Disclaimer: I only own that which I came up with. Sadly, Sam and Dean Winchester aren't included. Neither is John. :(
A/N: So this idea has been lurking since July, when I went to New Orleans with one of my best friends. Let me just say that New Orleans is awesome, and there's so much fodder for fanfic that I almost didn't know where to begin. This started as a one-shot…then it turned into a two-shot…and now it's a three-shot with the potential for more if I decide to revisit it in the future. This is part of the reason why I've been so delayed on updating my main fic, although RL also played a major role in that. I'm sorry for the long wait, regardless. Anyways, I hope you all enjoy!
Chapter 1: Drinks, Drugs, and Disputes
Maybe flying wasn't such a great idea, John decided, using one arm to propel Dean through the airport by the elbow while Braden hung limply in the other arm, the little boy having long since succumbed to Dramamine's sway. Braden hadn't put up much of a fuss—he'd never flown before, but having witnessed his reaction to traveling by car, John had decided not to take any chances, dosing him up before they'd left for the airport. Of the other three, Sam was the only one taking it all in stride, following along behind John with relative ease.
Of course, that could just be because I told him I'd think about letting him help out on this hunt…shouldn't fool myself into thinking it's for my benefit or anything.
Aubrey, whose hand was firmly nestled within Sam's, much to the fifteen-year-old's embarrassment, was lagging behind as much as Sam's reach would allow, sniffling and upset at having to leave that pain-in-the-ass hamster behind with one of John's buddies.
Davis had raised an eyebrow at John's request to keep the damn thing, but had acquiesced, promising the nine-year-old that he'd keep it safe, much to Dean's disappointment. But of course, Aubrey wasn't going to let it be that easy. She'd whined and cried ever since they left, and John could feel the edges of his temper beginning to fray.
Dean, as expected, had balked at the idea of flying from the start, and only the nineteen-year-old's dislike for being left behind was enough to motivate him to come along. But John couldn't be sure he still wouldn't bolt, hence his hand on Dean's elbow.
John wasn't particularly fond of flying, either, preferring to drive so that his weapons were close at hand and their vehicles were nearby in case they needed to make a quick getaway. But when Ellen had passed on word of what was looking like a demon in New Orleans, he hadn't wanted to turn it down. And since they'd been in Oregon at the time, well…flying it was.
So John had loaded up his children and the necessary weapons and headed to the airport, not sure whether he should be alarmed by what they'd allow through checked luggage or just damn grateful.
"Dad, you know, we could still make it if we took turns and drove through the night," Dean offered as John pushed him towards their terminal.
"No, Dean," he told him with a patience he didn't feel.
"Well, maybe you could fly, and the rest of us could drive down and meet you there," Dean suggested, gracing John with his biggest smile.
"Dean, if this thing really is a demon, we don't have the luxury of wasting time. Hell, even if it's not a demon, it's escalating. It's killing almost every night now. Besides that, I need you there, and I don't have time to wait on you to drive down. So we're flying. All of us," he said, maneuvering Dean into a chair before taking one himself. Settling Braden more comfortably against him, he pulled his journal out of his duffel, flipping through the pages until he got to his copy of the Rituale Romanum.
Need to brush up on it, just in case. Need to bless some water when we land, too. Or find a church. Whatever works.
He thought about passing the journal off to Dean, so he could read over John's information on demons, but one glance at his oldest son had him changing his mind.
Beside him, Dean was tapping the arm of the chair nervously, his leg bouncing up and down. His ADHD exacerbated by nerves, Dean took out the Guns 'N Ammo magazine that John had bought for him, opening it only to set it aside a few moments later, his eyes anxiously watching the planes through the terminal windows.
Shit. We haven't even gotten on the damn plane yet and the boy's a nervous wreck. That's not gonna work.
"Listen," he said lowly, waiting for Dean to lean closer before continuing, "Do you want something to calm you down?"
"What, like a drink?" Dean asked, his face brightening at the prospect of alcohol.
"Not what I had in mind, son," John replied, rolling his eyes. "I let you drink from time to time—and no, I don't wanna hear about what you get up to when you're out—but I'm not gonna risk buying you a drink in public like this. And I'm not sure how well that fake ID you think I don't know about will hold up to daytime scrutiny. I can't afford to have you nailed for underage drinking."
"Well, if you're not gonna buy me a drink, then what are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about drugging your ass," John told him bluntly. "So what do you think? Wanna give it a try?"
"Nah, Dad, you know that shit fucks me up—I don't wanna be knocked on my ass like that."
