, his hands going behind his back. Dean recognises the posture from his own childhood attempts to prove himself to Dad, and suppresses a smile.
'Don't point the gun anywhere you don't want to h-hit; don't touch the trigger until you're ready to shoot; don't load the gun until you want to use it.'
'Well done,' says Sam, and smiles at the little boy. It's a full-on sunshiny Sammy smile, and even made crooked by the scar it's lost none of its power on other people. Jordy beams with pride at the words of praise, then his face clouds momentarily.
'Momma'll be mad if she knows I forgot... you won't tell, will you?' he appeals to them both. Dean sees Sam's eyebrow quirk just a little and knows he's half-tempted to make the kid sweat.
'Of course not; it won't happen again, will it?' he says smoothly. Sam always thinks it's funny to keep you guessing, but Jordy's only five, for chrissakes. Besides, Dean's been on the receiving end enough times to know how annoying it is. His thoughts wander, then he's recalled to reality with a start when Sam puts the airgun in his hand.
'So, big brother, it seems you have a lesson to teach. I'll go and paint my nails, shall I?'
Sam smirks and saunters off, jeans hanging loose around his hips, and it's brought home to Dean once again how obscenely skinny he still is. At least his mood seems to have abruptly shifted away from the argument that had been brewing a few minutes before, though. Since half the argument had been about the shooting lessons, there's no way that Jordy's interruption should have produced this effect, but Dean's not about to complain.
He turns back to Jordy. 'So, kiddo, where're we gonna do our target practice?'
Two hours later, Dean's exhausted from the strain of keeping his full attention on Jordy. It's been a long time since he's really spent any time with a little kid, and he'd forgotten the sheer effort it takes to keep your eye on them the whole time, make sure they're not about to shoot a squirrel or wander off onto the road or any of the million potentially lethal things that the average five-year-old can find to do. They've run through the basics over and over - first all the safety pointers, then the mechanics of loading and unloading, cleaning the gun, checking the safety catch. Jordy's been pretty well drilled in all of this by Jo, but if there's one thing Dean learned from his father it's that it never pays to skip anything when you're dealing with a weapon. Besides, Jordy's little performance at the start of their session showed that a bit of reinforcement is probably in order. They're not using a real gun - although Jordy's air pistol looks mighty like the real thing - but these things are plenty dangerous and good habits start young.
After a while Jordy starts to get bored with being drilled on safety.
'I thought you were gonna teach me how to shoot,' he whines. Dean can't really blame him - he remembers being just as frustrated with the endless drills when he was a kid.
'Sure, dude, I am. But - I know all the safety stuff seems boring - but you've gotta really know your gun. It's gotta be part of you, otherwise when the time comes to really use it it won't be ready, or you'll be too slow, or you won't shoot straight. If you don't know your weapon, that's when things go wrong.'
He's not really talking to Jordy any more, and dear god is he punished for it, because the next words out of the kid's mouth are 'Is that how Sam hurt his face?'
Dean winces, because Jordy's just a little bit too close for comfort, and with the preternatural sensitivity of the very young Jordy realises he's said the wrong thing.
'Sorry, Dean, Gramma said not to ask people about things like that.' He looks up at Dean, eyes wide and worried, obviously wondering if Dean will get mad and shout or call the lesson off altogether.
It's not Jordy's fault, though: poor kid's bound to wonder, since the last time he saw Sam and Dean they were both whole and healthy. Dean pulls himself together.
'Not exactly, Jordy, but it's true that if I'd been quicker on the draw, he might've been OK.'
He takes a deep breath.
'Anyway, kiddo, we're hunters, these things happen. Let's see how your aim is with that thing, shall we?'
Jordy nods enthusiastically, practically speechless with excitement. A fact not unappreciated by Dean, whose head's beginning to ache with the kid's endless chatter and questions.
They're shooting at cardboard targets pinned onto the side of the barn. Dean used to practise on tin cans, but since he's just spent half an hour impressing on Jordy that he should never shoot at anything metal with his airgun, he has no intention of clouding the issue.
Jordy assumes a good stance - posing for effect, but still pretty tight for a five-year-old - and sights carefully down the barrel of the gun. He flips the safety off, aims and pull the trigger.
The shot goes miles wide of the mark.
Jordy looks up at Dean with puzzled eyes. 'It didn't work!'
'It didn't work for me either, first few times I tried it. It's the kickback - the gun moves when you shoot it, so you have to be ready for that and keep it steady.'
The truth is, there's barely any kickback on these little air pistols - certainly nothing like on the big old pistol that Dean learnt on - but it's enough to knock out the hand of a not especially steady pre-schooler. Ten shots later, and Jordy's still nowhere near hitting the target.
'It's stupid, the gun's no good!' He looks about ready to cry, and Dean balks at the thought.
'C'mon, dude,' he says. 'It's not the gun - you've just gotta get your eye in. Let's have one more try together.'
He kneels in the dust and clasps his hands around Jordy's on the gun. He remembers doing this with Sam back when they were little kids - guns were never Sam's favourite weapon, even back then.
'Ready?' Dean says, sighting at the target. 'On my count - one, two, three.' He squeezes the trigger with Jordy, keeping the gun steady, and is rewarded by the sight of a hole blossoming almost at the centre of the target.
'I did it!' Jordy runs to grab the target card, bringing it back to show Dean how close to the bull's-eye the shot is.
