Disclaimer: I Do not own Supernatural or any of these characters.
What Becomes of Us
Chapter 1: No One Believes
John sat on the couch contemplating recent events and future plans. He had to be crazy to believe what he saw. He knew everyone in town stared at him and were mostly frightened of him. The police didn't believe him. Ann, the neighbor lady they were staying with, didn't believe him. He couldn't even believe it himself. So, why did this guy Special Agent Richard, believe him?
His right hand hung over the blue flower couch's armrest. In his hand was the all too familiar whiskey glass. He swished the whiskey around in the glass and took a large swallow. His arm rested again on the arm rest. He wasn't certain he trusted this guy. He certainly didn't look much like a FBI. John still couldn't figure out why the FBI was interested in his wife's death. Especially since the local police felt it was just a terrible accident.
Terrible accident? My God, it was no accident. John rested his forehead on his free hand and sobbed. He'd been a horrible husband. At times, he wasn't sure what kept Mary married to him. He knew she'd thought about leaving a little before she found out she was pregnant with Sam. I of course vowed to be a good husband. Sam was going to change everything for us. I was trying so hard to be the husband she wanted.
He sobbed some more, sucked in a deep breath, and took the final swig of whiskey. He'd made the decision to follow this Richard. He suspected he knew more then he was letting on. He knew he was staying at the Up All Night Inn and leaving town tomorrow. Whatever was going on, tomorrow he was going to get answers. One way or another I will find the man who tore apart my family.
Early the next morning, Dean carried Sam from the small room at the end of the hall to the living room to watch some cartoons. It was too early for Ann to be up; she made the best waffles on Saturday and Dean couldn't wait to have a few. He found John passed out sitting on the couch. The whiskey glass discarded on the floor next to the couch. One lone drop of drool hung from John's chin.
Dean carefully set Sam down and turned the television on low. Dean quickly cleaned up the whiskey glass in the kitchen and put it in the cupboard. Ann didn't like John drinking so much. Dean didn't want her to be upset. He desperately wanted today to be a good day. It was Saturday after all.
John stirred to life twenty minutes later to find Sam and Dean sitting on the floor in front of him watching cartoons. He really didn't know what to do with them. Their mom had been in charge of caring for them. He didn't know Dean's favorite food or how many words Sam could say. But he did love his sons, just in a disconnected father way. If only he knew how to connect with them.
"You're awake daddy. I didn't mean to wake you." Dean nervously glanced at John. He could never be certain what type of mood his dad would be in after sleeping off the drunk.
"No, son you're ok." John noticed they were watching a Spiderman cartoon. "Spiderman, huh?" He smiled fondly; Spiderman had always been one of his favorite superheroes.
"Yeah! He's the best!" Dean exclaimed.
"Climb on up here. Both of you." He stretched out his arms inviting the boys onto the couch. Hungry for affection, they clambered up and settled into the embrace.
Sam, Dean, and John sat on the couch together for the remaining of the cartoon. Each of the boys snuggled under one of their daddy's arms. After the episode was over, John kissed the top of each of their heads. "I'm gonna be out of town for a job today. You boys be good for Ann. Do what you're told. OK?"
"Sure thing Daddy. You'll be back though, right?" Dean always got anxious if John was gone too long. Mary's death had really affected him and he was certain Dean worried that John may just go away too.
"I will always be back. Always." He said softly and kissed them one last time.
John had followed the FBI agent for over two hours before he pulled into a junk yard and parked in front of a house. The guy was certainly not dressed like FBI today. He had on a pair of worn out jeans and a red and black flannel shirt. His hair was a bit messy. John pulled the Impala into the drive and found the guy waiting for him.
"Mr. Winchester. What can I do for 'ya?" Bobby had his arms folded across his chest and stood next to a beat-up Chevy truck. The truck's window was down with a shotgun within arms reach. He didn't trust anyone, but he especially didn't trust a man who'd just lost his wife.
"I want to know why you believed my story and..." John paused, looked at the farm house and the car-filled property, "I want to know who you are." John was nervous; he'd not really confronted anyone in a long time. He was well-trained from his time in the marines but that seemed like a long time ago.
Bobby looked the man up and down. He was mourning that was certain. He seemed harmless enough. "Well, for all of that, you'll need a drink. Come on inside."
After John was settled at the kitchen table with beer in hand, Bobby explained who he was and that he quite simply believed him, because everything he said was true. That completely freaked out John. John was in shock. This whole time he thought he was crazy, but this man was defiantly crazier then him.
"Look, I know this is a lot to take in. I don't know all the details. I'm working on that. But you're wife most definitely didn't die of natural causes." Bobby wasn't good at gentle, but he was trying. He'd always been a bit rough around the edges. He finished his beer and got them both another one from the fridge. "Look. You can believe me or not. Doesn't change the facts."
John left Bobby's house that day with mixed emotions. There was now one other person who believed that John wasn't crazy. The only question was, was Bobby crazy or could this all be real? He wanted to believe. He wanted to believe so badly his body ached. He wanted to be able to get revenge on something. If it had all been one tragic accident, then he had nothing to live for. If Bobby was right, he had something to fight for. He had something to blame and to exact revenge on.
The drive back to Ann's was one big blur. His mind raced with demons, curses and killing demons. He sat in front of Ann's house with the Impala's engine running. He wasn't ready to go in; he wasn't ready to face the boys. He put the car in drive and drove to an old car shop in the middle of town. Before the fire, this was his job. His second home. Some nights, when Mary and he fought, it was home.
The shop was a small garage with two stalls and a small waiting room. It was an old building with brown tile floor and wood paneling in the waiting area. He and Ernie would tease the owner about getting the place updated. But it had been the owner's father's shop and he couldn't part with the paneling for one reason or another. Sentimental bastard. That was something John didn't quite understand. How could anyone be that attached to wood paneling?
As he approached the shop, he noticed there were no cars being repaired. Ernie's boredom was poorly hidden. He absently thumbed throw an old copy of Motor Today and stared out the window. The door bell started him; he obviously jumped as John walked in.
"Hey there!" He was grateful to see John. Despite what everyone else said about his mental health, John remained one of Ernie's closest friend.
One thing John liked about Ernie was his ability to sit and listen. He didn't interrupt until you were done talking. It was a good quality that most don't possess. John unloaded on him. Without fear of embarrassment he told Ernie about what he saw and his conversation with Bobby. He expressed his anger and need for revenge. When he was done venting, Ernie said nothing. He picked up the phone and asked for a phone number and then turned to John.
"Here is the number of a woman you should talk to. My wife swears by her." He handed the number scribbled on the torn corner of Motor Today.
AN: Thanks for reading. Please let me know what you think. I appreciate any concrit.