I read Menthol Pixie's synopsis for 'Whiskey' and, before even reading the story, this first scene popped into my head and wouldn't let go. I wrote it, then contacted her for permission to complete and post it. I didn't want to step on anyone's toes if the ideas overlapped. Now… I haven't read anywhere near everything ever written for SPN, so if this is similar to something else, it's purely coincidental.
Because I'm completely evil, this first part is simply a teaser.
FLASH POINT
The attack was sudden and ruthless and completely unexpected.
The sturdy shoulder that plowed into John's solar plexus brutally ripped the air from his lungs and toppled him to the ground. His head bounced twice off the dirty linoleum floor causing stars to appear in his vision, while the following uppercut to his jaw encouraged those stars to dance. A powerful blow to his left cheekbone whipped John's head to the side and the next, a glancing blow to his nose from the opposite direction, brought it back to a neutral position.
He curbed his natural instinct to fight back when a hand wrapped around his throat and pressure was applied. Not enough to constrict, just gain attention. No, John wasn't concerned with strangulation, but the second hand, the one that was balled into a fist and looming above him… That concerned him. He fully expected it to make contact, to drive into his face causing a spectacular display of blood spatter, broken bones, and flying teeth.
He expected this and so much more from his attacker.
John watch as, as if in slow motion, the fist, rock steady in determination, was drawn back even further and obscured temporarily by the scowling visage of his assailant.
His son.
The hand at his throat began to tremble, causing John's blurry vision to snap into sharp focus and zero in on the ice blue flame of fury burning in Dean's eyes. John saw his son's usually jovial features twisted by a fiery hatred that he wouldn't normally associate with the seventeen-year-old, let alone having that look directed at John himself. No, not from Dean, his perfect son. So like John in so many ways. An extension of himself, really. Dean was his soldier, his partner in the constant battle to rid the world of supernatural evils and, hopefully, avenge the death of their beloved wife and mother. And Dean fought those evils with a passion and fortitude that caused John's heart to swell.
But now, pinned to the floor under the weight of his beloved son, watching his chest heave with ragged breaths and the scowl give way to a sneer while the rigid muscles in Dean's body bunched and moved to swing that fist down for what would surely be a devastating blow, John's mind had room for only one thought.
He had never been more proud.
TBC...