Damn.
"You gonna be able to get on the plane without freaking out on me, then?"
"Yessir."
Uh-huh. Right.
Sure enough, by the time they'd boarded the plane, Dean was a jittery bundle of nerves, and John wasn't altogether certain that the boy was gonna make it. He'd placed Dean in the window seat, preferring to box his oldest in by taking the middle seat for himself.
He placed Braden in the aisle seat, the little boy hardly moving as John buckled the seatbelt around him before settling into his own seat. Sam and Aubrey were sitting across the aisle from them, Sam in the aisle seat while Aubrey sat next to him.
"Dad, I don't want the window seat," Dean told him, a hint of panic leaking into his voice. "Why can't I sit with Sammy?"
Because I can't trust you not to bolt if I don't keep you hemmed in, John thought, but he didn't say that.
"Because I want you there," he told him instead. "Now put your seatbelt on and settle."
He turned to check on Aubrey and Sam, pleased to see that Sam had managed to distract Aubrey with the Barbie shit John had bought her. Sam had convinced John that the stupid doll accessories were a necessity and damn if he hadn't been right. All Sam had had to do was pull the Ziploc of clothes and shoes out of Aubrey's backpack and hand them to her, and she settled back with only a slight sniffle. Sam was currently immersed in a book he'd talked John into buying for him at the airport gift shop, too caught up in the story to notice that Aubrey was using his lap to hold her various Barbie doodads.
The silence from both of them was a blessed relief, and John spared a moment to be grateful for airport gift shops, even if they were overpriced as hell.
Peace and quiet, and all I had to do was buy a damn book and some doll shit. Who knew? Now if only Dean could be so easily pacified.
"Dad? Can you please buy me a drink?" Dean hissed, obviously not referring to a soft drink, and John fought back a sigh as he turned to see his oldest staring back at him with a pleading expression.
"No, Dean."
"C'mon, please! No one would have to know, and if anyone came by, we'd just pretend it was yours!"
"No. Don't ask again."
"Fuck."
"Watch it," John warned, casting a stern look at him. Dean knew well enough that profanity in polite company wasn't tolerated, and the general public certainly qualified. Dean fell silent, but John knew from years of experience that the matter was likely far from over.
Unfortunately, just as John had feared, Dean's anxiety only got worse, and by the time the plane began to taxi down the runway, Dean was quietly hyperventilating next to him.
Shit.
"Hey, hey, easy," he murmured, gently pushing Dean's head down between his knees. "Just breathe, son—we'll level out in a minute."
They reached flying altitude after a tense ten minutes, but Dean wasn't any closer to calming down. Instead, his back was heaving under John's hand as he gasped for air. And of course, as Winchester luck would have it, they hit turbulence ten minutes into the flight, causing Dean's panic to skyrocket. Dean groaned, and John worried for a moment that the nineteen-year-old was about to hurl.
"It's alright, Dean—just some turbulence. It's okay."
"Fucking…turbulence…not…ok," Dean gasped.
"Sir? Is everything alright?"
John looked up to see a concerned flight attendant standing next to them.
"My boy's a nervous flyer."
"More like a terrified flyer," Sam snorted, and Dean turned his head to level a murderous look at his younger brother.
Sort of loses some of its effectiveness when you look like you're about to hurl, son.
"Sam, read your book and leave your brother alone," John ordered, casting a look of his own at Sam before turning back to Dean, who was doing his best to slow his breathing.
"Is there anything I can do to help?" the flight attendant asked.
"Uh, if you could bring him a glass of water, that'd be great."
"Is that all?"
"Yeah, I'll take care of the rest," he assured her.
"Dad…'m not…thirsty," Dean gasped, his hand latching onto John's knee as he shook his head.
"Maybe not, but you're gonna take something to calm you down," John told him as the flight attendant left to get Dean's water.
"No, I'll…be…fine," Dean argued, still trying to catch his breath.
"What kind of a father would I be if I let you suffer like this?" John asked, the question a rhetorical one that Dean decided to answer.
"An…understanding…one. I don't wanna… take anything…fucks with my head, Dad."
"You misunderstand me, son—this isn't a discussion, and I'm not gonna argue with you."
"Dad—"
"I said I'm not gonna argue with you, and I thought I was pretty clear about it. You're taking what I give you, understand?"
"Yessir," Dean mumbled, visibly trying to get control of himself, as if doing so might change his father's mind in the next minute and a half.
