One: Why the Winchesters Always Wear So Much Clothing
John's happy enough. It's a rare emotion for him, so he decides to wallow in it, really drink it in, enjoy. The boys are acting happy, too, though he can never really tell if it's for real or just an act. He's a good enough father to know that sometimes they pretend in front of him – pretend something doesn't hurt after being thrown around by a werewolf, pretend that the half-frozen Chinese food tastes good, pretend they're not terrified. . .yeah, he's good enough to recognize that, but not a good enough father to do anything about it.
He sits on the playground bench, watches as they run around. Just kids, he realizes. Damn. How long ago were they just kid, like everyone else here? Dean's leaning up against the swings, teeth gleaming in the sun, chatting up some girl wearing too much make-up. A little kid is swinging beside them. She must be a baby-sitter.
Sam's sitting on another bench, just kitty corner from John. His long legs are outstretched, crossed at the ankle, a small paperback held loosely in his right hand. His hand is big enough that it seems to engulf the book.
They're down south, Arizona, and it's hot. John's wearing his leather jacket – even when he's happy, he can't take the damn thing off, because you never know when a demon will show up, throw you across the street, and damn it, but road burn is a bitch. The boys, though. . .well, they might not be kids anymore, but they still have an innocence and hope that he doesn't. Dean's wearing just his wifebeater by now, his button-up probably lost to all eternity. Oh well, John thinks. He'd rather replace a shirt because it was lost than because it was shredded or bled on.
Sam's more careful. He's wearing just a t-shirt, but he has a blazer, carefully folded over the back of his bench. Sam's always been the smart one. The careful one. John closes his eyes, tilts his head toward the sun. There are a pair of women just behind him. He listens to them, idly.
"I've got to get back to work," Woman #1 says. "I mean. . .I can't handle this. Just sitting in the house watching the kids."
"You've always got your soaps," Woman #2 says. "And the playground."
"Oh, because this here's a riot," Woman #1 says. "Watching a bunch of rugrats. . .well hello."
"Hmm?"
"Look at the hottie near the swings," Woman #1 sounds like she's drooling. Curious, now, John opens one eye, and looks at the swings. The only people there are the kid, the baby-sitter, and Dean.
"Eye candy," Woman #1 says.
"Check out the sweetheart on the bench," Woman #2 says. John smiles, thinking they're talking about him. But he considers a moment. They can't even see him, not from behind. But the only other person sitting on a bench is. . .
"Boys," John says, barks it out so it's an order. "We're leaving."
Dean, bless his heart, doesn't balk at all, just dumps the girl and follows John out. Sam rolls his eyes, but grabs his jacket and pulls it on. John can almost hear the women sighing.
That does it, he thinks. New Winchester family rule. . .never show bare shoulders.
* * * * *
They're sitting at the café, waiting for the waitress to come back with their orders. Dean and Sam and idly flipping the papers from their straws at one another. John glances at them. Good. They both have T-shirts on today. He can't ask them to wear much more than that. . .not when it's so ungodly hot outside.
His informant, a middle-aged psychic, sits down across from him, next to Sam.
"Hello," Sam says, politeness drilled into him far more effectively than his brother. Dean takes the momentary distration as an opportunity to fire paper straight into his brother's face. John ignores his son's antics. This is too important.
"So this ghost," He says, leaning forward, but the woman doesn't seem to be paying any attention to them. He figures that maybe it's a psychic thing, that she's looking off into the middle distance or something, so he plows on. "It can sense fear, and that's what it feeds off of, right?"
The woman doesn't even respond. Her mouth is a little bit open. John sighs, follows her eyesight. . .straight to Dean, who is sucking up soda at an alarmingly fast rate.
"Sorry," John says. "He's a bit of a slob." Dean smiles at that, all white teeth and twinkling green eyes. The woman's hand shoots to her heart, as though it suffered a sudden pang. Oh no, John, thinks, not again.
"Ma'am, are you all right?" Sam asks, concern written across his face. The woman turns to look at him, goes an even paler color.
"I'm fu-fine, thank you," she manages to get out. Wordlessly, Dean pushes his soda toward her. Sam takes over.
"Maybe you should drink something," Sam says, but John has had quite enough of this.
New Winchester rule, he thinks. Bad hair, and always wear two layers.
* * * * *
They've finally made it to the house. The boys are in sullen moods. Dean keeps running his hands over his short locks now – no more goldilocks, or wooing the girls by sliding hands through long curls, oh no, John thinks, a little vindictively. Sam just keeps griping, wondering why he's not allowed to wash his hair.
"I can't see through these stupid bangs," he grouses.
They're also not happy about the t-shirt, button-down, corduroy jacket thing in 90 degree weather. He tells them its necessary when fighting demons. Cuts down on rugburn or road burn. Which is true, but not necessarily important when fighting a ghost. He doesn't tell them that.
They push through the doors, and John sternly reminds the boys of their orders.
"We know, Dad," Sam says wearily. "We stay by the doors."
"And the gun?" John presses, because one can never be too careful.
"Shoot first, ask questions later," Dean states his favorite motto. John nods, moves deeper into the house.
It seems like an open and cut case. A haunted house, with a ghost who feeds off fear. Should be easy to destroy, as he isn't afraid of it. But as the lights flicker and the minutes kick by, he realizes something else. He might not be afraid of ghosts, but there's something he definitely is afraid of.
Immediately he spins on his heels and begins pelting toward the front door. Where his heart almost stops, and he has to remind himself to breathe, remind hiself that fear makes it stronger and fear will kill his boys.
They're pushed up against the wall, held up. The gun dangles uselessly from Dean's left hand. He's frowning at the thing, full lips pressed together. Sam is wiggling, back and forth, his back arching against the wall, chest pushing forward. The ghost, meanwhile, fully materialized, is starting at the two of them, licking her lips.
"Well now, pretties," she is saying. "You look too good to eat. Luckily your father isn't so beautiful."
John creeps a little closer, surprised that she doesn't seem to notice him. She moves to Sam, first, traces his cheekbones with one finger.
"Dimples," she says sweetly, and then move to Dean, reaches a finger up.
"Don't touch me, bitch," he orders. The ghost giggles.
"Eyelashes," she says. John blasts her with the rock salt, and she disappears, a thousand little vapors in place. The boys fall to the ground, and Dean is up immediately, the gun securely in his hands. Sam takes another minute to get up.
"That was weird," he complains.
"Out, now," John orders, and for once the boys do as he says without complaint.
New Winchester rule, John thinks wearily. Three to four layers at all times. Nothing fitted. Maybe if they look like frickin' topheavy thugs women will stop falling in love with them.
John loves his wife, but just for once he wishes she hadn't been so damned pretty.