'You sure did, well done.' Dean knows Dad would never have stood for the kind of trick he's just played, but it's worth it to see that look of achievement on Jordy's face.
'You've still gotta practise a lot,' he cautions. 'When I was learning, I sometimes went weeks without managing to hit anything. But once you've done it once, you know you can do it. You've just got to keep on practising until you can hit the mark every time. But that's enough for today.'
Dean straightens and turns towards the house, belatedly remembering that he hasn't eaten since their pancake breakfast. He starts when he sees Sam leaning against a fencepost, watching him and Jordy. He flushes slightly, hoping that his brother didn't hear any of his cheesy little pep talk. Still, could've been worse - he could've had the kid reciting the Rifleman's Creed or something.
'Dinner's ready,' Sam says without expression, and turns and walks back to the house without waiting for Dean and Jordy.
By the time they've walked back to the house and washed up, Jo and Ellen are dishing out the food. Sam's been left holding the baby, corralled into one corner of the tiny kitchen. He looks vaguely shell-shocked - unlike Dean, he has limited experience with small children - but surprisingly pleased to have a two-year-old slobbering over him. Harvey clambers up and down Sam's long body, and resists vocally when Jo comes to strap him into his highchair. Sam looks as though he'd like to protest as well, but both Ellen and Jo have made their opinions clear about spoiling kids and it would take a more foolhardy man than Sam to go up against them.
Jordy dominates the conversation all through dinner, chattering about how he knows all about guns - 'Dean showed me everything' - and his successful shot - 'it was nearly a bull's-eye'. Jo's eyes meet Dean's across the table, revealing amused complicity. It would be a pretty fine meal, except that by the end of it Sam's slipped back into his bad temper, for no reason that Dean can see. After the meal, they both help with the clearing up while Jo takes the kids off to bed - Jordy insisting on kissing both of them and reciting the gun safety rules to Dean one last time. Sam brightens up briefly at this, but as soon as the boys have gone he descends back into gloom. He slips back off to his room as soon as the last plate is wiped, complaining of being tired. God knows there's reason enough for that to be true, but Dean can always smell bullshit where Sam's concerned, and he knows it's not exhaustion that's keeping Sam out of the bar. He considers following his brother to their room, but he knows Ellen will find it weird if both of them disappear this early, so he heads to the bar instead and plays a few rounds of pool. There are no other hunters passing through at the moment, for which Dean is thankful, and he ends up having a few beers with some local guys.
By the time Dean heads for bed, he's worn out and mildly drunk, just enough that he thinks he'll sleep long and deeply. He fumbles into the dark room as quietly as he can, sneaking past Sam's bed and shucking off jeans and boots on the floor. Sam's breathing is soft and low: he might have been making excuses when he said he was too tired for socialising, but that doesn't mean he couldn't use the sleep. Dean stashes his knife under his pillow, then he's out for the count.
He wakes to the sound of Sam crying out, and then the feel of hands clutching at his arm.
'Jeez, Dean, they were strung up, it's something really bad.' Sam's barely coherent and Dean knows right away that he's had a vision. They're not the crushing events they used to be: since they finished the Demon Sam's gifts have focused and reduced in intensity. They don't seem confined to events that affect them anymore either - they just point the way to the especially evil stuff. That's more than bad enough as far as Dean is concerned, because the last thing Sam needs at the moment is to be pulled out of sleep by home movies of whichever fucker has decided to make a play for evil overlord of the month.
He shifts over in the bed and pulls his brother in close, stroking a soothing hand in his hair. Sam squeezes his huge frame onto the narrow bed and stills, breath easing, hands released from their frantic motion.
'Young girls, Dean. Strung up in the trees, their bellies cut open. And there's something else too, something I can't quite figure out, except that it's pretty rank evil. Pretty powerful, too.'
'Where?' Even as his hands are busy soothing Sam, rubbing the back of his neck and bringing him back down into reality, Dean's readying himself to leap into action, cataloguing what ammo they've got left in the trunk, assessing whether the beers he's had are too much to let him drive.
'Indiana, out near Corydon. Forest country.'
Sam's voice is still slurred from sleep and the confusion of the vision, but he's accustomed to recounting his visions by now and they can both home in on the essential details without any trouble.
'It's started already, I think, but we've got a little while before the main course. We can wait till tomorrow; if we set out early it's a day's drive.'
Dean relaxes a little. He's pretty sure he's not fit to drive, and he's not as gung-ho about hunts as he used to be. His first instinct is still to get on the road straight away, get to whatever evil's going down as quickly as possible, but if there's time to wait he knows they'll both be better for it. Part of him still resents the vision for pulling Sam out of sleep when both of them need it so much, so Sam's assurance that a few hours here or there won't matter is a relief. He lies still, thinking through what they'll need to do tomorrow - rise at six, eat, pick up extra cartridges for the Beretta and some more rock salt. He'd intended to make some more silver bullets while they were here - they're almost out after fighting that goddamned kurrag. He wonders if Jo has any she'll let them have.
Sam's breathing has slowed again, his fist uncurled against Dean's chest. Dean should be relieved that he's fallen asleep again so easily - and he is, except for the fact that he knows it's partly because of how draining the vision was. The bed they're in is tiny, barely big enough for one, and even with Sam draped almost on top of him Dean's still twisted up uncomfortably on his side, hip pressed into the wall. It would be the worst kind of luck if Jo or Ellen found them like this, anyway, so he twists further onto his side, trying to ease out from under Sam so he can go sleep in the other bed. As soon as he moves, though, Sam mumbles under his breath and tangles his fingers into Dean's shirt.