Not likely, John thought. Even if Dean managed somehow to calm down, which wasn't fucking likely, he'd still be as hyperactive as usual—not something John wanted to deal with on a plane. Fishing Valium out of his small carry-on, he waited for the flight attendant to bring Dean's water before handing the pill to his oldest. Dean wanted to argue again, obviously, but it was kind of hard to argue when he was shaking too hard to hold the cup steady.
Dean didn't do anything by half-measures, John knew. Boy can face crazy shit all day without flinching but put him on a plane and he's practically having a damn panic attack.
With a dark scowl, Dean swallowed the proffered pill and relinquished his meager hold on the cup of water to his father before dropping his head back against the seat with a panicked expression as the plane bucked a little under their feet. He shifted forward with a groan, putting his head back down between his knees and leaving John unsure of whether he was about to vomit or pass out.
John moved his hand to Dean's back, rubbing comforting circles while Dean groaned, his hands resuming a death grip on the armrests.
"Just breathe and let the drugs kick in," John murmured as Dean coughed, and John wondered if he was going to have to grab the barf-bag. Luckily, Dean just gagged for a second before he got control of the urge to vomit, and slowly, over the next ten minutes, Dean's breathing began to slow. His death-grip relaxed and at last, his body went limp as he slumped sideways. John eased him back against the seat, hardly surprised when Dean slid sideways until he was propped up on John's shoulder.
Within another few minutes, they left the turbulence behind and the pilot's voice announced that they could take off their seatbelts and move around the cabin if necessary.
Finally, John thought, heaving a sigh of relief as he glanced up at the seatbelt light. Reassured that it was in fact off, he turned to Aubrey, who was happily brushing her Barbie's hair amidst a wardrobe change.
"Aubrey?"
"Sir?" she asked absently, dropping the brush in Sam's lap and frowning as she fiddled with the Velcro fastening at the back of her Barbie's dress.
"You mind looking in my bag and grabbing my journal and the big, green book that's with it? I don't want to disturb Dean by trying to move."
"Okay, Daddy," she said, dropping her Barbie on Sam's lap and unbuckling her seatbelt. Scooting past Sam and hopping across the aisle, she bent down and crawled under Braden's feet to get to the bag John had stuffed under his seat.
"Hey, Dad?"
Looking over, John saw Sam looking back at him with a slightly sheepish expression.
"Is Dean okay?" he asked, obviously feeling guilty about giving his brother a hard time over what was clearly more than a mild case of nerves.
"Yeah, he's fine now."
"Oh, well, um, you think he's mad at me?"
"Shouldn't you have thought of that before you started ragging on him?"
"Yeah..." Sam grumbled, his foot nudging the footrest on the seat in front of him as he kept his eyes averted guiltily.
Aubrey popped back out into the aisle, handing John her things before dropping back into her seat and grabbing her Barbie back from Sam.
"Oh, and Sam?"
"Sir?"
"I don't guess I need to tell you that if you give Dean a hard time about this after we land, he's gonna make your life hell, do I?"
"No sir."
"Good, keep that in mind," John told him, turning back to his research as Dean slumbered next to him.
The case was certainly interesting, and if it wasn't a demon, John supposed it could be a shape-shifter. But it was really looking like a demon.
It had first appeared in 1911, murdering three people and attacking numerous others. It reappeared in 1918, terrorizing the people of New Orleans for a year and a half before disappearing once again. Nothing had been heard of it in the years since, which further suggested to John that it was a demon. If the thing had been exorcised, it might have taken it this long to escape Hell. And now it was back, either conjured by some demon-worshipping moron, or just powerful enough to drag itself out unaided. Either way, it was killing people with a vengeance, leaving enough bodies to have the police baffled and the entire French Quarter beginning to panic. It was strange enough that it was killing so many people to begin with, John knew. Most demons were a little more circumspect about their misdeeds, well aware that if they were too obvious, they'd attract the kind of attention that would get them exorcised by the nearest hunter.
The whole case was unique, he admitted. The French Quarter was practically built on superstition, hauntings, and strange tales. Hell, half the people who'd been interviewed back in the day stated flat out that the supposed serial killer was a demon, no questions asked. Most towns, most people, didn't want to admit to even the possibility that a killer was anything other than human. If the townsfolk were still willing to consider the idea, the job might be made a tad easier. Still, he was gonna have to be on top of his game if they were gonna stop the demon. Like he'd told Dean, the demon was escalating its attacks, leaving fewer and fewer people alive, unlike its attacks in 1918 and 1919.
