AN: All right people, here's what happened: I had literally a dozen NCIS fics in various stages of finishing on my computer and then my boyfriend finally forced me to watch his favorite show with him and now here I am, totally hooked on Supernatural and being attacked by plot bunnies left right and center. Which is kind of nice. ^^
Okay, anyway, this may surprise you, but I still haven't managed to buy myself any of my favorite TV shows. Also, I think I got the title from some song. Lyric? Title? Who knows. I'm guessing it's by NOFX or ZZ Top; rated for language.
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The old grandfather's clock that seems totally out of place, hanging behind the bar proudly proclaims 2:17 when Dean decides to take a swing at the bar tender.
Well, not so much take a swing at him, as drunkenly lurch himself in the general direction of the man, stumbling off his barstool, staggering backwards and landing on top of the busty girl that was standing behind him, talking to her boyfriend/sugar daddy/fuck buddy.
Which in turn inspires the boyfriend/sugar daddy/fuck buddy to take a swing at Dean, who takes down several bar stools, including their occupants on his way into the counter.
John slams down his newly acquired beer bottle, misjudging his momentum quite spectacularly, shattering the thing and sending the cool liquid up and down the counter and onto the front of his shirt.
John's a tad surprised when he realizes that he too is absolutely, stumbling-over-your-own-feet drunk, when moments earlier he was laughing at the bar tender's suggestion that he might not be fit to drive.
They were celebrating their last job, joking, laughing, matching each other beer for beer, shot for shot, until Dean looked vaguely sick and John said something stupid about not passing out on him like a little girl and Dean started ordering double chasers in a misguided campaign to prove to him that he was not a little girl.
John produces a low growl in the back of his throat and stands, swaying slightly between his son on the floor and several angry patrons.
He may be wasted, but he's nowhere near the blind shitfaced state his son is in and a bunch of angry, equally drunk rednecks are no match for John Winchester. The brawl is over before it really starts. Busty Girl's boyfriend/sugar daddy/fuck buddy has blood gushing from both his nostrils and the rest of the people who have been knocked off their bar stools quickly retreat when they feel John's steely gaze on them.
"I think it's time you got outa here." The bar tender suggests with a glowering look in the direction of Dean who's contentedly dabbing at his split lip.
"Ya think?" John mumbles as ways of reply, already crouched down next to his kid, working on getting him onto his feet. "C'mon, let's get you home."
Dean tries for "yes, sir" and manages some slurred murmurs.
John is pretty sure that there is no chance in hell that he will see his son walk out of the bar and drapes his arm over his shoulders, grabs tight hold of Dean's jeans and hauls them both upright.
Bumping into each other, John swaying, Dean barely able to lift his feet, they stumble out into the cold parking lot.
The chill immediately does wonders to clear John's mind. Somewhat.
"Hey, Dad…" Apparently the cold breeze has worked its spell on the kid, too. He's formulating coherent sentences. "What'cha did in there was totally awesome."
His head lands on John's shoulder and they both stumble to the left onto the empty street.
"Easy there." John advises mildly, steering them both back onto the sidewalk.
"You're awesome." Dean slurs into his ear and John feels his face stretch into a fond/amused/drunken grin. "Those guys would'a kicked my ass, if you hadn't stopped 'em."
John "hm"'s his agreement.
"They were like…poltergeists…or demons or…banshees." He draws out the last word, laughing happily at the sound.
John joins in his laughter because they're both drunk and hey, banshee is a funny word and why the fuck shouldn't they just enjoy it?
"Maybe they were werewolves." Dean whispers. "That'd 'xplain how they knocked me 'n my ass like that."
"Uh huh" John still has that grin plastered all over his face and it's almost hurting his jaw by now, but he just can't seem to shake it. "Sure. Had nothin' to do with you tryin' t' drink Gel Mibson under the table."
Gel Mibson? Something like that. Damn, his tongue feels heavy.
"'m not drunk." Dean assures him, sounding vaguely affronted.
"'course you're not, kiddo."
"I'm not!"
"Okay."
And then they both dissolve into something that is quite definitely not giggles. Guffaws. Manly guffaws!
John stops abruptly, when Dean's laughter (laughter!) turns into something that might have been a heartfelt burp or the early stages of retching and that just isn't going to happen.
"Barf on my shoes 'n you'll be eating through a straw."
