Dean's jaw locked, his fists clenched and he concentrated everything he had on keeping control. Damned if he was going to let himself break down in front of the oversized freak. Damned if he was! But one look at Sam's face was enough to let Dean know that his own was a picture-book open at the chapter entitled "Humiliation". He shot a look of reproach at his father but Dad wasn't looking at him. Dean understood that he was in the woodshed now. He just hadn't expected the first stroke to be so hard.
Sam wasn't taking the keys. Instead he simply turned and picked up his back-pack from where he'd left it behind his chair and started lifting it over his shoulders. "It's OK, John, I don't need the car, thanks," he said. "I don't mind walking. I'm used to it."
John slammed the keys down on the table in front of him. "Dammit, Sam, I said take the car!" he snapped. "Now just do it and get gone! Does everything have to be an argument with you?"
Sam stiffened. Dean watched as his jaw and face muscles tightened, then his nostrils flared and – WHOA! Dean's heart started racing with something between acute anxiety and awe. He'd never seen anyone look at John Winchester that way before, not if they hoped to look at anything else, ever again. Something, some innate impulse was trying to urge Dean to his feet. He had to physically restrain himself from jumping up and pushing himself between them, as if he could hope to protect or prevent either of these two giants from going at it if they had a mind to. But he was silently willing Sam to notice him, to catch his glance, understand his expression. Let it go, Sam! Let it go! Someone needed to tell him . . . he needed to understand, you just don't argue with Dad when he's in this mood!
In those moments, as Dean listened to the sound of his own blood pumping in his ears, he saw Sam glance at him, saw him catch the almost imperceptible shake of the head Dean gave him and the mute appeal that pleaded with him not to prolong the confrontation any further, saw the fire that was blazing in those suddenly dark eyes recede just a little. OK. Dean started to breathe again. OK, now just take the keys and go, and just let me get this freakin' nightmare over with.
Sam hesitated only a moment longer, then his hand reached toward the table and his fingers closed around the keys. As he picked them up his jaw jutted outward and his head craned to one side, then he left without a word. But as he turned to go he threw one last enigmatic look at Dean, and just then the sunlight caught his eyes and lit them up bright blue. It reminded Dean of something; he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was, yet somehow it made him feel a bit better.
In the silence that followed Dad poured himself another cup of coffee while Dean tried to sort out the wild tangle of emotions the freakish scene had stirred in him. The rational part of Dean's brain acknowledged that most of his ambivalence toward Sam was due to his father having used the kid as a stick to beat him with, and that Sam was in no way to blame for that. Nevertheless, the angry child in him felt the sting of being denied a toy only to see it given away and as his father waited him out, forcing him to take responsibility for starting the conversation, it was the resentment that took possession of him, and he could think of only one thing to say.
"How long have you known, Sam, Dad?" he asked, trying to make his voice sound calm and conversational.
"He's been working with us about a month," Dad replied, equally casually.
"So you don't really know him, then?" Dean took a breath before continuing. "I mean, you've just handed the Impala over to a guy you really don't know anything about. Is that who you'd rather trust than your own son?" As the last sentence came out his voice betrayed him with a petulant sounding squeak, perhaps because he hadn't really intended to say that part out loud at all.
His father took a sip of his coffee then turned a level gaze on Dean that made his insides wither. "I'll tell you what I know about Sam," he said. "He's been in town a month and I just found out last night he's been sleeping out by the lake all that time. Far as I can tell he has three shirts to his name and two pairs of jeans, but he turns up to work each day neat and clean. He puts in a full day, never skimps, and does everything to the best of his ability. There've been times he hasn't had enough to eat, but he's never asked for a hand out. Everything he owns fits in that backpack of his, and everything he has he's had a long time, and it's all well cared for. That's why I'm willing to trust him with the things I value, Dean. I know if I give Sam something to take care of, he'll look after it. You've never taken care of anything in your life, Dean. I've been waiting twenty-six years for you to show some sense of responsibility. I'm still waiting."
Dean stared at the table where his finger was tracing slow mechanical patterns on the table cloth.
"Do I need to go on, Dean?"
Dean swallowed. His voice was husky when he spoke. "No, Dad. You've made your point."
His father leaned back and took a long swallow from his coffee. "So, tell me about this fight," he said when he set it down.
"I didn't start it, Dad. I was backing up a friend." Dean felt a spark of conviction begin to heat his words as he continued. "You'd want me to stand by my friends, wouldn't you, Dad? You know you'd do the same!"
"Which friend are we talking about here, Dean? Jimmy Marsters?"
The conviction Dean had been standing on deflated instantly and he fell silent.
"You could choose your friends more wisely, Dean. I told you that boy was trouble first time I met him."
Dean knew it. Jim was arrogant and rebellious. He was the worst possible influence on Dean but he was exciting and he was fun, and Dean couldn't resist him. Even so, Dean made one last effort to defend himself. He passed a hand round the back of his neck where the damp ends of his hair were irritating his skin.
"Dad, could you not allow for the possibility, just once, that not every problem begins and ends with me?"
