Disclaimer: Nope; not mine.
A/N: We are beginning to get into the dramatic-buildup-to-the-main-action part of the story - hold onto your hats, my good people! As always, unbeta'd, and warnings for cursing in this chapter.
You know what would rock my world? Getting forty reviews on this story. Come on, help a girl out? Just press that button!
When Mary died, John wasn't prepared to take care of two young boys, much less a baby. Elizabeth took Sam for the weekend and just … never brought him back.
At the time, John thought it was for the best; sixteen years later, it seems it didn't much matter anyway.
The truck felt wrong as it lumbered along under Dean's reluctant hands. He missed his Impala. Bobby said Raver was always a bastard, but the loss of his beloved car made it personal for Dean.
They were moving at a good pace now, having long since left behind the city Bobby's place sat on the edge of. Dean wasn't even really sure what the name of that city was. He had been coming to South Dakota to see Bobby since he was five years old, but he had no idea what the city was called. It wasn't like they spent a lot of time in the city, anyway. As a matter of fact, Dean didn't think he had ever gone into the city while at Bobby's.
But whatever the city was called, it was history, and not even a dot on his horizon.
The hilly terrain that shielded the land near Bobby's didn't allow for much looking around, which was good … and bad. It forced Dean's thoughts inward, and while he did have some things he needed to figure out, now was not the time.
A billboard for shaving cream streaked by his window unnoticed. Led Zeppelin was deafening in the confines of the car, but Dean didn't hear it. A pothole in the road was hardly felt.
Dean had left his dad and Bobby for a specific reason. Dean was on a mission.
If John knew where he was going, he'd skin Dean alive. Bobby would've laughed. Dean didn't really need either reaction right now, so he just said he was getting some air. That was believable; with three equally stubborn men staying in the same house, even just eating dinner together, tempers ran high at the slightest disagreement. And tonight's conversation hadn't exactly been all lollipops and rainbows.
A battered signpost, barely legible, marked his turnoff. Dean nearly missed it.
Bobby had mentioned an old motel, just off the highway, where Raver had been spotted a few times. Bobby said he thought it was so that Raver could keep an eye on Bobby, hoping he would lead him to Sam. Dean hoped to find some information on Raver here that might help track him down.
John would've been pissed because he would have insisted on coming along. But, for some reason, Dean felt that this was something he had to do on his own. Besides, it would save time in the long run.
Bobby would laugh because he had made it clear that this place was a dead end. Of course, Bobby knew Dean would check it out anyway, and Dean could imagine what he'd say when he found out. The older hunter was one of the most ornery and stubborn men Dean knew – aside from John, who was the clear winner – yet he regularly accused Dean of being thick headed.
The sign on the door said open, so Dean walked right in. The door stuck a little, and the air was musty inside. Peeling wallpaper decorated three of the walls; the wall to Dean's right was taken up by a huge trophy case showing off five dusty minor league baseball trophies and an MVP plaque.
"Hello?" Dean called uncertainly. There was an old-timey bell on the counter, and he rang it once, cringing at the sticky substance that came off the handle. "Anybody home?" he tried again, wiping his hand surreptitiously on his jeans.
A man in his late forties came from the back room. He grinned when he saw Dean, revealing two gold teeth and a couple of empty spaces. His flannel shirt looked like something Bobby would wear, but Bobby never stunk like this guy did. Dean coughed into his hand and tried to smile back.
"How kin I help you, Sir?" the man asked, placing both beefy hands on the counter and leaning over.
Dean coughed again. "I'm looking for a friend of mine. His name is Harry Raver; have you seen him?"
The man behind the counter seemed to think about it for a minute. His face scrunched up in concentration. After a full two minutes his expression cleared, but he shrugged apologetically. "Nope, can't say I have. Sorry."
Dean wasn't willing to give up that easily. "OK, but see, sometimes he goes by different names." His audience of one looked skeptical, but Dean pressed on. "Just tell me if you've seen a guy in his late fifties, maybe early sixties, but fit for his age, dark hair and blue eyes. He's about six foot five, and he's got broad shoulders – built like a linebacker." Dean watched the proprietor hopefully for any signs of recognition.
Suddenly, a light went on. "Wait …" the guy said slowly, regarding Dean with caution. He reached beneath the counter and pulled out an abused guest log. It took him a minute to find the page he wanted, and he then flipped it around and stuck a chubby finger under a particular name. "This your friend?" he asked suspiciously.
The name listed was Harry Banshee … yeah, that sounded like Raver. The guy was even more obsessed with banshees than Dean thought, apparently.
"Yeah, that's him. He still here?" that would be wonderful; Dean wouldn't even have to leave the state. He could picture the looks on John and Bobby's faces if he came back with Raver, all by himself.
The motel owner shook his head. "Nah, he left three days ago."
The disappointment was sharp and dug uncomfortably into Dean's side. He brushed it off. "Any idea where he went?" Dean asked, deflating a little. It looked like he would need John and Bobby after all; at least for the research and to help him track Raver down. That prick had stolen his baby, his most sacred possession; the dirty deed was Dean's and Dean's alone.
"Nah," the guy said again, with a shrug. "Hey, why'd you need to find him, anyway? Can't you just call him up or something? Does he have one of those portable phones? I hear those things are damn useful. 'Course, I'd never use one myself; gives you brain cancer. I read an article about it in the –"
Dean didn't really feel like standing there and listening to some guy's opinion on the evils of technology, so he quickly made his move for the exit.
