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5 Things - Supernatural
Five things that make John Winchester so proud his throat chokes up.
1. Just getting Dean to sit down is hard enough; keeping him flat on his back and quiet is next to impossible. John growls and orders and threatens, Jim reasons and sympathizes, but Dean has more energy than any three normal twelve-year-olds. Nothing works for more than two minutes until Sammy shows up in the hastily rigged-up sickroom in the rectory's office and parks himself next to Dean's bed.
Dean snaps at him, tells him to just go already, don't even get comfortable, Sammy, and concussion or no concussion, John fully intends to put a stop to that attitude, but Sam just pulls a stack of Sports Illustrateds from his backpack and starts reading.
Dean still mutters and groans, but Sam's high, clear voice never stops, stumbling only a little over player names and some of the more involved game descriptions. It's not until John comes into the room, that he can see where Sam's hand is petting Dean's arm slowly, almost as if he's gentling a horse.
2. "Wait," Sam says, his expression mutinous. "Let me get this straight. We help people, we have this mission, that's more important than anything, but we only help them if they're getting hurt by something evil that's not human?"
"Sam," John growls, because Sam will argue anything to death and this is not up for discussion. This is none of their concern; Sam's old enough to understand that, but he plows ahead, fierce and determined.
"Because it's okay to stand by and let someone get hurt by something evil that is human?"
"He's just a two-bit bully, Sammy," Dean says.
"He goes out of his way to hurt people, Dean," Sam snaps back. "I know he's not trying to end the world, but that doesn't mean he didn't put two kids I know in the hospital." He turns back to John, almost spitting out the words. "It doesn't mean he shouldn't be stopped before he does it again."
He stares across the table at John, jaw set, eyes narrowed and John finally sighs. "Fine. Dean--"
"I can handle it," Sam interrupts, standing up, and it's a constant shock these days, how tall he's gotten since he turned 15. As tall as Dean in the last few months, and if John's not mistaken, he won't stop until he's past both of them. "It'll attract a lot less attention if it's just me, and isn't that part of this whole stupid life?" He grabs his backpack and heads out the door.
John doesn't have to say a word; Dean's already reaching for his jacket. "On it," he says.
When John comes back that night, Dean's looks up from working on the car. "Took him out in a single punch," he says. Sam's hunched over the kitchen table, engrossed in homework, and no one mentions the ice pack he holds against his knuckles.
3. John does get there in time, even though Sam doesn't notice. He's there in time to hear Dean's name announced, see him cross the stage, quick and confident. Sam's standing and cheering, whistling like Dean taught him, and John catches the smirk Dean throws Sam's way even from the back of the crowded old gym. His boys, they poke and prod and needle each other all the time, but they're there for each other and a father can't ask for much more than that.
4. It's a simple message and one recorded quickly--If this is an emergency, call my son, Dean. 866-907-3235. He can help--but John's never said anything more true.
5. It takes John five hours to dig through what remains of the collapsed house, five hours of keeping everything but the immediate task at hand out of his mind, five hours of not hearing anything but Dean's last shout, "Sammy, get back!" before the I-beam gave way and three rotted, diseased, cursed floors fell between them. John will not allow himself to think of anything but the next piece of debris that can be cleared. This one, and then that one; sheetrock and flooring, plaster and brick and wood, one after another after another, until he reaches for the next and half-falls through the hole he's opened up.
Before his brain can even process that he's through, Dean's in front of him, shotgun still carefully leveled, calling back to Sam that it's okay, and then Sam's there, too, holding the hand of one of the local kids, who's even younger than Sammy and who's sniffling a little.
"See?" Sam's saying, his tone comforting and reassuring. "I told you there wasn't any reason to be scared." Dean lowers the shotgun and John waits until the last of the missing kids is outside--Dean counting them off carefully as John lifts them clear, Sam telling him each one's name--and then he sits down heavily next to Dean and pulls Sammy into his lap.
"Good work," he says, or tries to, but his focus is gone and his voice is stuck somewhere in his chest and he's not sure either of them hear him.
