Chapter Two- American Band
Dean still eyes him skeptically.
"And what if I was a shifter? You didn't look like you were in much of a position to stab me in the heart a minute ago."
"That's why I'm here," sounds a deep-Southern drawl from the pool tables.
Sam turns and strolls to the opposite side of the bar without so much as a backward glance towards voice, snorting a good-natured laugh as he goes. For a second, Dean purses his lips indignantly. It's not like his instinctive move for his gun was a jump, or anything. The hunter really isn't in the mood to let this kid laugh at him, but then he realizes the jest wasn't aimed at him.
"Is that right? You didn't seem all that concerned when Dean had his knife on me," Sam quips, coaxing the old, reliable (if occasionally finicky) coffee-maker into production.
Across the floor, guy, not much older than Sam, all but oozes off the burgundy top of one of the many pool tables. When he saunters out of the darker section of the bar and into the yellow light from above the bar, Dean raises an eyebrow at the red carpet burn streaking his cheek.
The guy shrugs in response to Sam's jibe, while he attempts to smooth down the rat's nest of his blond mullet, "Dr. Badass is always alert and raring to go, Sambo, but I knew ya had it covered."
Sam chuffs a laugh once more, "Whatever you say, Doc." The youngest man flicks his eyes between the two blonds, "Dean, this is Ash; he's the other half of your research team. Ash, this is Dean; he and his dad are the hunters Bobby asked us to meet." Sam sighs at his friend's blank look, continuing, "Remember? Winchesters? The really important case from Bobby's go-to hunters? Big boss demon hunt from almost twenty years ago?" When the genius continues to blink at him, he finally tries, exasperation plain in his voice, "The favor we owe Bobby for San Jose?"
Just as Dean begins to seriously question Bobby's taste in researchers, Ash's eyes flash with recognition. Dean can practically see the blond's mind whipping through everything anyone's ever said about the Winchesters, and he suddenly feels much more confident about this trip.
Ash bobs an affirmative in Sam's direction, as he all but melts onto the barstool next to the young hunter.
"Ah, right. Invincible Papa John and his boy vs Big Bad Lemon-squeeze, yeah?"
Sam shoots Dean an apologetic look, but nods to his friend.
"Yeah, Ash. The Winchesters." Ash nods, gratefully accepting the steaming mug of coffee Sam slides toward him. The researcher takes a long, soul-soothing sip of the best coffee this side of Columbia (according to his personal experience, anyway), before cocking an eyebrow at Dean.
"So, G. I. Dean-o, what kinda intel you got to offer the Good Database this fine morning?"
Dean shrugs, eyeing the steaming mug covetously; the two cups he'd scored at the drive-thrus had both looked, tasted, and had the consistency of moderately cooled crude oil. Dean can actually smell the quality of Harvelle's batch, and the hunter wonders what it would take to get some off of the kid. He decides cooperating with his hosts is probably the best way to go.
"Not much," he answers honestly. "I'm a grunt in all this, really. My dad's the brains of the operation; I'm the muscle," Dean grins at the two boys, cockily flexing an arm as he pushes back his tawny spikes of hair. Sam frowns, while his soul-searching hazels fix speculatively on Dean's face.
"I doubt that," he mutters, but before the hunter can so much as open his mouth to respond, Ash sidles back into the conversation.
"Whyn't you go ahead an' tell us what you do know; that way at least me an' Sambo'll have an idea of what we're lookin' for?" the analyst offers, turning on his stool to fully face the Winchester.
Dean glowers at the both of them, always hating to talk about that night… and the months after… and the years after that… Well, Dean hates talking about his sucktastic life in general.
Sam watches as all that pain, despite its still tight, desperate repression, drifts across the man's face. The boy realizes that despite Dean's young face, his deep green eyes have the look of someone who has seen too much and felt too much, someone who has known hardships all his life. Sam has seen that look on pretty much everyone who has stopped for help in this bar; he even sees it in the mirror sometimes. So Sam makes up his mind, right then, that he's going to do his damnedest to help Dean Winchester.
Sam makes his first step by sliding a warm mug of coffee the Winchester's way; the boy, a bartender in all but title, knows that hot drinks comfort those telling cold, bleak hunting tales. Dean eyes the coffee and glances between the two solemn boys, before nodding.