His father leaned forward and held Dean's gaze. His expression was more serious than angry. "Dean, who else do you think there is?" He paused for a beat then he continued "Son, you need to realize there's not a damned thing in this life that you can control beyond your own decisions, and if you don't take responsibility for those you'll never be anything else but fortune's bitch." He sighed and now he just looked sad, and Dean's insides cramped painfully. That was worse than him being angry. Much worse. "Look, Dean, don't get me wrong. It's not that I'm not proud of you, for many things, your loyalty and your courage not least among them, but I'm worried about you. You just seem to be drifting. You don't seem to have any drive or direction, anything you really care about."
"That's not true, Dad!" Dean protested. "I care about you and Mom, for a start . . . and Penny," he added as an afterthought.
Dad smiled and sighed again. He shook his head. "Yes, you've always cared about other people."
"Well, what's wrong with that?"
"Nothing. Nothing." He shook his head again then he reached out and for a moment his hand rested affectionately against the side of Dean's head. He withdrew it again quickly as they both realized Dean was in danger of getting emotionally overwrought. "But you need to care about yourself, too. Isn't there anything you want for yourself, Dean?"
Dean squirmed uncomfortably. The only thing he could think to offer was the one thing his father saw no practical value in. "Well, there's my music . . ." He cleared his throat as he saw Dad trying to smother a look of impatience. "The band's doing well, Dad. We're getting engagements. People like our music, my music - "
"And is that what you're planning to do when you finish your degree? What about the other members of the band? Are they committed or is this just something they're doing to get through college?"
"I'm training to be a sound engineer, Dad."
"And is that what you really want?"
Dean hesitated.
"You don't seem sure."
"Dad, what do you want from me?" Dean cried frustratedly. "It's a real job, I enjoy it and I'm good at it. What more do you want?"
His father was getting frustrated too. "It's not about what I want, Son!"
You sure about that, Dad?
They both fell silent. After a minute Dean made a final attempt to cut the Gordian Knot.
"Dad, I'm sorry about the suspension. It was stupid, but it won't affect anything. I'll go back for the exams, and I'll pass them. I've been getting good grades - "
"You got good grades at Law School, Dean, and at business studies at first, then you just seemed to give up - "
"Not this time, Dad, I promise you. I promise you, I will finish this time."
Another beat and then Dad drained the dregs and looked at his watch, and Dean felt blessed relief flood over him. Talk over. "I'd better get to work. What are your plans for the day?"
"Uh . . ." Dean hadn't thought beyond getting through this interview.
"If you're going to be hanging round the house all day, at least make yourself useful to your mother."
"Right." Dean sighed inwardly.
As his father stood up he lifted Dean's chin and studied his face. "I hope you gave the other guy hell," he said smiling.
"Well, I think I bruised his knuckles pretty bad," Dean quipped, then wished he hadn't. Why did he have to do that? Why couldn't he just have made up something that made him sound like half the man his father wished he was?
A thump on the shoulder was Dad's parting affectionate gesture and Dean wandered into the kitchen where his mother was drying dishes. He picked up a cloth and joined her.
"Poor baby," she cooed, drawing his head down to her level and kissing his forehead. She drew her hands down his face and tried to lift the corners of his mouth into a smile. "He loves you very much, you know."
"I know, Mom."
"And he is proud of you."
Dean smiled but said nothing. Honestly, what was there to be proud of?
His father appeared in the kitchen doorway. "I'm off now, Amanda," he said. "Is there anything you need me to pick up when I come home?"
"Not so fast, John." She dropped the dish cloth, gave John a prod out of the doorway and followed him through it. "I want a word with you before you leave." Dean cringed inwardly at her tone. Apparently his wasn't the only visit to the woodshed that day
He finished drying the dishes and put them away then he wandered into the living room, picked up his guitar and strummed idly until his jangling senses started to return to some kind of equilibrium. He hardly noticed the chords starting to fall into a pattern until he started humming snatches of a melody along with them, then he found odd phrases starting to occur to him.
"Hey, tall stranger . . ." he crooned. Tall stranger? Dark stranger?
"Hey, tall stranger knocking at my door . . ." He stood up and trailed his guitar over to his duffel bag, opened it and took out his laptop. Better get this down. It was always best to get things down straight away. Door. Bore? Core? Heart's core? Nah. Too Shakespearean. For? He set up the laptop and booted it up.
"Middle of the night . . . In the middle of the night . . ." He strummed a few more chords. Hore . . . Whore? . . . Jore . . . Jaw . . . Law
The laptop beeped. He opened a page and started to type phrases.
"Hey, tall stranger knocking at my door
In the middle of the night"
Tore . . . wore . . . war?
For. Floor! Yes!
He typed another couple of sentences then started shaping and rearranging them. Dark stranger. Angel. Dark Angel . . . Devil . . . He definitely had something now. It struck him that it had a kind of mythic quest feel to it. He picked up the guitar once more and worked up the chords into an epic rock riff, singing along with his first draft of the chorus, starting in a soft melodic tenor but finishing with his best Robert Plant impression.
"Hey, tall stranger knocking at my door
In the middle of the night, what you want me for?
Why d'you walk into my life, knock me to the floor?
Tall, dark stranger, what you want me for?
Are you an Angel or a Devil knocking at my door?"
.