'C'mon, man, let me out,' Dean whispers, but he stills anyway.
'Want you here,' Sam slurs, wrapping himself closer around Dean.
The bed's still too small, and they'll still be in all kinds of shit if anyone walks in on them, but Dean can't bring himself to move now.
'Give me some room then, dumbass. How's a man supposed to sleep with goddamn Gigantor crushing the life out of him?'
Sam sighs, but they both shift and turn until they're lying on their sides, Sam spooned up along Dean's back. It's been a long time since they slept like this, and despite all the reasons it's a bad idea Dean feels better than he has for days. With Sam's breath ghosting along the back of his neck, he falls swiftly into sleep.
Chapter 2
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG13 this chapter; NC17 overall
Genre: Plotty Wincest
Pairing/Characters: Sam/Dean
Disclaimer: All the property of people not me
Beta: parenthetical has gone the extra million miles betaing this fic. Without her encouragement and support I never would've written it at all, and her amazing attention to detail has transformed my writing. Needless to say, any remaining errors are my own.
Summary: We get a little further from perfection each year on the road.
Future fic: 5 years hence. Sam and Dean are still learning how to go on living.
Author's notes: The idea for this fic was originally sparked off by Ani DiFranco's song 'Imperfectly', from which I have taken the title and the line in the summary, although it's not a 'songfic'. When I started writing I thought it would be a short oneshot... not sure what happened there! Our boys just took over.
Feedback is very welcome!
They don't show up at the Roadhouse too often these days. There aren't many people around who knew them back in the old days - demon hunters aren't a long-lived crew - but Ellen and Jo know them pretty damn well, and most times that's just weird. Jo's hooked up with someone now - well, she hooked up with several someones, but the one she's got at the moment seems like he's fixing to stay - and has a couple of kids. She's still working the bar more often than not, though, and that 'guy she never fucked' itch still wants scratching when it comes to Dean. That, coupled with the fact that she and Ellen both know all about Sam and Dean and their family, means they tend not to go there too often. After everything that happened with the Demon, it's hard to keep a low profile on the hunting circuit, but it's been long enough and the story is fantastical enough that the Winchester boys have part-faded into legend. Fact has blended with rumour until the truth's so uncertain they can mostly blur it where it suits them. Not with Ellen, though, who never was the kind of lady who'd stand for any blurring, even on the things that didn't really matter.
They have enough of an understanding with the Roadhouse folks, though, that when they find themselves bloody and bruised after an encounter with a kurrag just 50 miles down the road from the saloon, they don't hesitate for more than a moment before heading there. Turning up the road to the saloon, Dean realises it's been more than a year since they last came this way. He tells himself that's not so long, but he knows they've both been more than usually slow to suggest showing their faces.
The sun's just coming up by the time they've driven over there. The bar door's standing propped open, but when Dean strides in no one's there. Sam slinks in after him, and Dean can see him flinching in anticipation of a greeting, then looking relieved when he sees the room is empty. Dean almost flinches himself at the sight, but he can't let Sammy see that on his face.
'Whisky breakfast, Sammy boy?' he says instead, voice coming out just this side of too loud and cheerful.
Sam doesn't seem to notice, though: he just rolls his eyes and says, 'I'll stick with orange juice, I think. And don't go messing about behind the bar; you know Ellen will have your head if you do.'
'Truer words were never spoken,' Ellen's voice rings out from behind them, and they turn to see her in the doorway, mail in one hand and a bucket of something unidentifiable in the other.
'Bart's dropping by this afternoon,' she says when Dean raises one eyebrow at the bucket. 'Needs some cow guts for bait.' Then she catches sight of Sam's face as he turns reflexively to pay better attention to the conversation, and her voice changes. 'Oh, Sam,' she says sadly, and Dean sees Sam flinch again at the pity in her voice. The silence stretches out for a moment, and then Ellen's her usual brisk self again, asking what happened the way she's always demanded reports on their news. Sam's voice is calm and matter-of-fact as he explains their fight with the snaketail. 'At least it missed my eye,' he says as he always does, and Dean knows that he'll be OK with Ellen now. It's only the first moments of a meeting which worry Sam, the part where he has to watch people's shock and sympathy and wonder whether they're going to make a big deal out of it. Then he slips back into being as relaxed and easy as he's always been.
Dean wishes he could do the same.
That's the real reason they've stayed away from the Roadhouse so long this time - because it's easier to be around people who didn't know Sam at all, before. People like Ellen are especially hard: she knew their dad, and Dean feels like any second now she's going to ask him one of the millions of questions he can't answer, accuse him of failing John, or of being like him.
In truth, there's barely any chance of Ellen doing any of those things: she knew John Winchester, good and bad, and doesn't expect his boys to be any more or less imperfect than he was. Dean still hears his dad's voice, though, when they're around his friends, and it doesn't help him feel any less guilty about what's happened with Sammy.
Oh well.
'Ash around, Ellen?' he asks.
'In back,' she says, and continues her conversation with Sam.
Dean heads out beyond the bar, into the poky corridor that leads into the living quarters.
'He won't thank you for waking him up,' Sam calls after him.
