Window Shades
By CaffieneKitty
Summary: Set a few months after the flashback scenes in "Something Wicked". My first posting, and the bloody thing's from John's POV, bleh. Had to write it first because this insistent little vignette steadfastly refuses to get out of my way. I'm committing it to pixels to expunge it so as to hopefully get on with other things. One shot, complete, safe for all ages, I think. Not sure what to class it as, really. Originally it was coming across as a definate and rather saccharine 'nice-John' but now... shrug up for interpretation. Review at whim.
Disclaimer: I don't claim to own any of the characters or setting from Supernatural. I especially don't claim to own John bloody Winchester.
Smelling of charred greasy fur and drying blood, John Winchester had pulled into the parking lot two minutes ago, wanting nothing more desperately than a shower, some minor first aid, and a hunt that wasn't a false lead on his wife's killer. But he had sat in the darkened car for those two minutes, watching the lit motel room window.
The two boys inside had been squabbling over the remote in front of the TV. At a final pout from the little one, the older brother threw his hands in the air, abandoned the conquest of the remote and stalked over to the kitchenette table. He sat down on the far side, and began tinkering with something.
So normal. It all looked so normal. It wasn't hard to think the older boy was maybe building a model car, that he'd sat in that particular chair because it was furthest from his little brother and the TV. It wasn't hard to think the boys' mother was just in the other room, and would come in to check on her boys at any moment. Any moment. Any moment now. Now.
But she would never come.
Dean sat at the table, feet not touching the floor, loading shotgun shells with rock salt. He'd picked that chair because it was the best position to watch his brother, the door, and the window at the same time. And though John couldn't see it through the window, he was sure it was also the chair with the shotgun closest to it. All as ordered.
After the Shtriga incident, Dean had become almost robotic in following orders regarding Sammy's safety. A grim little soldier. Though it was not what Mary would have wanted, John was gratified. Sammy needed a protector, one that could be depended on to follow orders immediately, without questioning. One lapse from Dean had nearly cost them Sammy's life. Something so precious and fragile, nearly lost forever. Again.
Watching Dean and Sammy do something as normal as scuffle over the remote... it hurt. It was a view of the normal life that had vanished in flames and blood.
John wiped a hand over his face, smearing the grime on his face and scowling. No looking back. No regrets over lost impossibilities. Pain and weakness would not kill the thing that burned Mary. John now wanted nothing more than a few beer, and to teach his eldest son a lesson about keeping the lights off and the heavy curtains pulled on motel room windows after dark, to hide what was inside.
To block the light.
John got out of the car.