Dean starts the Winchesters' story from the beginning, and he tries not to linger there for two reasons; the first because there honestly isn't all that much to that part of the story. According to the little he could ever get out of his father and the very small part Dean himself had played in it, a yellow-eyed humanoid creature came into their home when the house was asleep and waited for Mary to come in. It slashed a red line through her stomach, pinned her to the ceiling, and started an unnaturally hot, fierce fire; the fire was what had killed Sammy, keeping John from him and sending smoke into his little lungs. The fire is the only real thing he remembers about that night: the flames swallowing the house and the heat he felt all around him.
The second reason is that it is the most painful part; he doesn't remember the numbness that has clouded nearly all of the year following the fire, and he can't recall the exact words John had screamed at him as he had shooed his eldest out of the burning house.
What he does remember is that moment, when his father held him tightly, the pair of them settled on top of the polished black impala in their driveway. He remembers watching the firefighters stoically, but hurriedly attempting to contain the inferno. Sitting on John's lap, the scared little boy had realized that there was no one safe in his own little arms and no soft, strong hand pressed against his cheek. He had turned wide eyes toward his dad, and in what would become their way for the rest of their relationship, John's wrecked expression silently answered Dean's equally silent queiry.
Dean doesn't remember what happened after that, but he once overheard Pastor Jim telling Bobby that he had flown into a desperate, heartbroken fit of rage, wailing, screaming, thrashing, sobbing; he'd said the ambulance had had to sedate him.
He doesn't tell Ash and Sam most of that part, but he has a feeling they (or Sam, at least) hear it in his voice. Dean doesn't look up from his mug to check very often, but he can practically feel the weight of Sam's "you poor, brave little soldier" gaze in between the kid's near constant note taking. The sound of the pencil scratching diligently against the little detective-style notepad is the only other sound in the room, while Dean sips on his coffee and tells his story. Both researchers keep quiet; the only sound from Ash's corner is the occasional slurp of the drink and the faint thuds of his fingers tapping against the countertop, itching for a keyboard.
Dean keeps on, going over account after second hand account of everything that had ever related to the case, endless exorcisms and monster interrogations and hours spent pouring through absolutely any hunter's stash of information. Seventeen, frustrating years summed up in not more than five hours of a briefing. So Dean just continues sipping and speaking to his mug, memorizing the well-worn stains inside it and the warning chip on its handle. It's easier to pretend his coffee mug was the only audience to him whine about his life's (never-ending) story (of crap), than acknowledge his geeky listeners.
After several hours with four and three-fourths cups of coffee, everything Dean knows is laid for the boys to see, and Dean can still taste the lack of real importance on his tongue. He knows, better than anyone, how useless he is with these things, and he hates having it out in the open for the geniuses to see. After seventeen years, all Dean is able to say is that they now know for sure that the fugly was a demon. Sam continues scrawling on his little pad, heedless of Dean's growing tension, while Ash finishes gulping down the dregs of his drink.
Finally, Sam turns a subdued smile on Dean. "Thanks, man. This was exactly what we're looking for. Now we've got a good, solid base to work off."
Dean's eyebrows rise; he really didn't think he'd been that much help.
He opens his mouth to say as much, when the front door to the bar is shoved open. A dark-haired man with grizzly grey stubble tromps into the bar, looking worn and cranky in the way that people do when they've been on the road for too long and see no end to it. Ash cuts his eye to Dean before relaxing; given how obviously… alert Dean seems, his lack of reaction to the newcomer is reassuring.
When he glances over at Sam, it's a whole other story. The kid's as tense as a Mexican standoff, and his eyes keep skittering from Winchester to Winchester, widening and narrowing according to his thoughts. Ash knows that look, and he really doesn't like it, especially so soon in starting a case. The blond programmer considers pulling his buddy aside, but Sam suddenly shakes his head, losing the wild light in his eyes; Ash files the reaction away for later and follows Sam's lead.
Soon every head in the bar is tilted towards John Winchester, as he trudges his way toward a stool at the far end of the bar. Dark hazel eyes flicker to the other occupants, and he nods to Sam when he spots the pot held in the kid's hand.
