Disclaimer: I don't own the show or the boys, but I do own my thoughts about them.

Author's Note: This will end up being 12 chapters, but only technically. I consider it to be 6 because I wrote this alternating between John's and Dean's POV. So chapter 1 for John will be chapter 1.5 for Dean, covering the same time period. Make sense? I hope so! I am not finished yet, but have no fear, I am well on my way and you will NOT be left hanging. This was written for those who have a discipline kink, but hopefully you'll all enjoy it for much more than that. I am posting every weekday until it is done. (No weekends. Gotta take a break some time!) Hope you enjoy reading it as much I am enjoying writing it!

John's POV - Chapter 1

What the hell is wrong with that boy, John wondered. He and Dean had been in their newest digs for all of one weekend and already the place was a disaster. Weapons or shells covered every possible surface. Clothes littered the hallway leading to the back rooms. Food was left wherever it was last opened or eaten. Seriously. What the hell?

John had done most of the driving to get them from Montana - where they fought yet another Wendigo that should have been hibernating this time of year - to Reno, Nevada. They caught wind of some strange happenings there and since it was in the direction of California, John thought this might be a great excuse to check up on his younger son – without his knowledge, of course.

John was tired, he was cranky, but he didn't want to worry about money. So he took Dean to the house he arranged for them to stay in, unloaded everything and told Dean he'd be back in 3 days because he needed to see another hunter in New Mexico who owed him a lot of money and for some reason thought John would never come to collect. They could use that cash, though, and who knows what part of the country they'd end up in next. Now was as good a time as any.

John instructed Dean to make sure all the weapons were good to go, shells loaded and if he could start looking for any news articles on the mysterious and colorful deaths happening in Reno, that would be a bonus. He knew he was leaving Dean with a lot of work, but Dean wouldn't have the car and needed something to keep his hands busy while John was gone – not that Dean couldn't find ways to keep his hands busy.

Dean was a good kid. Well, ok. At 24, maybe he wasn't such a kid anymore. And, ok, sometimes he stretched the definition of "good." Dean had his moments, but John knew that Dean took the job seriously. He worked hard and he played harder, and John couldn't fault him for that. He was his son, after all; his closest reminder of Mary. But ever since they had left Montana and John told him they were headed for Reno, his boy had become a little quieter than usual, surly even. For instance, father and son enjoyed the same music, but their choice of decibel level seemed to differ greatly. Usually John was fighting to save his eardrums. This time it was as if Dean didn't even notice the music was off for the entire state of South Dakota. Even when they stopped at Bobby's for a brief respite and Bobby surprised him with one of his favorites – pecan pie – Dean was less enthusiastic about second helpings than usual.

John quietly watched his offspring as they made their way to Reno. He hoped that Dean having the house to himself for a few days would help quell whatever mood he was in. He was practically granting permission for the sullen boy to blow off a little steam by telling him almost to the minute when he would return. He even called ahead to let Dean know he was on schedule, although the boy hadn't picked up for some reason so he left him a voicemail message. John didn't need a moody hunting partner so he would forget that Dean didn't pick up. He had hoped Dean's time alone was good for him; that it had done the trick.

It hadn't.

When John saw the condition of the house, it was all he could do to not rip through the place to find Dean so he could tear him a new one. But no – John had had a successful trip collecting the money he had been owed, he was making plans to head over to Stanford after the research was done for this hunt they were on and he was not going to let Dean screw up his mood.

Instead of yelling for Dean, John began to pick his way through the clutter to locate his son. The house was all on one level so that should make things easy. Stepping over strewn shoes and a jacket, he noticed the mess to his left, on the sofa and coffee table. The laptop was open, screen black. He didn't see a cord, so he wondered if it was even charged anymore. He noticed a notebook next to the computer and it looked like there were words scribbled under that pen. That's something, he hoped. He then realized the sofa was in front of the unprotected window and that wouldn't do. He'd have to get Dean to help him push it against the wall. Why hadn't Dean thought of that himself?

He looked to the right where his stuff was still on the floor. You'd think Dean would have moved it by now. The bookshelf at least still looked intact. The upholstered chair, also in front of a window – clearly this wasn't the home of a hunter – was mysteriously holding the laptop cord. John sighed and kept walking back toward the kitchen that was located almost at the center of it all. He grimaced at the mess he passed, continuing to walk even further to the bedrooms. There were three and Dean had taken the first one you came to on the left, which was diagonal from the larger room John had chosen, surprised Dean didn't try to claim it first.

