"Holy crap!"
Dean could hear Sam exclaim the words loudly as he struggled with the door, hit the ground running. Sam always had been the master of the understatement. Father appears from the dead and all you can say is holy crap? But he's not thinking straight as he's running, wondering whether the man in front of him is just a ghost or whether he's Dad. Whether he's gonna put his hand through and touch nothing but air, or whether he's gonna hit solid muscle and the smell of whisky. He runs, skids to a stop before John Winchester, boots making a scraping sound on the tarmac. Behind them the door slams as Sam climbs out. Dean knows its John, for real. Not an apparition, not a ghost. Only the real deal, the human John could stand there with such an exquisite look of amusement, worry and surliness like he is.
John Winchester is stood right in front of him, wearing the same beat down jacket, the creases in the elbows and the scratches in the sleeves from when one of the muhajideen came at him the wrong way, got a rifle through the snout. He's as broad as he was before he...before he died Dean guesses. All muscle, thick forearms down by his sides, fists tucked into his Levi's. They're torn across one knee, steel capped boots scuffed to hell and filthy. John still has on his wedding ring, gleaming dully. Smells of sulphur. Has the same dark brown, messy hair like his boys. Hair that wont stay the hell down no matter how much gloop you throw on it, no matter how much you curse at the son of a bitch thing in the morning. And his face. John's face is still the same. The dark, heavy eyes holding Dean's. The same stubble, whiskers shading the tanned face. John huffs quietly, a rumble in the broad chest.
"How long you had that thing boy? When're you gonna learn to drive it?"
Dean stands stock still. The voice is still the same. All rough as guts and gravelly, deep like his own, heavy, husky growl in the fading sunlight. Its definetly him. And deep down inside, the little boy who worships his father just wants to throw his arms around him and cry. But this is Dean Winchester and there's never been an insult he didn't reply to.
"The matter with you? You fail at playing dead or what?"
John smirks, creasing a tired face into dimples. Removes one hand from the Levis to scratch at his whiskers. Dean sees with a jolt the hand is stained with blood, scarred and scratched.
"Smart ass. Listen Dean...."
He glances to the right sharply, as Sam stumbles onto the picture. The words are forever swallowed back, visibly biting down on the inside of his cheek, casting Dean a 'shut your face' look as Sam does what Dean wanted to do, and throws himself at John. He catches his dad in a hug, throws his arms around him. "Dad!" he exclaims, a wide eyed grin planted on the face. "How the hell?....I mean..." and he hugs Dad like he can't quite say all the words. Big shot lawyer lost for words. John pats him on the back, grips the back of his head briefly. Sam steps back, looks between Dean and Dad. He isn't stupid. There was something about to be said between the two of them and he wants in. On the other hand, his father has just returned from the dead.
"Dad...this is going to sound really ungrateful.." he starts, "But what're you doing here? Aren't you?..."
And he trails off. Aren't you dead? Didn't you swap your soul for mine? How come you're not downstairs shovelling coal on the fire? Dean gives him a black look. Dad's here, in front of them. This is what Dean's been wanting all along, been hoping for. Been needing. And Sam's challenging a goddamn miracle right in front of them. Its more than he wants to deal with right now, so he spins on his boots and walks back towards the Impala, running his hands over the bodywork. Slides into the front seat and pulls their notebook out the glovebox, flicks through the next job. All he wants to do is talk to John.
John's a step behind him, suprising him as he leans down into the drivers' window of the car, the smell of aftershave and whisky grinding on Dean's nose like long forgotten memories. He remembers Dad in the truck when they were little, swinging them by an icecream store and watching them with that look like he thought they were made of gold when he thought little Dean wasn't watching. But little Dean had always been watching.
"You pmsing?" John asks.
Dean snorts, the eyes have a flicker of amusement in them as he raises them John's way. Smirks. Like father like son.
"Always. Sammy needs his dad time" he says and there's a little something in there John catches, leans down further, folds his arms across the window.
"Dean..." he starts and Sammy comes by again.
He slides into the other seat of the car, looks up at the not quite ghost and says, "Hop in". John glances over the Impala with barely concealed distaste.
"Hey" Dean says protectively. "Dead guys don't get to be choosers Dad"
This time its John that snorts, clicks his fingers for Sam to slide on in back, and gets in the passenger seat next to Dean. Glances behind at his youngest, whose eyes are already bleary with lack of sleep. Head already nodding. He looks back at Dean, sees the hands clenched too tight on the wheel, the muscle ticking too hard in his jaw. The hollows under his eyes and the pain in the way he breathes. John sees the hurt Dean's been trying so hard to hide. And it goddamn twists him in half to watch Dean struggle. And know that it ain't gonna get any easier any time soon sunshine.