John was eager to get to New Orleans. He'd encountered more demons than most hunters, actively seeking out the hunts that hinted at demonic involvement. Though he hadn't told Dean, he knew well enough that it was a demon that had killed Mary, and John operated off the idea that any demon he encountered might be the one.
The M.O. on this one doesn't match, though. No fire, no mothers with their stomachs sliced, no children left behind. And no valid witness accounts. This one isn't the same thing that killed Mary. But one day…
One day, he was gonna find that sonovabitch.
That was a fucking promise.
Getting off the plane was only mildly easier than getting on, because while Dean wasn't a panic-stricken ball of nerves, he wasn't quite lucid either, just a bleary-eyed bundle of orneriness. And Braden was deadweight on John's shoulder, a casualty of the Dramamine-induced coma, which, while John could appreciate during travel, had to admit was a nuisance otherwise.
So how do we do this? It only took John a moment to realize he was going to be forced to herd his offspring to the baggage claim, carrying Braden in one arm while keeping a firm hold on Dean with his free hand.
It's all about prioritizing: keep up with the drugged ones that are too stoned to follow of their own volition.
"Sam, hold on to Aubrey, and you keep up with me, understand?"
"Yeah, yeah…"
"Samuel! I mean it—there are a lot of people here, and half of 'em are probably fucking crazy. So you stay with me, is that clear?"
"Yessir," Sam replied more respectfully, obviously grasping that John wasn't just talking out of his ass to hear his own voice. He stuck close, and they made it outside with everyone present and accounted for.
"Damn, 's fuckin' hot out here," Dean muttered crankily, his eyes bleary as he blinked against the bright Louisiana sun.
"No, shit," Sam threw in. "We're not gonna have to stay here long, are we, Dad?" Sam asked, his voice filled with the petulance that John had become increasingly familiar with since Sam had entered into teenage hormonal hell.
"As long as it takes to get the job done," John told him firmly, shifting Braden's weight to his other arm as he scanned the loading/unloading zone for Jeb.
"We don't have to go into the bayou, do we?" Sam asked, the hint of something akin to disgust in his voice evident. "The travel books say it's even hotter there, and the mosquitoes alone could do us in—you know, if the snakes or the spiders don't get us first."
"We'll go there if we have to. Now quit whining."
"What are we doing, Daddy?" Aubrey asked, and John could only hope that she wasn't about to pick up where Sam had left off with the whining, because if he'd learned anything from his time with the twins, it was that Aubrey was a champion whiner.
"We're waiting for a guy I know. He's gonna pick us up here."
"Why can't we just take a taxi? There's like a hundred of 'em, and then we wouldn't have to stand out here and be bored," she told him earnestly.
"I just told you the answer to that, Aubrey. We're waiting for Jeb, and I don't wanna hear another word about it, understand?"
Okay, so maybe it's not just my children who are cranky and irritable…
"But, Daddy—"
"Aubrey, I swear—" John began, his patience at an end when Dean chose to interrupt.
"'m hungry. 's past lunch time. When 're we gonna eat?"
"After you almost hurled on the plane and Dad had to drug your ass, you're still hungry?" Sam asked him disbelievingly.
"'s what I fuckin' said," Dean retorted hotly, obviously not appreciating the reminder of his trouble on the plane.
"Daddy, what's this place called again?" Aubrey cut in, seemingly oblivious to the bickering and the fact that her father's blood pressure was about to go through the roof.
"The airport," Sam answered sarcastically, and this time, John didn't resist the urge to thump him.
"Quit being a smart-ass," he warned him, even as Aubrey gave Sam a dirty look.
"'s New Orleans, Aub," Dean answered. "Home of beignets and Cajun food. Which I'm never gonna get if we don't find a fucking restaurant soon."
"Oh, okay. Thanks, D. See, Sam," Aubrey said, turning to Sam with a scowl, "Dean is nice, and he tells me things. That's why he's my favorite."
Until Dean does something to piss her off and she changes her mind, John thought with a sigh.
"Oooh, I'm all torn up inside," Sam retorted dryly, rolling his eyes at her. Pointedly ignoring him, she turned back to John.
"So can we find the fucking restaurant now, Daddy?" Aubrey asked suddenly, staring up at him innocently even as Sam started laughing.
"Sweetheart, you really shouldn't say that," he told her gently, the look in her eyes belying the fact that she had no idea what she'd said.
"But D said it," she said, staring up at him with confused eyes.
"Yeah, I know, and he shouldn't have said it either," John said, casting an annoyed look at his oldest, who was smirking as he turned away to watch the traffic flow in front of them with bleary eyes.
