MISSING PIECES
John Winchester was Not A Patient Man at the best of times.
When he couldn't find things he knew that he had, he was even less likely to be patient.
He couldn't find his gun – the one with the black grip that fit his hand like a glove. He'd modified it to fire silver bullets and if he was going to go after the suspected werewolf two towns over, he was going to need that gun.
He couldn't find the roll of red duct tape that Singer had sent him to practice marking out sigils with. He knew he'd left it in the duffel with his clothing – and come to think of it, he was missing one of his grey belts and a black shirt, too.
Come to think of it... John went to the closet door and opened it. He'd known his brown hooded jacket had been draped on its hook when he'd left that morning. It was missing, too.
And for that matter – so were his kids. "Dean!" he called. "Sammy!"
"Almost ready!" Dean called.
Ready? For what? John strode to their room. "Boys!"
The door opened and out walked – his brown hooded jacket. Sammy was draped in it with only his feet and ankles showing. His head vanished so completely into the hood that it looked like he had no face.
John had a crazy impulse to draw on the creature, though he knew it was Sammy. "What the-"
Dean emerged, all grins, and John suddenly had the answers to everything. His oldest son was in a button down white dress shirt, with John's black shirt – now sleeveless and cropped down – serving as a vest. Red duct tape stripes adorned the outside seams of his dark jeans like military stripes, and John's gun rested in its holster, strapped to Dean's thigh with half of John's belt.
John couldn't help but laugh softly. "Han Solo," he said between chuckles. "And I'm assuming you're a Jawa."
The creature's head nodded, Sammy's giggles emerging from it.
John shook his head slightly. "Is this your way of telling me you're going trick or treating tonight?"
"Are you mad?" Dean asked, grin faltering.
"I'm making one modification," John said, holding out his hand. "No real guns. Use Sammy's water pistol."
Dean's nose wrinkled as he handed it over. "Dad, it's red!"
"Good," John informed his ten year old. "Too much realism is sometimes a bad thing." He lay the gun on the table. "Though from the weight, I'm assuming it's unloaded. Good call."
Dean grinned broadly again.
John returned it. "Let me get the keys and a pair of pillowcases. I'll go with you."
Dean blinked in visible surprise.
"What?" John grinned. "I need the walk!"
Both boys cheered and John laughed as he found himself with an armful of Jawa.
A few hours later, as he carried the sleeping Jawa home, hood down to reveal his youngest's cherub features, and his other hand holding a sleepy Solo's, John looked down at the sheer joy on his tired oldest's face and knew something beyond a shadow of a doubt.
Tonight had been worth the few frustrations.
END