John saw the door to Dean's room was closed and thought he'd sneak up on the boy doing something stupid he'd need to be reprimanded for. But a peek through the carefully opened door revealed nothing but more disheveled laundry. For folk who traveled light, John couldn't figure out how the hell Dean could have so much crap strewn everywhere. John pushed the door further open to make sure his son wasn't the victim of some random circumstance while he was gone. But Dean was not in sight.

"Where the hell are you, boy," John huffed, resigning himself to having to clean up at least some of the mess just so he could function and think straight. He figured he'd start with the kitchen since he was hungry, but he'd leave the mess of casings on the table and floor for Dean to deal with. John considered for a moment the unmoved furniture and overall upheaval of the place, and he wondered if Dean was ok. But he saw no signs of evil play, plus he had talked to Dean a couple of times while he was away and all he got was the sense his son was going through something. He wasn't sure what and he wasn't sure he could get Dean to tell him. For now he would clean.

John had gotten the dishes soaking in the sink, cleared off the counters and started seasoning a couple of steaks he was going to broil in the oven when he heard the squeak of the screen door, then the front door open and close with a solid thud. John wasn't going to step out. He'd wait for Dean to find him. In the meanwhile, John could decide which DEFCON level his temper was currently set at so that he could act accordingly.

He heard the quiet click of boots not exactly hurrying his way and not exactly rhythmic. Dean stepped into the kitchen, looking like he couldn't quite decide how to feel.

"H...hey, dad," he slurred just a little, running a hand through his hair. John shook his head as he watched him enter. He had already gone from a DEFCON red to a yellow when his son wasn't there to bear the brunt of his anger and time had forced him to calm a little. Now he was going from a yellow to a green once he realized Dean was a little too impaired for an effective chastisement, but he wouldn't be too far gone to understand the Winchester Glare. John turned fully around to stare at his son, saying nothing but not looking away either for what felt like a full minute. Dean struggled under the glare, looking at the floor for a moment, then back up to face his dad. He gave him a weak smile and an even weaker excuse.

"You're home, huh? Time mus'sa got…gotten away from me. 'M sorry I, uh, I wa'nt here," Dean stammered while trying not to noticeably fidget next to the wall that was helping him stay on two feet.

"Where the hell you been, boy? This place is a wreck. What happened here?"

"Oh, uh," Dean hesitated, scratching his head as he looked around. "I just…I just needed a lil' break, but this…," he gestured around the kitchen. "…ain't too bad. I think."

"Because I cleaned most of it, Dean," John answered sarcastically. "I left that mess there for you. You'll take care of that," he declared, pointing to the shells.

"Ye…yes, sir. Right away."

Dean grabbed the back of the closest chair and used it as a crutch as he shuffled to the seat and slumped down. John watched him a brief moment then turned back to the steaks that were almost ready to go in the oven. He listened to the clicking of the shells against the table and a brushing sound, assuming Dean was trying to wipe up whatever salt he had spilled.

John found the broiler for the steaks and got them into the oven, closing it with a slight bang that startled Dean. "Bit jumpy there, Dean?" John snorted, watching his son get nowhere fast with the mess before him. He shook his head again as Dean looked up with those 4-year-old eyes that sometimes appeared to haunt John whenever Dean was in some trouble.

"Huh? Oh, no. No, Dad. Jus', uh, cleaning. I'll get it." Dean swiped at the salt, some of it falling to the floor, then he tried to stand once he realized he had no place to put it. He looked around the kitchen looking like an unsure puppy. It was too pathetic even for John.

"Dean," John sighed.

"Huh," Dean replied, still searching for the unknown item.

"Dean!" John snapped this time, causing Dean to focus on him and stand a little straighter even though the liquor was still working on him.

"Huh! I mean, yes, sir! Sorry, sorry Dad, I was just…"

"Dean, put that mess down and get to bed. You're shitfaced and won't do any good except to royally piss me off. Go on, boy, get out of here and we'll deal with this is in the morning."

Dean looked as if he couldn't decide what to do, but John's glare seemed to help him to make a move. "OK, yeah, Dad. Bed. See ya inna mornin'," he said, holding on to the back of the chair until he could safely navigate to the wall that would hold him up until he got to his room.

Looks like John could put that second steak aside for a steak-and-eggs breakfast for himself in the morning or later for tomorrow's dinner because all Dean would be having next was his Winchester Hangover Cure.