Dean flips him the bird and keeps heading for Ash's room. It's true that it's a bit early to be banging on his door - Ash probably only went to bed a couple of hours ago - but Dean's not planning on winning any prizes for Mr. Social Graces 2012. He does knock on Ash's door, though, rather than hammering the way he usually does. To his surprise, the door pops open straight away and Ash peers warily out, half-obscured by a wave of dope smoke. Less surprisingly, he's naked from the waist up, but - Dean notes with relief - he is wearing pants.
'Dean, my man! Long time no see! C'mon in and join the party!'
Ash never seems to change, no matter how long they leave it between visits. He has the same ratty mullet and the same young-old face set on top of his scrawny roadie body. Dean finds him soothing: even though his scarily souped-up brain leaves even geek-boy Sam's in the dust, he sticks to the same restful routine of drinking and sleeping and listening to the greatest hits of seventies rock. His mind might be jumping around like a grasshopper on steroids, but he's always happy to apply it to whatever they're currently researching and he never asks questions Dean doesn't want to answer.
'Hey, dude, good to see you! I was thinking of you a couple of months back - we were fighting this peyotl demon out in Mexico and I swear it had your hairstyle.'
'A demon with taste, man, who knew?' Ash casts a nervous eye up the corridor for any sign that Ellen's about to swoop down and ask him to do some work, before opening the door wide enough to let Dean in.
Dean shakes his head at the memory. 'Shit, I tell you, that was a crazy few days. Beats me why people take acid, I can tell you that much.' He follows Ash into the room and accepts his offer of a spliff. Normally he wouldn't indulge - weed's too risky, slows him down too much - but this is a safe place as places go, and they can hang here for a day or so. Anyway, it's pretty much a moot point, given that you could probably get stoned just by breathing in here. He kicks back and stares up at the mandala painted on Ash's ceiling. He hasn't slept for months, not properly, but lulled by the dope and the strains of 'Hell or Heaven' drifting up from Ash's tinny little speakers he feels himself drifting off. Sam'll hang with Ellen for a few hours; they can come looking if they need him.
'Hell or Heaven' finishes and the record moves on to the slightly less soothing notes of 'Mad Hatter', but Dean's out for the count.
Someone hammers on the door and Dean wakes up with a start. Ash is gone, and since he never opens his blackout blinds Dean can't get any clue to the time from the sun. He sits up and feels his head spin a bit - he can't have been out that long if he's still in the drifty part of stoned rather than the twitchy not-headache he usually has the morning after. He stumbles to the door and opens it. Sam pushes in at the same moment and Dean stumbles and almost falls on his ass. He sits back down on the bed instead.
'Clumsy, dude, losing your edge,' Sam laughs, then stops when Dean blinks and ducks his head away. 'Sorry, man, were you sleeping? I wish I'd known, I would've left you be.'
Sam hasn't missed the fact that Dean hasn't been getting a lot of shut-eye, however hard Dean's tried to hide it. They've both been pretty twitchy since Sam's... accident, and Dean's been doing all the driving. Sam rests his hand on the back of Dean's neck, warm against his skin, and Dean leans into the touch for a second before pulling away.
'Nah, time I woke up anyway, I'm starved. Haven't you ladies had time to cook me up some delicious feast?'
Sam swats at Dean lightly with the back of his hand, but laughs good-humouredly.
'That's what I was coming to tell you: Ellen's making pancakes. She says we better get out there quick before the kids come and eat the lot.'
They head out through the bar and back towards Ellen's kitchen, Dean blinking in the bright mid-morning light. When they get there Jo's two boys are already seated, staring intently at the maple syrup and chocolate chips set in the middle of the table. Dean's guiltily reminded of how long it's been since they last stopped by here when he realises that the chubby toddler in the highchair is Harvey, the tiny baby they saw on their last visit.
Eyes on the food, Sam makes hastily for the empty seats across from the kids, but Dean's arrested for a moment by the way the light falls across the kitchen, casting the table and the kids in a rosy glow like something out of a magazine.
'Jordy, you remember Sam and Dean, don't you?' Ellen says, turning from the stove with a platter of pancakes stacked high as her chin. She catches the whiff of weed coming from Dean as she passes and gives him a disapproving look, but doesn't comment.
'Yes,' says the older boy, eyes still on the chocolate chips.
'"Yes" what?' Ellen demands, setting the platter down next to Sam, just out of the little boy's reach.
'Yes, ma'am,' Jordy replies meekly, turning to face his grandmother.
Sensing that everyone's attention is elsewhere, the baby, Harvey, makes a spirited attempt to reach the maple syrup. Dean notices just in time that the kid's managed to wriggle out of the straps of his highchair and leans forward to catch him.
'Thanks, Dean,' Ellen says. 'He's a terror for doing that, it's his latest trick.'
Dean bends to tighten the straps back up. 'No problem. I remember Sammy was just the same at that age. Jeez, we had an awful time keeping him in the car seat. Dad used to post me next to him with orders to keep tying him up as fast as he could get out. I remember he did it fifteen times on the road between Topeka and Kansas City - damn, but that was a long journey.'
Sam rolls his eyes as he always does when Dean talks about when they were kids. 'Yeah, yeah, I was the craziest toddler in fifty states. Don't get him started, Ellen, or he'll be showing you the baby photos next.'
'Dude, no one wants to see that ugly a baby,' Dean shoots back, struggling with the buckles, which seem a lot more complicated than the ones they used to have on Sam's old highchair. He's still fiddling with them when Jo sweeps in through the back door and sits herself down.
