Just a few quick things: 1) Thanks for even getting this far in reading, 2) I know the title kind of sucks, so if you have a better one in mind, then feel free to tell me so; 3) Consider this fic disclaimed, and 5) Please enjoy! :)
John was teaching Dean how to change a tire on the Impala, talking about the importance of getting iron tools (to double as weapons, just in case) and the need to never keep a spare or flat tire on for longer than necessary. Dean listened to every word with rapt attention. Sammy was sitting in the field, about ten feet away, playing with his army men.
It was a dream, Dean knew, but that didn't change a thing.
As John handed him the cross wrench, somewhere far off, a door opened. He was almost able to ignore it, but there were footsteps, too. Ruefully, he dragged himself from sleep and pulled out the knife that John had given him last year from under his pillow. He held it firmly, the way he was taught, in the direction of the intruder. With his other hand, he scrubbed at his eyes.
A familiar chuckle made him look up, and John's "That's my boy, Dean," had him sheathing the knife.
"Dad?" Dean asked, uncertain. John had said he wouldn't be back for at least another two days, and usually that meant at least three.
"Hey, buddy. How're you and Sammy doing?"
"We're good. What's wrong? Did you finish the hunt?"
"It's okay, Dean. Just another angry spirit; I figured out what cemetery the bones're in. Actually, that's why I'm here." Dean made a face, furrowing his brow and pulling the corners of his lips down in a confused frown, and John continued. "I know you keep buggin' me to take you on a hunt, but you gotta start small, son. You want to help me dig up a grave?"
Dean couldn't help it-he smiled, and nodded hard enough that the room blurred.
"Alright, son. Stay quiet, so we don't wake Sammy. Put some shoes and a jacket on and we'll go."
Dean stumbled about the motel room, finding his shoes and hopping around as he put them on. His jacket was thrown over the big armchair by the door, so as he stuffed his arms through the proper holes he whisper-shouted, "C'mon, c'mon!"
John indulged him a smile and whispered back, "Alright, buddy, let's go get us some bones." They slipped through the motel door and hopped into the Impala. Dean was in the passenger seat-a recent privilege that he'd taken with glee, alternating between looking out the window and looking back at Sammy on their long drives-practically humming with excitement as he bounced in the seat.
John thanked his lucky stars that the drive was only a few minutes. By the end of it, Dean looked well and truly excited; as soon as John announced "We're here," Dean was out of the car, running for the trunk. He wiggled the handle until John popped it, and threw himself half in the trunk to grab the shovels-one short one, for himself, and an average sized one for John-and handed John his with much excitement.
"Where's the grave?" He asked, still whispering despite the fact that no one was in hearing distance.
John pointed off in the distance and said, "I put a duffle bag next to it." Dean was off like a rocket, weaving between headstones and looking out for a duffle. John kept up from a distance, always keeping his son in sight.
When Dean got to the grave, he slammed the shovel into the ground, letting it stick up as he ran back to John and urged him to go faster. John, meanwhile, took the time as an opportunity to explain to Dean and set up a couple lanterns.
"We're going to want to dig from here-" he gestured to about a foot from the headstone, "-to here," another gesture, this one about seven feet further down than the last, "and we're gonna want it about two feet wide. Got it?"
Dean nodded, picked up his shovel, and started digging, getting little scoops of dirt and tossing them away. John took a second to watch him, smiling sadly at the enthusiasm Dean was putting into it-it was very likely that this would be his life, after all. John knew from personal experience that no one could leave the hunting life.
But that was something for others to contemplate. Right now, he had a job to do.
Dean didn't last too long. They'd just gotten about two feet deep when he frowned down at his hands. John didn't break his rhythm, but asked, "Blisters?" and nodded somewhat sympathetically when Dean replied the affirmative.
"Take a little break, then. Watch out for any cars coming our way." John ordered, and Dean walked with slumped shoulders to the duffle. "Blisters are the first step in getting used to this, y'know. You just need to build up some callouses and you'll be all set."
Dean stayed on watch for another fifteen minutes, then picked up his shovel again and gingerly started working. John wasn't surprised; Dean never could sit back when he knew he could be helping, like when Sam's diaper needed changing, or John couldn't quite reach whatever needed bandaging.