1. Just getting Dean to sit down is hard enough; keeping him flat on his back and quiet is next to impossible. John growls and orders and threatens, Jim reasons and sympathizes, but Dean has more energy than any three normal twelve-year-olds. Nothing works for more than two minutes until Sammy shows up in the hastily rigged-up sickroom in the rectory's office and parks himself next to Dean's bed.
Dean snaps at him, tells him to just go already, don't even get comfortable, Sammy, and concussion or no concussion, John fully intends to put a stop to that attitude, but Sam just pulls a stack of Sports Illustrateds from his backpack and starts reading.
Dean still mutters and groans, but Sam's high, clear voice never stops, stumbling only a little over player names and some of the more involved game descriptions. It's not until John comes into the room, that he can see where Sam's hand is petting Dean's arm slowly, almost as if he's gentling a horse.
2. "Wait," Sam says, his expression mutinous. "Let me get this straight. We help people, we have this mission, that's more important than anything, but we only help them if they're getting hurt by something evil that's not human?"
"Sam," John growls, because Sam will argue anything to death and this is not up for discussion. This is none of their concern; Sam's old enough to understand that, but he plows ahead, fierce and determined.
"Because it's okay to stand by and let someone get hurt by something evil that is human?"
"He's just a two-bit bully, Sammy," Dean says.
"He goes out of his way to hurt people, Dean," Sam snaps back. "I know he's not trying to end the world, but that doesn't mean he didn't put two kids I know in the hospital." He turns back to John, almost spitting out the words. "It doesn't mean he shouldn't be stopped before he does it again."
He stares across the table at John, jaw set, eyes narrowed and John finally sighs. "Fine. Dean--"
"I can handle it," Sam interrupts, standing up, and it's a constant shock these days, how tall he's gotten since he turned 15. As tall as Dean in the last few months, and if John's not mistaken, he won't stop until he's past both of them. "It'll attract a lot less attention if it's just me, and isn't that part of this whole stupid life?" He grabs his backpack and heads out the door.
John doesn't have to say a word; Dean's already reaching for his jacket. "On it," he says.
When John comes back that night, Dean's looks up from working on the car. "Took him out in a single punch," he says. Sam's hunched over the kitchen table, engrossed in homework, and no one mentions the ice pack he holds against his knuckles.
3. John does get there in time, even though Sam doesn't notice. He's there in time to hear Dean's name announced, see him cross the stage, quick and confident. Sam's standing and cheering, whistling like Dean taught him, and John catches the smirk Dean throws Sam's way even from the back of the crowded old gym. His boys, they poke and prod and needle each other all the time, but they're there for each other and a father can't ask for much more than that.
4. It's a simple message and one recorded quickly--If this is an emergency, call my son, Dean. 866-907-3235. He can help--but John's never said anything more true.
5. It takes John five hours to dig through what remains of the collapsed house, five hours of keeping everything but the immediate task at hand out of his mind, five hours of not hearing anything but Dean's last shout, "Sammy, get back!" before the I-beam gave way and three rotted, diseased, cursed floors fell between them. John will not allow himself to think of anything but the next piece of debris that can be cleared. This one, and then that one; sheetrock and flooring, plaster and brick and wood, one after another after another, until he reaches for the next and half-falls through the hole he's opened up.
Before his brain can even process that he's through, Dean's in front of him, shotgun still carefully leveled, calling back to Sam that it's okay, and then Sam's there, too, holding the hand of one of the local kids, who's even younger than Sammy and who's sniffling a little.
"See?" Sam's saying, his tone comforting and reassuring. "I told you there wasn't any reason to be scared." Dean lowers the shotgun and John waits until the last of the missing kids is outside--Dean counting them off carefully as John lifts them clear, Sam telling him each one's name--and then he sits down heavily next to Dean and pulls Sammy into his lap.
"Good work," he says, or tries to, but his focus is gone and his voice is stuck somewhere in his chest and he's not sure either of them hear him.
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