"How come?" Aubrey was asking. "Is a fucking restaurant a not-good kind? Do they have icky food there?" she went on, totally oblivious to her brothers' amusement.
"No, baby, there aren't any fucking restaurants—your brother wasn't using 'fucking' as an adjective to describe the restaurant, he was using it as emphasis, and…look, just understand that 'fuck' and all of its variations are inappropriate in pretty much every situation, especially in polite company. Okay?"
"I don't get it," she said, shaking her head with growing confusion.
Shit, I'm too tired for this.
"It's a swear word, Aubrey, Dean's favorite," Sam clarified. "It's not nice, is what Dad's trying to say." Though John didn't appreciate the smart-aleck tone, Sam's answer did seem to do the trick, as Aubrey didn't have to think about Sam's words at all before she was nodding.
"Ohhhh. Why didn't you just say that, Daddy? That made lots more sense."
"I thought I did," John told her tiredly.
"No, not really. But I'm sorry—I won't say it no more."
"Thanks, sweetheart."
"What's the big deal, Dad?" Sam asked as Aubrey turned away, her attention caught by the souvenirs some guy was selling not too far away. "Hell, Dean says 'fuck' at least once every five minutes or so, unless we're somewhere that you'd bitch at him for it. And you say it, too. What's the difference, then, if she says it?" he went on, his eyebrow cocked as he openly challenged his father, his less-than-respectful tone rubbing John entirely the wrong way.
He keeps this shit up, we're not gonna live through his teen years, John thought irritably, even as he turned a stern gaze on his middle son.
"The difference, Samuel, is that I know what it means and when not to say it. Now I suggest you quit giving me a hard time and reconsider your tone when you're talking to me."
It wasn't really a suggestion, and Sam picked up on it pretty damn fast, falling silent and kicking morosely at the ground with the toe of his tennis shoe. Thankfully, Jeb arrived before any of John's other children decided to test his patience any further. Jeb pulled up in front of them and popped open the back of his SUV so they could load their luggage.
It was one of those big mothers, the kind with two rows of seats in the back and a huge-ass cargo hold that would expand when you folded the seats up.
Like driving a fucking tank, but useful, he thought as he started taking luggage from each of his children. Of course, that's when the squabbling began anew.
"Me and Bray wanna sit in the middle!" Aubrey chimed, jumping into the closest seat with a delighted smile, and for a second, John had the crazy notion that that would be the end of it. But of course not.
"No way!" Sam protested. "Youngest takes the backseat—that's you and Braden."
"Nuh-uh! We called it first!"
"Bullshit—Braden's not even awake—he didn't call anything!"
"Well I did!"
"And I called it second," Sam pointed out, "so I get dibs before Braden."
"But I don't wanna sit with you," Aubrey retorted, sparing a look of disgust for her older brother. "I wanna sit with Bray."
"'m not fuckin' sittin' in the back," Dean announced suddenly, "and Dad's not gonna toss Braden over the fucking seat, so looks like you're both shit outta luck. Now shut it, and un-ass my seat," he told her, obviously expecting her compliance as he turned away to shove his bag into the cargo area with the other luggage.
"But that's not fair!" Aubrey yelled, not moving as her face took on the familiar stubborn tilt that John knew all too well.
"Tough shit," Dean barked. "I'm not fuckin' arguing with you," he told her, his mood obviously taking a nosedive. He grabbed Aubrey, lifting her over the middle and depositing her into the backseat as John looked on. "Get in, Sam."
"Man, this blows," Sam grumbled under his breath, but long years of experience dealing with his older brother in the midst of a post-narcotic frame of mind had taught Sam when to shut up and let Dean have his way.
Good call, son. Good call.
Within minutes, John had deposited Braden in the seat beside Dean, and after making sure the little boy was secure, John climbed into the front seat beside Jeb, who had wisely chosen not to say a word during the Winchester family drama.
The A/C was running at full blast, settling around them and easing the discomfort of the New Orleans heat, and before they'd even left the airport, Dean had conked out again, and John knew without a doubt that Dean would be resentful as hell about it when he woke up later.
"Your boy there gonna be with it enough to help on this one, Johnny?" Jeb asked, glancing at Dean in the rearview mirror. "I mean, I know you're a lone-wolf and all, but you're gonna need help with this one, and I ain't in any shape to help ya," Jeb told him, gesturing to his left leg, which John knew had gotten fucked up in a disastrous Wendigo hunt several years ago. It had left Jeb with a bad limp that had relegated the other man to research duty for what was likely the rest of his hunting days.