"I'll take one black, thanks," he grumbles; his tones are low, but surprising lacking in malice or arrogance, and that is the only reason Sam responds to his comment. After taking a long drag from the mug, he clears his throat, making his voice sound slightly less like a growl when he asks, "So which one of you's Bill's boy?" Sam straightens behind the bar and dons a small but genuine small, while extending his hand.
"That'd be me, sir; Sam Harvelle, and that over there is Ash. He specializes in paper-trails, but I'm more into lore. We're ready to help y'all any way we can." The kid sticks out his hand, ready and willing to start this partnership out right, and Ash moseys behind the bar to stand next to his friends with intentions to do the same.
John eyes them both for a long moment before clapping his hand against Sam's and giving a too hard squeeze, so he can size the boys up. Sam doesn't flinch, but the friendly light behind his eyes dims a little. Ash doesn't respond to the rough gesture other than to snort.
So much for off to a easy start, he thinks, knowing from that little moment on that this job is going to be like pulling teeth, as long as they have to deal with John Winchester.
John follows his "handshakes" with a nod. "John," he supplies, just as a formality.
He's worked with a good deal of hunters in his time and is fairly well known for being difficult, but he doesn't want these boys calling him "Winchester" through this whole time.
"Been a while, Sam. You sure grew up tall." Taller than John would've expected; the kid had been a pudgy, little roly-poly the last time John had seen him, and Bill had never quite passed the 5'6'' mark.
Sam quirks a more natural smile, but his best friend watches the shadow of sadness pass through his eyes. So Ash redirects the conversation the best way he knows how: with half-baked humor.
"Sure did, John-boy," breezes Ash, elbowing Sam's ribs, "Baby-Sam-Sam started growing like a weed a lil over a year ago, and ain't let off the gas one bit. Ellen's been wonderin' if he ain't been trippin' into some radioactive waste."
A chuckle rumbles unexpectedly from the elder Winchester, peeling decades away with the barely there smirk, but then it's gone again just as fast as it came; now that the niceties have been made, business presses its precedence. John plops onto a stool, gulping down the last of the hearty brew. He nods to the mug once he has set it down, his hand already retreating into the large duffle that accompanied him.
"Can I get that Irish, or s'it to early?" he asks, still curled around the worn, patched bag; he vaguely recalls Ellen having a rule about when her bar "opened."
Sam glances at the clock, then shrugs. It's only half-past twelve in the day, but he's seen hunters start earlier than that. Normally, neither he nor his mom allows his clients to start that quick in the game, but he could make an exception for an old family friend.
John, annoyed by the noncommittal non-answer, sends the kid a "try-again" scowl. Sam lets the sour face roll off of him like water, delivering another shrug.
"Doesn't matter much to me; not my liver," he remarks, but he shoots in a finger of whiskey anyway. That alone seems to placate the older Winchester. He merely snorts derisively and wastes no time in reaching for the mug, glancing around the joint, as he takes a long, hard pull of stimulant and sedative.
He spots his son all the way at the opposite end of the bar, relatively close to where Ash has parked himself, while Sam hovers attentively behind the bar; the older Winchester can practically feel the barrier between himself and these boys, and for a moment John gets the very distinct clarity of the past staring the future in the face.
He shakes off the oddly deep thought, far deeper than he ever allows himself to get while sober, and nods to his son.
"Dean. You made good time." Dean shrugs one shoulder, unimpressed with John's attempt at small-talk; neither Winchester really had much patience for it, especially between each other, so Dean sometimes wonders how his father always seems to give it a shot anyways. In any case, it's not like he made exceptionally great time at all; he had already been on his way to Wyoming when he'd gotten his dad's message, so it hadn't taken much extra effort to get to Nebraska in a few hours. Still, Dean decides to humor John.
"Pretty good," concedes he neutrally. John shakes his head, an odd kind of parental exasperation on his face- slightly fond, but mostly disapproving. He remembers the way Dean had started driving, pushing the car to near sonic speeds when he was fourteen, trying to be everywhere at once. True that that had been years ago, but John has little doubt that it's changed much.
"I'm surprised you haven't burned the tires off that thing, the way you take to roads, Devil Dog."
Dean's got to admit, the suggestion that he isn't taking care of his baby stings, but he knows better than to show it, especially in front of their new partners – especially in front of John.