"Not gonna barf, sir." Dean slurs and John believes him. Kid knows his way around hard liquor and if he says that he's gonna be fine then for once John is more than happy to take his word for it. The two of them have been drinking together for over a decade. It started with one or two beers shared in the parking lot of whatever hotel they were staying in at the time when Dean was what? Thirteen? Couldn't have been much older than that. A year later, he occasionally asked for John to pass the whiskey and then, on his sixteenth birthday, John finally presented Dean with his very own fake I'm-twenty-one-and-totally-allowed-to-hit-the-bars-with-my-dad ID. He thinks that just maybe he shouldn't feel as good about that as he does and dimly remembers Sammy's particular hissy fit at that gift. Something to do with parental responsibilities and teenage brain development and shit.
He looks over to his right when he realizes that Dean has stopped stumbling alongside him and is staring at the tail lights of a beat up Buick that just sped past them. He seems enthralled by the bright lights for a minute, then blinks suddenly and looks up at his dad.
He sounds distinctly worried when he slurs something that sounds very much like "Warehouse imp ballad" and for a second John tries to figure out what kind of crazy new underground band his son has dug up now, when he figures he probably said "Where's the Impala?" Tried to say's more like it.
John chuckles quietly. He's been wondering when Dean would pick up on the fact that they were walking back to the motel, not driving.
"Impala's at the bar, son."
"Wha'?" there's something close to panic in his voice.
"Bar tender took the keys from me, r'member? That's why you tried t' sock him one in the first place."
Dean's lips form a surprised 'oh' and John clumsily pats the hand that is still draped over his shoulder.
By the time they reach their motel it's almost 3:00 in the morning and John is basically dragging Dean along with him.
"C'mon, you gotta give me a little help here." John prompts, chuckling for no other reason, than the fact that he can. "One foot 'n front of the other."
"M'kay."
He's putting one foot in front of the other, all right. Exactly in front of the other. And with the way he's lifting his feet off the ground, it looks like a two-week-old Saint Bernard trying to goose step. They manage all of six steps, before they drag each other tumbling to the ground.
"Stars 're spinning." Dean points out and John follows his son's gaze up into the sky and fuck, he's right. Stars are great. Moving stars? Even better.
John hauls them both upright again. It won't do to fall asleep in the parking lot. Dean's head rolls around to land on his shoulder again and John can practically feel the goofy grin that's plastered all over his son's face.
"I love you, Dad….you're'like'the'best'dad'in'the'history'of'forever."
It's not quietly whispered into his ear this time. It's a happy declaration, for the whole motel parking lot to hear.
"Love you too, kid." John mumbles into his son's hair and part of him wishes that they won't pretend to not remember this in the morning. But they will, because if they don't it will only lead to embarrassment and awkwardness.
It's quite the feat, but somehow John manages to find the key to their room in the depths of his jeans pockets, open the door, turn on the lights and deposit Dean on the edge of the nearest bed without them falling down again.
"Think you c'n get outa your boots without me?"
John's grin is answered with a sloppy salute. Dean leans forward, fumbles with the shoelaces and promptly overbalances, topples over and starts falling headfirst in the direction of the filthy carpet, probably heading for a broken nose.
John doesn't know when his reflexes came back, but he's right there beside his son, before his face can make contact with the floor.
"Easy, tiger." He advises again. Covering his very un-John-Winchester giggle with a cough.
Dean heaves himself back onto the bed and lies down this time, apparently deciding that his new position will make it much harder to fall down and do some possibly irreparable damage to that pretty face that he's so proud of.
John works on getting Dean out of his boots (and only falls back onto his ass twice).
He considers helping him out with his jeans but decides that he doesn't need to be mocked again for (accidentally!) buying a Boy George record.
"'lright, move your ass to your own bed."
Dean cracks one eye open, suddenly in full drunken pouty mode.
"'m good here. You can take mine."
John more or less gently pats the kid's leg.
"Told you to get a move on."
Dean grumbles something under his breath that John is pretty sure he doesn't want to catch, but he still gets up and stumbles the two steps over to his own bed. The one that's closer to the bathroom. Just in case.
"Th'mpala's g'nna be waitin' for us in th' mornin', right?" Dean asks almost unintelligibly into his pillow.
John chuckles as he turns out the lights.
"Sure thing, son. Go to sleep."
And Dean mashes his face further down into his pillow and obeys.
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Ha, here it is. my first Supernatural fanfic. I'm really proud of myself. And it's about my favorite theme: drunk!Dean, too. Now, if you would please turn your attention to the little speech bubble just below and drop me a note. Pretty please?