"John?" he prompted when John didn't answer, obviously taking John's silence as confirmation. "This ain't a one-man job, y' hear?"
"Relax, would you? I'm taking Dean with me, just like I told you before. He'll be just fine, Jeb."
"You're not bullshittin' me, are ya?"
"Would I do that?" John asked him, throwing an innocent look in Jeb's direction.
"Hell yeah, you would," Jeb answered with a grin. "You'd do that and more. But look," he said, getting serious once more. "I know you like to do things on your own, but this ain't one of those kinda jobs. You try to do this one alone, and you're liable to get either really hurt or really dead."
"Jeb, lighten up, I'm not a fucking rookie—I know when to take back-up. I already told you, Dean's got my back on this one."
"You sure he's up to it? 'Cause from where I'm sittin', he ain't lookin' so hot."
"He doesn't fly well—I had to give him something to calm him down. He just needs to sleep it off, that's all."
"Well, just make sure you give him time before you rush headlong into this hunt. Ya'll gotta be on top of your game if you're gonna pull this off."
"You just get us where we're going—I'll take care of Dean."
"You're, uh, not takin' the other three, though, right?"
"Thought about bringing Sam along, too, but I haven't decided yet."
"But, Dad, you said I could come," Sam protested from the back, his voice tight as he stared back at John with a betrayed expression.
"No, I said I'd think about it. I need to do a little more research on things first. This one might be too dangerous, and I'm still trying to figure out what to do with the twins if I take you with us. I don't like leaving them alone without one of us. I might need you to stay with them."
"They'll be fine without me!"
"No, we want you to stay with us, Sam!" Aubrey threw in, and it was all John could do not to throw his hands up and beg for mercy.
"Shut-up, Aubrey!" Sam told her vehemently.
"Sam, don't talk to your sister that way. Now I told you I haven't decided yet, but you're gonna have to accept that whatever I decide is what's best for everybody. If I need you to stay, then you're gonna have to stay."
"Why don't you just go ahead and admit it, Dad?" Sam said resentfully. "You've already decided that you're not taking me with you! I'm gonna end up with the twins! Again! They ruin everything!"
"Hey!" John barked, suddenly done arguing with his fifteen-year-old. "My decision is just that—mine. I'll decide whether you're going or not. But I will tell you this much—your attitude right now is not exactly putting you in my good graces. So I suggest you stop while you're still ahead. You feel me?"
Sam glared back at him with a look that just screamed "I hate your guts" before slumping in the seat, his arms crossed over his chest as he stared angrily out the window.
Why do I get the feeling that this is far from over?
Maybe because I know my son.
Damn.
"Ooo—eee, Johnny, you sure got yourself a spitfire there," Jeb said low under his breath.
"No shit."
"Thought you just had the two older ones."
"Yeah, so did I, until about a year ago."
"How're the new ones fittin' in?"
"About as well as can be expected," John told him, deciding not to mention the hamster, the crying, the clinging, the drama, and the weirdness that went hand-in-hand with his two youngest.
"Well…if you decide to take Sam there with you, your little 'uns are safe with me."
"I know they are, Jeb," John told him sincerely. "I'm just not sure how well they'll take it. Well, Braden wouldn't give a shit—nothing much riles him. But Aubrey…she's liable to go postal. She's got some…separation anxiety issues."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. And it's hell," John said, glancing back to make sure Aubrey wasn't listening before he continued. "I can't step outside the damn door without upsetting her. I thought raising two boys on my own was tough, but…damn, if one little girl isn't bringing me to my fucking knees."
"Ah, she'll grow out of it."
"I sure as hell hope so."
"Well, if you're not sure about takin' your boys, I got a few numbers I could call. Might take 'em a day or two to get here, but…"
"Nah, I think we can handle it. I wanna do some more research first, see how much help I'm likely to need."
"Daddy! Can we ride one o' those?" Aubrey yelled suddenly, an excited, high pitched girl-squeal that had John wincing. Glancing back to see what she was referring to, he saw her gaze following a streetcar with absolute glee, unmatched by even the joy of her Barbies.
"Maybe later, sweetheart."
"You sure we can't ride one now? They look fun," she told him cajolingly, her blue eyes staring back at him with hope.
"Not today—I've got some stuff to take care of first. You'll have to wait, unless you can talk Dean into taking you. But don't ask him right now," he told her before she could wake the older boy.
"But I can ask him later?"
"Yeah."
"How much later?"