Dean doesn't think that Sam saw the way his jaw tenses at the barb, the kid's not even looking at him, but Sam frowns a little, before very deliberately transitioning into his "professional" mode.
"Alright, sir," Sam begins with the prefix, because he sure as hell isn't going to refer to the legendary/ infamous John Winchester by his first name- no matter if the man himself asks him to, he's not touching that with a twenty-foot pole just yet. "Dean's filled us in pretty well, and I believe we've got a good foundation from him and the lists of research that Bobby sent over. There're still a few particulars we need from you, along with any other information you think might be relevant." At both Winchesters' questioning eyebrows, Sam grins, "I've worked with enough hunters to know that you've got to trust people's guts. If there's something either of you remember, no matter how off or insignificant, it'll help us out."
John nod, setting the last of the worn and frayed books on the counter.
"These I've picked up here and there, and they've had some pretty decent tips, summons, and traps," he waves his hand at the stack of thick, brittle-looking tomes. Across the bar, Sam's eyes glint in recognition of one or two of the titles, and the hazel orbs spark with curiosity at the ones he's never seen before. The next and final thing John pulls from the bag, while nodding at Sam's courteously questioning incline towards the tomes, is a leather-bound journal. Its cover has bleached from long years of wear and sun, the formerly rich tan now only a sickly coffee cream; its binding almost appears to be on its last legs, stuffed to the brim with anything from newspaper clippings to scraps of ancient linen parchment.
"And this is my journal. Alla my theories and research about this thing are in here," he tells the boys, holding the notebook in one hand and waving it in air like a gospel.
Sam's focus instantly snaps from the tomes with one huge paw hovering reverently over a grimoire with a nasty looking purple creature its cover.
Dean raises an eyebrow at the loosely bound leather book, absently wondering, When is that thing gonna just give out already, as John casually set it on the countertop. Frankly, he thinks that it probably should have fallen apart years ago, and that John must be keeping the thing together with the sheer force of Winchester will. That journal had been nigh on grafted into his father's left hand for most of Dean's life that he can remember and definitely all of the time since he started hunting; it was something Dean had always been forbidden to touch, and a constant reminder that there were some things that John would just never speak to Dean about.
That's why he's more than a little incredulous that his dad is just going to hand the precious thing over to these geek boys right off the bat, no matter how helpful the kids want to be. John confirms his suspicions when Sam reaches for the journal, quickly slamming his hand down on top of it. The elder Winchester sends Sam a furious warning look.
"That's not yours to be poking your nose in, kid."
Thus the pair comes to a stalemate. John, for his part, glares at the kid, as if daring this doe-eyed teenager to challenge his authority, daring him to pull that insubordinate stunt again; Sam just peers incredulously back at him and wonders how John thinks they are supposed to help him, if he won't even let them access all the information they need.
The silent battle of wills might have continued forever, if the bar door didn't slide open at that exact moment.
Ash doesn't jump, but barely manages it; relief floods the hacker at the sudden tension release, realizing suddenly the powder keg he'd just been standing in. The blond looks gratefully towards the door, and his relief intensifies at sight of the matriarch entering the room. Flicking her deep caramel hair away from her face, Ellen lightly kicks the door closed behind her, while a frown settles on her lips at the tense atmosphere of her establishment.
"What's all this?" questions the matriarch, as she ferries in a large paper bag, quilted shoulder-bag swinging against her hip. Ash flicks his eyes towards the elder Winchester, watching his face loose a bit of its storm.
"Ellen," John grits out in greeting. He leans awkwardly against the bar for a moment, while his regrets wash over his face like mud over a weathered stone; he's been putting this off far too long, and he doesn't know how to talk to this woman who was once his good friend- the woman whose husband he got killed. The Winchester shakes himself at the look on her face; while it's disapproving, there is no trace of true hate in the widow's eyes. That gives him the justification to bluster on, "Where were you? Bobby said I'd have to get through you before me and the boys could so much as 'consult'."
Ellen barely spared him more than an incredulous raise of eyebrow.
"Supply run, John; I got a legitimate business to run, 'case you forgot how the common foke live."
John snorted. "Now I remember where your son got his mouth from." This was a banter that dated back years; it's so easy for John to just slip back into it, almost like Bill would be coming in right behind her, joking about the shut door being a hint for him to get lost.