'Hi, guys,' she says. Her eyes linger on Sam's scar for a moment, but she doesn't look too shocked or ask any questions, so Dean figures Ellen's already filled her in.
He finishes buckling Harvey back into the chair and looks around for a seat. He's not too pleased to realise that Jo's taken the chair to Sammy's left, the position Dean always takes these days. He has the choice of sitting down next to Jo, or squishing in between the two kids. Tempting as this second option is, he figures he'll leave Ellen the grandmotherly delights of chopping up bits of pancake and being smeared with maple syrup.
Sam's eyeing the pancakes with almost as much intensity as the kids, but he and Dean both know better than to reach for anything on the table before Ellen's said grace. Dean doesn't quite get Ellen's insistence on observing the religious proprieties, because in his opinion anyone who's seen all the decidedly non-angelic things that are out there can have no illusions about the idea there's any divine power looking out for people. It's one thing to use holy water and the invocatio and all the rest, but it's strictly business as far as Dean's concerned. Still, he guesses it's all part and parcel of the way Ellen runs a tight ship, akin to the Marine routines Dad used to make them run through when they were kids. Dean figures maybe all families have their own rituals - it doesn't much matter what they are, as long as you stick close to your own.
Finally grace is done and Ellen dishes out the pancakes. They're really good, and for a while there's mostly silence while they all apply themselves to the meal - or as much silence as is possible when you have a two-year-old and a five-year-old at the table. Ellen's kept pretty busy feeding the kids; Dean keeps an eye out too, and from time to time he reaches out to stop Harvey toppling his milk or plunging a chubby hand into the chocolate chips. The kid really does remind him of Sam at the same age: same single-minded determination to get into everything and taste whatever he can get his hands on.
Eventually Jo finishes up her pancakes and clears her throat. 'So, it's been a while since we've seen you guys. You staying long?'
Dean's eyes meet Sam's for a second before he says, 'Maybe a week. We've been up by Kenton the past couple of weeks, tracking a kurrag, and we're both pretty beat. I'd like to spend a bit of time on the car, too - been neglecting my girl.'
Sam swallows a big bite of pancake and says, 'Is that OK with you, ladies? We can easily find a motel if you've got a full house.'
Syrup drips down his chin, and Dean reflects that he's not that far different from his days of busting out of highchairs. In some ways, anyhow.
'Of course,' Jo says. 'Stay as long as you like. You can give Jordy here a bit of training in target practice, if you want to earn your keep.'
Dean sees Sam wince. He notices Ellen doesn't look all that happy either - she never was that keen on Jo getting involved in hunting, and he figures that she's not really on board with training the kids so young. Still, they're Jo's kids, so it's her decision, and the way Dean sees it it's better to start early. He's beyond thinking you can pick and choose whether you join the fight or not, so you might as well know how to defend yourself.
He still remembers the first time he fired a gun at something. He was six years old; they were staying with Pastor Jim while Dad was off on a hunt. Jim was out somewhere on the grounds with Sammy, leaving Dean alone in the house, and Dean was seized with the desire to explore. He'd been in the weapons store plenty of times before, but he'd never actually had the chance to have a really good look at Pastor Jim's arsenal. So - he sneaked down there and poked through everything he could find. Most of the weapons were locked away, but Pastor Jim had left a pistol out on the table with the cleaning stuff and a couple of cartridges. Dean was pretty fascinated - Dad had shown him how to clean and load a gun, but he never left weapons out where Dean or Sam could get hold of them - and he went through the whole routine as best he could remember. He'd just gotten the thing loaded up and was dreamily practising sighting down the barrel, the way he'd seen Dad do, when he heard a noise and glimpsed a movement at the window. He jumped about a mile out of his skin and fired the pistol in the general direction of the window before he even had time to think. The window broke, and the recoil hit him so hard that he was left too stunned to move, never mind fire again. Just as well that the movement at the window turned out to be Dad, back from his hunting trip early, and not some kind of creature hell-bent on killing them all.
Dad had whupped his ass for touching things without permission, then ruffled his hair and said, 'You did good, for your first time. We'll have to see about getting you some training'.
So yeah, Sammy can have the moral scruples about making kids into warriors. Dean will go with the target practice, thanks all the same. It's saved both their asses plenty of times.
Not enough times, though, he thinks in the back of his mind. He squashes it down and helps himself to another pancake.
'Sleep first,' he says. 'Two hours passed out on Ash's bed doesn't do it for me these days.'
Dean and Sam bunk down in the room they usually use at the Roadhouse. It's pretty basic - bare walls and skinny single beds so short that Sam's legs hang half off the end. Still, the fight of the previous day - and the months of not sleeping - has left them both exhausted. With the noonday sun blazing down outside and bellies full of pancakes, it's easy to fall asleep.
Dean wakes up about mid-afternoon, the shadows lengthening across the room. Sam's still asleep, snoring slightly, and Dean considers waking him so that he won't be too antsy when night falls. Then he reflects that Sam's probably tired enough to sleep right through to the next morning, and even if he's not, sleep is too difficult for them to come by these days to interrupt it for no real reason. So Dean scoops up his clothes and tiptoes out to the hall, figuring he can dress in the bathroom after he's taken a much-needed shower. He pauses next to Sammy's bed on the way out, watching his brother sleep. Sam's curled on his side, trying to keep as much of himself on the bed as possible, and the hurt side of his face is turned in, towards the pillow. When he's lying like this, undamaged cheek bathed in the late-afternoon sun, it's easy to imagine that he's unscathed. Dean can't let himself forget the truth, though, and his hand hovers for a moment over Sam's hair before he turns regretfully towards the door.