"Aubrey," he said firmly, letting his tone tell her in no uncertain terms that he was done. He'd learned quickly enough that if he let her, she'd play Twenty Questions for hours.
"I bet that one's a pistol," Jeb said with a chuckle, and John sighed, shaking his head ruefully.
"You have no idea," John told him with an affectionate but tired smile.
"Daddy, where're we goin?"
Shit.
"Jeb's house," John told her, already anticipating her next question.
Wait for it, wait for it…
"When are we gonna get there?"
Yep.
"A few more minutes, darlin'," Jeb answered for her, and Aubrey smiled, delighted, and obviously taking his response as an invitation to start chattering at him.
"I like your car, Mr. Jeb—it's bigger 'n the 'Pala…but don't tell D I said so. He thinks Baby is the best car on the whole planet. She's nice, but this one's got more room."
"Speak for yourself," Sam muttered, his height having left him with less room than Aubrey's much smaller stature.
"I even got a cup-holder all my own, Sam," Aubrey told him. "See, you got one, too!"
"Too bad I don't have a drink to put in it," Sam said pointedly, and John merely had to glance back to put a stop to what was no doubt about to turn into a bitch session.
"If we had drinks, would you let us have 'em in the car to put in our cup-holders, Mr. Jeb?"
"We don't have drinks, Aubrey—quit askin' stupid questions," Sam retorted.
"Quit in-aruptin' me, Sam! I wasn't askin' you!" she yelled, only to turn back to Jeb with a sweet expression. "So would you?"
"Well, if you did have drinks, I reckon so."
"D won't let us have drinks in Baby very much—Daddy has to make 'im let us," Aubrey informed Jeb.
"Likes his car, does he?"
"Yessir. He says it'll mess up his 'terior."
"His 'terior'?"
"Yeah, you know, the inside stuff. He cleans her all the time, and he gets real mad if we make a mess in the backseat. We try to be careful, but the car bumps sometimes on those pothole thingies, so we spill stuff sometimes. If we're real sneaky, he don't notice, though, not if we clean it up real fast before he sees it."
John chuckled at that, wondering just how often the twins managed to get away with such spills.
"So can we, Daddy?"
"Can you what?"
"Can we get something to drink? I'm thirsty. Bray is, too."
It reminded John of that funny-as-hell mouse story, the one about the mouse and the cookie that Sam had asked him to read almost every night for a month after he'd heard it at school when he was six.
If you show a kid a cup-holder, she's probably gonna want a cup to put in it. And if you give her the cup, she's probably gonna want something to eat along with it…
"Johnny? You want me to hit a drive-thru? I mean, we're not far from my place, but there's a McDonald's about ten minutes the other way."
"Nah, they can wait until we get to your place. I don't want you going out of your way. Besides, the sooner we get there, the sooner I can start doing some legwork on this case. I can't get a bead on its agenda, and it's pissing me off."
"Sorry about that, Aubrey," Jeb told the little girl staring back at them from the back. "I tried, but your ol' man didn't go for it."
"Tha's alright, Mr. Jeb—we don't go to McDonald's anyway. D says it's 'cause Sam's afraid of clowns."
"Shut-up, Aubrey!" Sam barked, obviously not appreciating his little sister spilling the beans.
"It's alright, Sam," she told him soothingly. "We're all scared of somethin'."
"Yeah, well, I don't hear you tellin' everybody on the planet about the stuff you're scared of!" Sam retorted, his face red from anger and embarrassment.
"Alright, alright, enough!" John interrupted, wishing like hell that his children weren't so damned argumentative. He'd thought Aubrey and Sam would get along well, but these days, they mostly seemed to snipe at one another more often than not. Granted, Sam usually started it, which was par for the course these days, but Aubrey was settling right in, perfectly willing to shovel it back at him.
'course, maybe that just means he'll get it out of his system with Aubrey and not start shit with me…
Yeah. Right.
Thankfully, they reached the Creole townhouse that Jeb called home a few minutes later, and though John wasn't much for architecture and shit, even he had to admit it was a nice place. Huge, too, John admitted.
As though he sensed the stopping of the car, Dean stirred from the mini-nap he'd been taking, staring around groggily before the crankiness came back to his features and he shoved his way out of the car.
Braden finally stirred as John lifted him out of the seat and set him down, but John could tell from the look on his youngest son's face that tears were a definite possibility in the near future. He wasn't prone to fits and temper tantrums—no, that would be John's other children—but even he wasn't immune to the meltdowns brought on by exhaustion. Despite the fact that he'd slept for the entire flight as well as the drive, the little boy was still tired, and it always left him in that 'one step away from crying' state that children were so often prone to when they were tired.
