AN: Challenge from NerdAngel. Dean's first beer. References to "Hunteri Heroici", Season 8.
***sn***
June 1987, outside Salt Lake
"Finally!"
Fred Jones let himself fall into an old armchair and buried his face in his hands. He drew a deep breath and let the air out slowly through puffed cheeks. For a moment he enjoyed the relative silence of the muffled TV on the other side of the room.
"If I had known how chatty your little one can get I would never have volunteered to babysit your brats, John," he muttered under his breath. After a few more moments of silence an odd feeling overcame the psychokinetic man. He dropped his hands from his eyes and peeled open one lid.
Before him stood John's older boy, Dean, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes sparkling angrily at him. Fred raised an eyebrow and sat up straighter in the armchair.
"Something I can help you with, Superman?"
"Sammy and I are no brats," Dean growled, glaring at the man. "And you didn't volunteer to watch us, Dad made you. You owe him 'cause he's getting you out of a pickle."
Fred frowned slightly, as Dean's words made him remember a slip up he wasn't really proud of. He had located a vampire nest and foolishly thought him and his psychokinetic abilities would be enough to take out the eleven vampire strong nest. He had managed to decapitate eight of them, but only survived because John had showed up to prevent him from ending up decapitated himself.
The Winchester father had killed another three vamps but the maker escaped. And now John was after that one. Fred had wanted to join him because ultimately it had been his mistake, but John had made it clear he didn't want any more "psychokinetic calamities" to happen. And that's how he got stuck watching two hunter brats.
"And just so you know, I'm not Superman. I'm Dean Winchester. And if I were a superhero, it would be Batman, 'cause he's wayyyy more awesome than Superman."
With that Dean returned to the couch to continue watching cartoons. Fred got up and walked to the kitchen. He saw Dean was watching the Roadrunner. Fred chuckled. He loved that cartoon. Heading towards the fridge he grabbed a bottle of beer. He stared at it for a moment, then glanced through the door at Dean, who was still engrossed in the cartoon.
Fred shrugged and grabbed a second bottle. Closing the fridge again, he sauntered over to the couch, sitting himself down next to the boy. Dean glanced at him before settling his gaze on the bottles that Fred put down on the table. Fred looked back, causing Dean to refocus on the TV screen.
"Want one?" Fred offered. Dean pretended he hadn't heard him.
"How did you get Sammy to sleep?"
Fred produced a bottle opener from his Swiss army knife and popped the cap. He took a big swig, feeling Dean's eyes on him.
"Let him float objects till he dozed off," Fred grinned.
"Really?" Dean's voice was a mixture of disbelief and awe.
"Of course not, punk kid," Fred scoffed. "But he thought he did it. Tired his mind out eventually."
"Oh," Dean cried cheerfully. "You tricked him." Fred nodded. "Awesome. Gotta remember that."
"I take it that trick now won't work on you, eh?" Fred glanced at the clock on the wall. It was just after ten pm but Dean didn't look the least bit tired. The two involuntary companions stared at the TV in agreeable silence for a short while. Then Dean started fidgeting until Fred shot him an annoyed glance.
"Would you really let me have a beer?" Dean blurted out, taking Fred's attention as his cue. Fred regarded the green eyed boy a moment and then looked at the bottle still standing on the table. Dean followed his glance and his mouth opened in astonishment when the bottle slowly slid across the table to stand right in front of Dean.
"Ya know how to use a knife?" Fred replied, offering Dean the Swiss army knife. Dean almost looked offended and Fred wouldn't have been surprised if the boy had told him off. But Dean merely grabbed the knife, pulled out the bottle opener and had the cap off in only two attempts. Then Dean flicked the opener back and slid the knife back across the table towards where Fred sat. As if caught by an invisible hand the knife stopped abruptly.
"Not like I had to use the knife itself," Dean muttered and held the bottle close to read the label.
"Ever had a beer?"
"It's for grown-ups," Dean stated. "I'm eight." Fred nodded.
"You can try it, it's not so bad."
"I wouldn't have opened it if I wasn't gonna try, dude," Dean really sounded annoyed now. "Dad doesn't drink much beer. He prefers whiskey. How come whiskey makes adults drunk a lot faster than beer?"
"Oh," Fred sighed. "Whiskey has a way higher amount of alcohol than beer. You're perfectly safe with one beer. A tough guy like you will hardly notice it. Cheers?" He held out his bottle.
Dean hesitated a brief moment, then clonked his bottle against Fred's and took a tiny sip. The cool, bubbly-bitter fluid ran down his throat, making the boy shudder a bit. He hadn't expected the bitterness.
"Call that a sip?" Fred laughed. "You got a lot to learn still, punk."
"Not a punk," Dean whispered and took a bigger swig. After a few of those the bitterness wasn't as bad anymore. On the TV, Jerry, the mouse was now being chased by Tom, the cat. Dean grinned. Before he knew it he was halfway through his bottle. Fred got up to fetch himself another one and Dean felt a fuzzy feeling taking hold of him. Beer wasn't so bad now. Tasted like sparkling water with a pang, now that the bitterness wasn't there anymore.
By the end of the cartoon, Dean's bottle was empty and the boy felt buzzed. This was awesome. Why did adults make such a big fuss about alcohol. All it did was make you a bit more happy.
" 'nother one for me?" Dean grinned, pointing at the empty bottle.
"Ah, no," Fred shook his head. "I think you had enough."
"But you're hav'n 'nother one," Dean complained.
"Yup. But I am an adult. One beer is enough for your eight year old frame. You can have another one when you're twelve."
"N't fair," Dean scowled which made Fred laugh.
"Your dad will tear me a new one if I give you more beer," the psychokinetic said
"He'll do that 'nyway 'cause he ne'er le's me have 'ne in the firs' pl'ce," Dean slurred and closed his eyes to stop the room from swaying. "Feel f'nny," he added.
"Oh jeez, you gonna puke?" Fred wasn't too keen on having to clean up that sort of mess.
"Uh-uh," Dean moaned offended. "Jus' sleepy." He slid down to rest his head on the armrest and curled his feet up to his body. Fred looked on in amusement as the older Winchester brother rolled himself up like a cat and drifted off to sleep.
"Mission accomplished," he grinned, grabbing the remote to change the channel. He put his feet up on the coffee table and nursed his own bottle.
About an hour later, John Winchester knocked on the door. His jeans were muddy and some blood splatter adorned his clothes, hands and face, but he was in one piece.
"It's done, Fred," he declared. "Now do me one favor and stay away from hunts, will you?" His eyes fell on his sleeping older son who was drooling slightly.
"Why's he sleeping here?" John frowned.
"Conked out watching TV. Didn't wanna risk waking him by carrying him over," Fred shrugged. John grunted briefly and took off his coat to lay it over a chair. Then he walked up to Dean and picked the boy up. Fred watched John carry his son to the room that Sam was sleeping in. After a few minutes, John's footsteps heralded his return. Fred looked up and noticed a scowl on his friend's face.
"Fred?" John said with an icy voice. "Why does Dean smell like beer?"