After his shower, Dean heads outside to the Impala. There's no one in sight, although he can hear Harvey and Jordy playing somewhere off beyond the house and knows that Ellen or Jo will be with them. It doesn't matter - Dean's in the mood for some time to himself and they won't mind him helping himself to a few supplies. Plenty of hunters take the opportunity to tune up their rides when they stop by the Roadhouse, so Ellen keeps a set of tools and a few cans of oil and the like out in the barn. So long as people restock what they use, they can take whatever they need.
The Impala's sitting out back, dusty and somewhat neglected-looking after the week they've spent tracking. Dean fetches a bucket of water and spends a happy hour washing her over, checking the paintwork for scratches or dents as he does so. Once the grime of the road is off, he starts a second, more thorough check, looking for anything loose or not quite as it should be. The routine feels good, soothing. The Impala's still in good shape despite all the years she's been on the road, battered and abused by the hundreds of times she's kept them safe from one evil thing or another. Sam once started a bullshit discussion about how the car was like the embodiment of some philosophical debate about identity, because what with the devastation wreaked by the Demon and a few other near-misses they've had over the years, there's not much left of the parts which made up the car originally. Dean's not interested in the philosophical whys and hows of it, he just knows that the Impala's his car, about the only thing he has that's his, and that'll be true even if he replaces every last bolt of her. Hell, he's been through at least two lives himself; might as well ask whether he's still the same person.
He's just opened up the hood and lifted the dipstick when he senses someone behind him and hears the unmistakable sound of his brother clearing his throat. He ignores it, and Sam watches him in silence for a bit before clearing his throat again. 'Want any help?'
Uh-oh. Sam knows that Dean hates anyone else working on the Impala as well as he knows that demons hate the name of God. It's never a good sign when he offers to help with the car.
'What's wrong, Sam?' Dean says, keeping his eyes focused on the oil - about time for some fresh - and his voice casual and even.
'We're sticking around here now? What's that all about?'
Dean twists round to see his brother, confused. 'Dude, I thought you agreed. We're both worn out, we need a rest, and here we can eat real food and chew the fat and spend a bit of time with some friends.'
'Dean, that's what I've been saying for years, and you've bitched about staying with anyone for more than a couple of nights. Now here you are promising Jo's kid fucking shooting lessons? What am I supposed to do, bake cookies and talk make-up with the girls?'
'Dude, try talking make-up with Jo and you'll be talking in falsetto for a week.' Dean chuckles, but he can see there's more to this conversation than he's really got a handle on, and he knows Sam's not going to be swayed by a joke. He still has no clue what he can say to his brother, though, so he turns away and studies the dipstick as if it's on the verge of revealing the deep secrets of the universe. He's still trying to think of something which will keep his brother happy, at least for now, when Jordy comes pelting around the corner of the barn and runs smack bang into Sam.
'Dean, Dean, Momma says can we have the lessons now? I got my gun right here, can we can we?'
He's waving a BB gun around his head like something out of a spaghetti Western.
Dean sees several emotions pass over his brother's face in quick succession - annoyance at the interruption, anger at the thought of Jordy careening about like this with a firearm, and then a sort of resigned patience. Sam reaches down and catches Jordy's wrist, neatly scooping the gun into his own hand. He hunkers down next to the little boy and looks him seriously in the eye.
'First lesson, man, you take care with your weapon. Don't wave it around so's it could go off accidentally, hit you or something you didn't want to hit.'
Jordy looks abashed, eyes on his battered sneaker twisting a hole in the dusty ground.
Sam straightens up and looks at Dean. 'Jesus, I'm surprised at Jo - I thought weapon safety would've been the first thing she'd have taught them. Fu- really irresponsible, letting him run around with this.'
Jordy fires up at this. 'She did teach me! She made me tell her all the rules before she bought me a gun of my own.'
His indignation is comical, eyes flashing at the notion of anyone criticising his mother, and Dean feels himself soften towards the kid. He knows Sam is right - Dad would have whupped their asses so bad if he'd seen them behaving like that - but he's touched by the little boy's loyalty to his mother.
'OK then,' he says. 'Tell us the rules.'
Jordy's shoulders straighten, his hands going behind his back. Dean recognises the posture from his own childhood attempts to prove himself to Dad, and suppresses a smile.
'Don't point the gun anywhere you don't want to h-hit; don't touch the trigger until you're ready to shoot; don't load the gun until you want to use it.'
'Well done,' says Sam, and smiles at the little boy. It's a full-on sunshiny Sammy smile, and even made crooked by the scar it's lost none of its power on other people. Jordy beams with pride at the words of praise, then his face clouds momentarily.
'Momma'll be mad if she knows I forgot... you won't tell, will you?' he appeals to them both. Dean sees Sam's eyebrow quirk just a little and knows he's half-tempted to make the kid sweat.
'Of course not; it won't happen again, will it?' he says smoothly. Sam always thinks it's funny to keep you guessing, but Jordy's only five, for chrissakes. Besides, Dean's been on the receiving end enough times to know how annoying it is. His thoughts wander, then he's recalled to reality with a start when Sam puts the airgun in his hand.