"Jeb, 've you got somewhere I can lay Braden down? He's about five minutes away from a meltdown."
"I am not!" Braden said hotly, staring back at John mutinously, even as John laid a hand on his shoulder and began to steer him toward the house.
"Yeah, take the front staircase, second door on the left. Here," Jeb told him, tossing him a key on a dangly keychain. "I'll help the other three unload."
"Thanks, Jeb," John said, already maneuvering the sullen nine-year-old toward the house. By the time John had Braden settled on the large bed in a guestroom upstairs, Jeb had managed to help the kids get everything inside.
"There're couple more spare bedrooms up there, Johnny—you're welcome to 'em."
John nodded his thanks, about to round everyone up to help get the gear out of the entryway, but Sam beat him to the punch.
"Can we look around, Jeb?"
"Sam—" John began, but Jeb cut him off with a smile.
"Sure, Sam—just stay out of the study, that door there," he said, nodding towards the open door at the end of the hall.
"How come?" Aubrey asked, sidestepping before John could thump her for being nosy.
"I've got weapons out and other stuff in there that pretty little girls like yourself don't need to see," Jeb told her with a wink.
"Oh, okay."
Aubrey and Sam raced off to explore the house while Dean turned to John questioningly.
"You want me to stay, Dad?"
"Nah, go on with your brother and sister for now. I'll fill you in later."
Dean nodded, and turned to follow his siblings, though at a more sedate pace, no doubt ready to find a spot to settle in until the drugs left his system.
Hopefully, he'll sleep it off before I have to deal with him acting pissy and ornery all night.
"So what's your plan, then?" Jeb asked as he dropped onto the settee in what John correctly assumed was a 'sitting room.'
Place reeks of old money. Too damn fancy for a hunter, he thought, eyeing the settee as though as it might break any moment. Hell, if I sit on the damn thing, too, it probably will. He settled instead for a somewhat sturdier looking chair positioned diagonally away from Jeb.
"I've got a little legwork to do before I start going after this thing, need to figure out what's motivating it and look for signs of demonic activity. I wanna check into the voodoo angle, just to rule it out if nothing else. I'm still trying to figure out a pattern to the killings. If I can do that, I might be able to figure out where it's gonna strike next."
"And you think you'll be able to handle it with just Dean?"
"Hey, Dean's young, but he's got all the makings of a damn fine hunter. He's already pretty good—he just needs to get some more experience under his belt."
"What about Sam? You think it's a good idea to take a kid his age into a hunt like this one? Demons ain't exactly small potatoes, Johnny. Especially one that's actin' all rabid like this one. Demons try to keep a lower profile while they're out doing all that evil shit—keeps 'em from gettin' caught and sent back to hell. This one, though, it doesn't seem to give a shit, and that's what's got me worried."
"Yeah, you're probably right," John admitted. "This might be more than Sam's ready for. Don't get me wrong—he's got a good head on his shoulders, but yeah…If nothing else, I'll let him help out on the research. He'll be a big help when it comes to—"
"I knew it!"
John turned at the sound of Sam's voice, cursing silently at the sight of his fifteen-year-old standing in the doorway.
How is it that I always forget Sam's propensity for eavesdropping? Fuck.
"Sam—"
"I knew you'd leave me here—you always do! You always leave me behind!"
"C'mon, Sam, let's don't do this—" he started, but Sam shook his head, angry tears now spilling down his face.
"I've been training really hard—I've done everything you told me to do, but it's never enough! Why isn't it ever enough for you?"
John's heart clenched painfully at the hurt in his son's face, in his voice, and he stood, reaching out only to have Sam back away, shaking his head again as he choked back a sob. Sam spun on his heel and ran out, his pounding footsteps sounding on the stairs. A door slammed a moment later, giving rise to an uncomfortable silence.
"Damn it," John muttered, sinking back into the chair with a weary sigh as Jeb looked on with a pitying look.
"I'll see if I can find a way to cheer him up while you and Dean are gone," Jeb offered, but John shook his head.
"I doubt there's anything you can do, Jeb. There won't be any appeasing him—he's got too much of me in him. He's pissed, and he's gonna stay that way until he's good and ready to let it go. Best thing is to just stay out of his way."
And hope for the best, John added silently as he reluctantly stood and went to get his gear together for the evening's reconnaissance. No doubt it was gonna be a long, hot, miserable-as-hell stay in the Big Easy.
