AN: Good golly am I starting another chapter story? Uh, yeah, I suppose. This was supposed to be a short story but it kept getting longer, so I'm breaking it up into parts. I want you to know upfront that the whole conceit of this story is that it's an ordinary day for Dean, so it's pretty routine, little to no actual peril. I mean, in order to get the reputation of being a good hunter Dean can't be getting into a life-or-death sort of situation EVERY job. Every episode of the show the brothers miss clues, or misinterpret clues, or get snuck up on by bad guys, or otherwise err into a perilous situation, but that cannot be the norm otherwise they'd have QUITE a different reputation in the hunter community. So I present for your perusal a typical day on the job wherein everything goes right for Dean. Or, well. As right as it can go while Sam's away at Stanford.
I own nothing Supernatural except a button on my backpack and my memories of seeing the cast at SDCC last year.
When he wakes up Dad's bed is already empty, and the shower's sputtering away in the bathroom with water that Dean knows from sad experience is lukewarm at best. He pushes himself out of bed, yawning and scrubbing one hand through his sleep-mussed hair as he staggers to the bathroom door and knocks loudly.
"I'm getting us food," he announces over the sound of running water, "be back in ten."
John Winchester hollers something acquiescent that is muffled by the bathroom door, but Dean wasn't really asking for permission anyway; it's their routine that first up gets the first shower and second awake goes on a breakfast run. He troops back to his bed and squats down to rummage beneath it, emerging triumphantly with the pair of battered sneakers he had left there the night before. He eases his feet into them carefully, stooping to knot the laces. He's had these running shoes close to three years now, but they still don't look much worse than they did when he picked them off the shelf at the discount store. He grew up being careful with his things so that they wouldn't be in bad shape when he passed them down to Sammy, and he guesses that there are some habits that you just can't break. Anyway, he likes these shoes so the longer he can wear them the better.
He jogs more than runs to the diner down the street, places his order, uses their restroom while the order's filled, and then walks back to the motel feeling much more awake, balancing the bag of food and the styrofoam cups in his arms. To his surprise, his father opens the door for him before he can manage to fumble his room key out of his pocket. John Winchester isn't a man of many weaknesses but he does tend to take a ridiculously long time in the shower, and Dean hadn't expected him to be out of the bathroom yet. He's fully dressed, even, though his hair's still wet and sticking up in a tangled thatch. Dean had resigned himself to an ice cold shower this morning, but he begins to dare to hope that there might be five minutes' worth of warm water still left in the pipes.
He keeps one black coffee for himself and passes the other to his father, who accepts it with a nod of thanks. When they settle down together at the perpetually greasy table to eat, Dad empties three packets of black pepper over his scrambled eggs before he starts talking business.
"You set to torch those bones tonight?"
"Yessir," Dean mumbles thickly around his mouthful of pancakes, setting down his fork. He manages to swallow before elaborating to get his father up to speed on the case.
"Based on the timeline and the girls' descriptions of the ghost I've singled out the culprit. His name's Andrew Cooper, born in 1911, and he died in his early twenties after getting hit with a bad case of pneumonia; his family still lives in town so I paid his grandnephew a visit last night. According to this guy Cooper was engaged to some girl when he died—blonde, blue-eyed, about five feet tall."
"Just like all the girls who've been attacked," John says, sounding interested for the first time, and Dean nods.
"Right. Also, apparently Cooper's nickname for her in the letters he wrote home from college was Helen, which is the name those girls reported the ghost saying when it appeared to them in the park. She's definitely got something to do with his rampage now. I'd guess something's happened to trigger his spirit to start searching for his girl."
Dean breaks off to take a sip from his styrofoam coffee cup. When he sets the cup down, he adds:
"Her actual name was Doris Bragg, so I didn't see the connection until I talked to Cooper's grandnephew and he showed me those letters. Cooper was something of a classicist; when he got sick he was away at college studying Greek literature. Calling his girlfriend after Helen of Troy was his vintage geek version of sweet-talk."
Sammy would have rolled his eyes at that, but John just nods, considering. "He buried in town?"
"In the graveyard right next to the park, yeah. I'm heading there first thing, and once I find and mark his headstone I figure I'll go pay Doris' family a visit too; there's a Bragg in the phone book at the front desk. They might be able to shed light on what changed to rile Cooper up."
"Sounds good," Dad says approvingly, and just like that the day's plans are finalized. Dean dumps his empty containers in the trash and then takes the world's fastest shower (because the water is ice-cold after all), and by the time he emerges from the bathroom freshly shaved and dressed and with his sneakers swapped out for his work boots, John has already reclaimed the table for his research. His journal's laid out open, and there are stacks of papers everywhere. He barely looks up to see Dean rummage through his duffel and pull out a pistol which he tucks into his jacket pocket.
"Got your phone?"
Dean waves his cell around in the air before realizing that it's pointless considering Dad's not looking. He shoves it back into the back pocket of his jeans.
"Sure. Yours have its ringer on?"
Dad grunts, which Dean figures means yes.
"Keep me posted," John Winchester says, turning over a page in his journal and frowning.
"Will do."
Satisfied that all his equipment's in order, Dean zips the duffel bag shut and tightens the drawstring before slinging it over his shoulder. He checks for his keys and wallet, and then heads to the door, undoing the chain and pulling it open. The day's early yet but there's a brimming-over liquid quality to the light outside that warns it's gonna be a scorcher. Belatedly he considers he should have packed an extra water bottle, especially since he'll probably be doing some digging in Cooper's grave today, but whatever. If he really needs to he'll stop by the gas station for a fill up later. Or who knows, maybe he'll hit lucky and the Bragg in the phone book will turn out to be one of those nice old lady types who like plying visitors with southern iced tea and lemonade and, uh, cucumber sandwiches and things.
Squaring his shoulders, he steps outside and lets the door fall shut behind him, waiting to hear the click of the lock re-engaging before setting out for the stairs to the parking lot. He doesn't bother to say goodbye to his father. There's no point, as he'll be seeing him again in just a few hours, and anyway. Dean hates saying goodbye to anybody.