'So, big brother, it seems you have a lesson to teach. I'll go and paint my nails, shall I?'
Sam smirks and saunters off, jeans hanging loose around his hips, and it's brought home to Dean once again how obscenely skinny he still is. At least his mood seems to have abruptly shifted away from the argument that had been brewing a few minutes before, though. Since half the argument had been about the shooting lessons, there's no way that Jordy's interruption should have produced this effect, but Dean's not about to complain.
He turns back to Jordy. 'So, kiddo, where're we gonna do our target practice?'
Two hours later, Dean's exhausted from the strain of keeping his full attention on Jordy. It's been a long time since he's really spent any time with a little kid, and he'd forgotten the sheer effort it takes to keep your eye on them the whole time, make sure they're not about to shoot a squirrel or wander off onto the road or any of the million potentially lethal things that the average five-year-old can find to do. They've run through the basics over and over - first all the safety pointers, then the mechanics of loading and unloading, cleaning the gun, checking the safety catch. Jordy's been pretty well drilled in all of this by Jo, but if there's one thing Dean learned from his father it's that it never pays to skip anything when you're dealing with a weapon. Besides, Jordy's little performance at the start of their session showed that a bit of reinforcement is probably in order. They're not using a real gun - although Jordy's air pistol looks mighty like the real thing - but these things are plenty dangerous and good habits start young.
After a while Jordy starts to get bored with being drilled on safety.
'I thought you were gonna teach me how to shoot,' he whines. Dean can't really blame him - he remembers being just as frustrated with the endless drills when he was a kid.
'Sure, dude, I am. But - I know all the safety stuff seems boring - but you've gotta really know your gun. It's gotta be part of you, otherwise when the time comes to really use it it won't be ready, or you'll be too slow, or you won't shoot straight. If you don't know your weapon, that's when things go wrong.'
He's not really talking to Jordy any more, and dear god is he punished for it, because the next words out of the kid's mouth are 'Is that how Sam hurt his face?'
Dean winces, because Jordy's just a little bit too close for comfort, and with the preternatural sensitivity of the very young Jordy realises he's said the wrong thing.
'Sorry, Dean, Gramma said not to ask people about things like that.' He looks up at Dean, eyes wide and worried, obviously wondering if Dean will get mad and shout or call the lesson off altogether.
It's not Jordy's fault, though: poor kid's bound to wonder, since the last time he saw Sam and Dean they were both whole and healthy. Dean pulls himself together.
'Not exactly, Jordy, but it's true that if I'd been quicker on the draw, he might've been OK.'
He takes a deep breath.
'Anyway, kiddo, we're hunters, these things happen. Let's see how your aim is with that thing, shall we?'
Jordy nods enthusiastically, practically speechless with excitement. A fact not unappreciated by Dean, whose head's beginning to ache with the kid's endless chatter and questions.
They're shooting at cardboard targets pinned onto the side of the barn. Dean used to practise on tin cans, but since he's just spent half an hour impressing on Jordy that he should never shoot at anything metal with his airgun, he has no intention of clouding the issue.
Jordy assumes a good stance - posing for effect, but still pretty tight for a five-year-old - and sights carefully down the barrel of the gun. He flips the safety off, aims and pull the trigger.
The shot goes miles wide of the mark.
Jordy looks up at Dean with puzzled eyes. 'It didn't work!'
'It didn't work for me either, first few times I tried it. It's the kickback - the gun moves when you shoot it, so you have to be ready for that and keep it steady.'
The truth is, there's barely any kickback on these little air pistols - certainly nothing like on the big old pistol that Dean learnt on - but it's enough to knock out the hand of a not especially steady pre-schooler. Ten shots later, and Jordy's still nowhere near hitting the target.
'It's stupid, the gun's no good!' He looks about ready to cry, and Dean balks at the thought.
'C'mon, dude,' he says. 'It's not the gun - you've just gotta get your eye in. Let's have one more try together.'
He kneels in the dust and clasps his hands around Jordy's on the gun. He remembers doing this with Sam back when they were little kids - guns were never Sam's favourite weapon, even back then.
'Ready?' Dean says, sighting at the target. 'On my count - one, two, three.' He squeezes the trigger with Jordy, keeping the gun steady, and is rewarded by the sight of a hole blossoming almost at the centre of the target.
'I did it!' Jordy runs to grab the target card, bringing it back to show Dean how close to the bull's-eye the shot is.
'You sure did, well done.' Dean knows Dad would never have stood for the kind of trick he's just played, but it's worth it to see that look of achievement on Jordy's face.
'You've still gotta practise a lot,' he cautions. 'When I was learning, I sometimes went weeks without managing to hit anything. But once you've done it once, you know you can do it. You've just got to keep on practising until you can hit the mark every time. But that's enough for today.'
Dean straightens and turns towards the house, belatedly remembering that he hasn't eaten since their pancake breakfast. He starts when he sees Sam leaning against a fencepost, watching him and Jordy. He flushes slightly, hoping that his brother didn't hear any of his cheesy little pep talk. Still, could've been worse - he could've had the kid reciting the Rifleman's Creed or something.
'Dinner's ready,' Sam says without expression, and turns and walks back to the house without waiting for Dean and Jordy.