They worked for another two hours, Dean taking multiple breaks, before their shovels hit the casket. As John broke through the lid, there was the sound of tires crunching on gravel.
"Shh," John warned unnecessarily. Dean was pressed against the dirt, looking around even though he couldn't see anything but the sky. John motioned to the lanterns and lifted his son out of the grave, and Dean seemed to get the gist, because he turned the knob on them, and plunged them into relative darkness. John motioned for Dean to come back to him, and gripped his shoulder.
A police car was there, and two police officers were walking with flashlights, four rows down. John lowered his head and whispered to Dean, "We still gotta salt and burn the bones, but there's some cops out there, and technically this is illegal." Dean's eyes widened, and John rushed to comfort him. "It's fine, rules are made with good intentions, but they were made by idiots who don't know about monsters. We're fine.
"You're going to need to be really quiet and bring the duffle back to me, okay? Don't let the cops see you."
"Like a ninja?" Dean whispered back excitedly.
John arched an eyebrow. "Sure. Just... quiet, alright?" He waited until Dean nodded before letting go of his shoulder. Dean army crawled his way over to the bag, dropping his head and staying still whenever the flashlight beams got too close. With all the dirt on him, he managed not to get caught as he lowered the duffle into the grave.
John poured the gasoline and salt all over the corpse, grabbed the matchbox, and gave the duffle back to Dean.
"I'm going to get out of here and light 'er up, and we're going to run as fast as we can into the woods, 'kay Dean? Get ready to run." With one more glance at the officers to make sure they weren't facing their way, John lifted himself out of the grave and pushed Dean a bit further from the edge. He struck a match, thanked whatever was out there that the spirit didn't bother them, and watched the small fire tumble and expand.
The cops noticed quickly, alerted by a light fwoosh and the crackling sound of fire, and started running toward them. John collected the duffle, gave a shout of "Run!" and hauled ass. Dean wasn't far behind.
The woods were a good fifty feet away, and even with their twenty foot head start, they started gaining on Dean. He didn't seem to mind, though, just put his head down and dutifully ignored their orders to stop where they were.
There was one time, about fifteen feet from the woods, when one of the cops grabbed him around the waist. They tumbled to the ground, the other officer rushing past them to catch John, and whoever it was that stayed with Dean seemed to think the fight was over. He quickly moved, apologizing for smooshing the kid, and started to wheeze through a reprimand of, "When an officer yells stop, kid, I'd suggest you-oh, I don't know-stop. Now, I don't know why you're out here, digging up graves, but-"
And Dean was off again.
The officer was at even more of a disadvantage, getting up from his previous kneel and shouting, "*Stop, dammit!" as Dean raced ahead, cackling with glee. In front of him, he heard the other officer, still chasing John, and he quieted himself as he passed the border of the woods.
He took a turn at some point, and hid in some bushes to try and catch his breath. It wasn't long before he heard the officer running past.
It was another minute-which stretched out to be much longer, though Dean was definitely not scared-before he heard a familiar bird call. Just like John had taught him, three towns ago. If we ever get separated, wait for a bird call, like this.
Dean repeated the call, twice, and stayed where he was. This repeated another three times before John was finally there, smiling at his son and telling him quietly, "Nice running, kid."
Dean beamed back at him, and together they left to go back to the Impala.
Dean ended up falling asleep on the way back to the motel, such a contrast to his earlier excitement, and John indulged in carrying him back into the motel, removing his jacket and shoes, and tucking him into bed with Sam.
The next morning, Dean was still smiling widely, even as he fumbled with his spoon, hands inexpertly wrapped-most likely by Sammy, who was still questioning Dean about where he got the blisters in the first place.
"I told you; the stove was still hot and I touched it! Ask Dad, he knows."
John repressed a grimace at the ease with which Dean lied to Sam-he knew it was for the best, that at least one of them have a chance at a normal life-and just nodded when Sam looked at him questioningly.
And in the end, Dean got involved in a lot more hunts. He began needing more than just blisters to be bandaged.
He began to stop getting blisters.
Yet, through the next twenty-odd years of his life, that one night had been one of his favorites.
He never regretted it.
A few more quick things: 1) Thanks again for reading this far, 2) please feel free to leave a comment, even if you think it's silly or uninteresting; 3) again, any suggestions for a better title? and 4) I sincerely hope you enjoyed. :)