The others' reactions to the casual jibes are immediate. Both Sam and Ash have outrage pinched on their faces, which is only silenced by Ellen's silent, stern reprimand; from his place at the bar, Dean buries his face in his hand, wishing for once that his father would attempt not to piss everyone off. Dean figures he should be used to it by now, but some part of him never stops hoping that one day John would just learn. Ellen merely snorts at her old friend, before shaking her head at the two teenagers.
"Sam, honey, you and Ash go out back and help your sister unload; I let her pull the truck around on her own, but you know she's gonna get bored of unloadin' real quick without company." Though her son sends her a mutinous look, the boy nods and tromps toward the kitchen, his footfalls for once betraying the noise a growing teenager can actually make. His blond friend tromps after him, shooting John a suspicious sneer that the other man doesn't see, as he follows Sam. Dean briefly considers following the boys, if for no other reason than to escape the awkwardness of this reunion; however, his father catches Dean's eyes and shakes his head in a nonverbal order to stay put.
The younger Winchester suppresses a sigh, but shifts on his stool into the position that achieves both maximum comfort and inconsequence; Dean's philosophy when dealing with his dad's penchant for irritation is to simply avoid notice, rather than get caught up in the impending doom.
He wonders if the effort was useless, as Ellen's eyes lock on to him at once, assessing him much more clinically than her son had. After a moment, as though her measuring stare had never rested on him, the eldest Harvelle refocuses on John with only a slight smile betraying her assessment of Dean.
"John, mind fillin' me in on what that little standoff I walked in on was about?" she cuts right past the filler, unwilling to waste any further expenditure on the matter. John scowls immediately, sensing the impending admonishment from his old friend.
"Like I said, your boy's got a mouth on him, and a nose to match it; you need to teach him about sticking it where it don't belong." The matriarch's brow rises incredulously.
"You did come here for information, didn't ya? What good is a uninterested researcher going to do ya? Or are you just threatened by those boys readin' that precious diary a'yours? S'not like they're gonna post your classified exorcism rituals online, John. They just want to help you. So you can cut the crap and give my boys a chance, or cut your losses and kiss that demon goodbye." She comes to a stop in front of the hunter and lays her hand over the bound book of John Winchester's life, silently daring him not to see sense.
The battered expression of John's face slowly drains of his indignation, as he stares at the tome under Ellen's calloused, but still lithe and supple looking hand. The end of his life is scrawled across those pages; the horrid holes in his soul blot every line. Every secret wound to his heart and mind lie on every free space in that book, and not for the first time, he wishes he could burn it- salt and cremate it down to its ashes. As if that could erase the pain, give Dean his childhood and life back, or bring back his soulmate and his most innocent child. He can't do any of that, though; that book is more than just a part of him, more than a limb to toss away. It's his legacy, and maybe, someday when the pain has dulled and the secrets become less sharp, he'll let Dean read it.
"Your boys?" he queries abruptly, drumming up a weak smirk; he's never heard of this Ash kid, "I wasn't under the impression you took in strays, Harvelle." Ellen shakes her head again, as she drifts behind the bar, emptying John's spiked coffee and refilling it pure.
"Took in your rangy self, didn't we, Winchester? I love Ash like he's blood; he's as good as, just like Sam."
Ellen's last remark piques Dean's curiosity, but he decides to let it go, allowing himself to be distracted by John's sudden smile and gesture in his direction.
"Well, I'm sure you've heard of my boy," he states, something akin to pride shining at Dean like a penny in sunlight, "Dean Winchester." Ellen smiles at the younger Winchester, gliding over to top off Dean's own much of black caffeinated goodness.
"About time you got around to the introductions," she mutters, still squaring a fond smile the young man's way. "Good to meet you, Dean," she tells him, clasping Dean's hand in the first maternal touch the Winchester has experienced in seventeen years. He curls his fingers around hers with a firm shake.
"You, too, ma'am." He thinks over to the amazing coffee, the incredible sense of adventure conveyed by Sam and Ash, and Ellen's warm smile. Maybe this place won't be so bad after all… Maybe we've got a chance here. And for the first time in years, Dean hopes.
…