By the time they've walked back to the house and washed up, Jo and Ellen are dishing out the food. Sam's been left holding the baby, corralled into one corner of the tiny kitchen. He looks vaguely shell-shocked - unlike Dean, he has limited experience with small children - but surprisingly pleased to have a two-year-old slobbering over him. Harvey clambers up and down Sam's long body, and resists vocally when Jo comes to strap him into his highchair. Sam looks as though he'd like to protest as well, but both Ellen and Jo have made their opinions clear about spoiling kids and it would take a more foolhardy man than Sam to go up against them.
Jordy dominates the conversation all through dinner, chattering about how he knows all about guns - 'Dean showed me everything' - and his successful shot - 'it was nearly a bull's-eye'. Jo's eyes meet Dean's across the table, revealing amused complicity. It would be a pretty fine meal, except that by the end of it Sam's slipped back into his bad temper, for no reason that Dean can see. After the meal, they both help with the clearing up while Jo takes the kids off to bed - Jordy insisting on kissing both of them and reciting the gun safety rules to Dean one last time. Sam brightens up briefly at this, but as soon as the boys have gone he descends back into gloom. He slips back off to his room as soon as the last plate is wiped, complaining of being tired. God knows there's reason enough for that to be true, but Dean can always smell bullshit where Sam's concerned, and he knows it's not exhaustion that's keeping Sam out of the bar. He considers following his brother to their room, but he knows Ellen will find it weird if both of them disappear this early, so he heads to the bar instead and plays a few rounds of pool. There are no other hunters passing through at the moment, for which Dean is thankful, and he ends up having a few beers with some local guys.
By the time Dean heads for bed, he's worn out and mildly drunk, just enough that he thinks he'll sleep long and deeply. He fumbles into the dark room as quietly as he can, sneaking past Sam's bed and shucking off jeans and boots on the floor. Sam's breathing is soft and low: he might have been making excuses when he said he was too tired for socialising, but that doesn't mean he couldn't use the sleep. Dean stashes his knife under his pillow, then he's out for the count.
He wakes to the sound of Sam crying out, and then the feel of hands clutching at his arm.
'Jeez, Dean, they were strung up, it's something really bad.' Sam's barely coherent and Dean knows right away that he's had a vision. They're not the crushing events they used to be: since they finished the Demon Sam's gifts have focused and reduced in intensity. They don't seem confined to events that affect them anymore either - they just point the way to the especially evil stuff. That's more than bad enough as far as Dean is concerned, because the last thing Sam needs at the moment is to be pulled out of sleep by home movies of whichever fucker has decided to make a play for evil overlord of the month.
He shifts over in the bed and pulls his brother in close, stroking a soothing hand in his hair. Sam squeezes his huge frame onto the narrow bed and stills, breath easing, hands released from their frantic motion.
'Young girls, Dean. Strung up in the trees, their bellies cut open. And there's something else too, something I can't quite figure out, except that it's pretty rank evil. Pretty powerful, too.'
'Where?' Even as his hands are busy soothing Sam, rubbing the back of his neck and bringing him back down into reality, Dean's readying himself to leap into action, cataloguing what ammo they've got left in the trunk, assessing whether the beers he's had are too much to let him drive.
'Indiana, out near Corydon. Forest country.'
Sam's voice is still slurred from sleep and the confusion of the vision, but he's accustomed to recounting his visions by now and they can both home in on the essential details without any trouble.
'It's started already, I think, but we've got a little while before the main course. We can wait till tomorrow; if we set out early it's a day's drive.'
Dean relaxes a little. He's pretty sure he's not fit to drive, and he's not as gung-ho about hunts as he used to be. His first instinct is still to get on the road straight away, get to whatever evil's going down as quickly as possible, but if there's time to wait he knows they'll both be better for it. Part of him still resents the vision for pulling Sam out of sleep when both of them need it so much, so Sam's assurance that a few hours here or there won't matter is a relief. He lies still, thinking through what they'll need to do tomorrow - rise at six, eat, pick up extra cartridges for the Beretta and some more rock salt. He'd intended to make some more silver bullets while they were here - they're almost out after fighting that goddamned kurrag. He wonders if Jo has any she'll let them have.
Sam's breathing has slowed again, his fist uncurled against Dean's chest. Dean should be relieved that he's fallen asleep again so easily - and he is, except for the fact that he knows it's partly because of how draining the vision was. The bed they're in is tiny, barely big enough for one, and even with Sam draped almost on top of him Dean's still twisted up uncomfortably on his side, hip pressed into the wall. It would be the worst kind of luck if Jo or Ellen found them like this, anyway, so he twists further onto his side, trying to ease out from under Sam so he can go sleep in the other bed. As soon as he moves, though, Sam mumbles under his breath and tangles his fingers into Dean's shirt.
'C'mon, man, let me out,' Dean whispers, but he stills anyway.
'Want you here,' Sam slurs, wrapping himself closer around Dean.
The bed's still too small, and they'll still be in all kinds of shit if anyone walks in on them, but Dean can't bring himself to move now.
'Give me some room then, dumbass. How's a man supposed to sleep with goddamn Gigantor crushing the life out of him?'
Sam sighs, but they both shift and turn until they're lying on their sides, Sam spooned up along Dean's back. It's been a long time since they slept like this, and despite all the reasons it's a bad idea Dean feels better than he has for days. With Sam's breath ghosting along the back of his neck, he falls swiftly into sleep.
Chapter 2