"You know what, you're right; I really should have thought of that before. Thank you very much for your time." Dean flashed a quick smile and headed for the door. He didn't stop until he was in the sun again.
The fresh, clean air of a South Dakota evening was especially refreshing after the mildew-laced atmosphere of the ancient motel. Now that he was out, Dean was sure he had seen rat droppings in there; not that he was about to go back in and check.
Even the truck didn't seem so bad anymore.
XXX
Dean was late. Dean was never late; that was one thing John had drilled into him the instant he was old enough to tell time. Being late meant that no one knew where you where. That meant that you were alone and vulnerable and pretty much as good as dead.
"Will you stop pacing, ya damn idjit! You're makin' me twitch."
John glanced at Bobby. The other man was sitting in his old wicker chair on the front porch, an open but as of yet unheeded book of thirteenth century demonic lore in his lap. John had tried sitting down and following Bobby's example, but he couldn't concentrate. Dean was out there somewhere, and it was getting dark.
John wet his lips nervously. "What if something happened to him, Bobby? What if he's been attacked or had an accident or something?"
"Nothin' happened, you big baby. Dean is fine and he'll be pulling up any second now, ready to laugh his ass off at you for worryin' so damn much. Now sit down."
John sat, reluctantly, doing his best to incinerate Bobby with his expression. Bobby ignored him. John turned his gaze to the road. Dean had been gone four hours, and John had no idea where he went. Getting some air his ass; Dean must have hit on something in Bobby's report on Raver.
At the two hour mark, when John and Bobby ran out of things to talk about and Dean still wasn't back yet, they had gone over everything Bobby had said, hoping to figure out where Dean went. Bobby had mentioned a motel about ten miles down the road, but John didn't think it likely Dean went there; Bobby had made it very clear there was nothing to learn there.
The rumble of a big truck in need of an oil change had John on his feet again in an instant. Bobby grumbled quietly, but joined John at the edge of the porch to watch Dean pull in.
About three seconds after Dean's feet hit the ground, John started yelling.
"What the hell were you thinking?" he demanded, voice rough with irritation. Dean stopped, startled. John ignored his son's expression and kept shouting. "Where have you been, Dean? Do you have any idea how worried I was? I had no idea where you were! Did you even –"
"First off," Dean interrupted. His expression had gone from confusion to annoyance in a matter of seconds. "I told you where I was going; I said I was going to get some air."
"And you needed four hours to do that?" John's voice rose. He was getting ready to launch into another tirade, but Dean, once again, cut him off.
"Secondly!" Dean matched John's tone and volume. He took a few steps forward. "I was doing research."
John glowered, clearly not satisfied. But he was more curious than he was pissed off and he couldn't help asking; "What research?"
Dean didn't look quite finished yelling yet, either, but he sucked in a deep breath and joined John and Bobby on the porch. He stopped about two inches from John's chest.
There was a tense moment as the Winchesters faced off, then John stepped aside and let Dean pass.
Bobby couldn't help a small sigh as he trailed after his houseguests. Honestly, sometimes it seemed like John wanted Dean to leave, or at least to rebel. And maybe he did; John knew as well as Bobby that the only way to survive in the world they lived in was to be completely independent, even while functioning as part of a team. Because you never knew when the people you depended on were going to go away; that was a lesson every hunter learned, and Bobby couldn't really hold it against John for trying to teach it to Dean before a situation arose that drove it home in ways that left Dean truly alone.
When Bobby entered his kitchen Dean was sitting at the table and John stood by the fridge, leaning casually against the counter. The tension in the room made earlier seem like a damn cocktail party. Bobby sighed again and joined Dean, easing into his seat without comment. Dean spoke first.
"So Bobby mentioned a motel ten miles from here; I went to check it out."
Silence again. John prodded, tone still irritated; "And?"
Dean shrugged. He fixed his eyes on the table, picking with his thumbnail at a knot in the wood. Most people would have missed the flash of hurt in green eyes, the slight lift in one corner of his mouth, gone in a blink; but it was a familiar expression to John Winchester.
Dean knew something … and, more importantly, he was upset. Dean didn't often let his emotions show – at least, that's what most people thought. The truth was Dean wore his heart on his sleeve; he just kept it coded. That twitch of his lips was the Dean equivalent of normal people breaking down in hurt, angry tears. The boy had never taken well to fighting with his father, something that both pleased and irritated John; the unquestioning obedience was sure useful on a hunt, but sometimes he wished Dean would take a little more initiative and not be so quick to defer on mundane, day-to-day disagreements.
It was only recently that Dean had begun pushing back, due mostly to John pushing harder than ever, but Dean still hero-worshipped his father, and John just didn't have it in him to force his son away.
John pushed off the counter and took the seat by his son. He set his gaze determinedly on Dean's face. "What did you find, Dean?" he asked. His voice was softer now, more gentle; apology, Winchester style.
Dean looked up, nodded briefly at John, and began to speak; forgiveness, Winchester style. "Well, the guy there hadn't heard of Harry Raver, but when I gave him Raver's description he told me he had seen someone like that. Raver was there, Dad; he left three days ago."
"Three days?" Bobby waited for Dean to confirm it. "Shit." At John and Dean's questioning expressions, he elaborated. "Three days ago I called you two and sent you to Nebraska. Raver was never after a banshee; he was after you. He was hopin' you'd lead him to Sam. Shit."
It made sense, John had to admit. Raver was smart, that was for sure; he must have been watching Bobby pretty closely, probably had been for a while. Suddenly, something occurred to John.
"Bobby, are you sure Raver doesn't have some kind of listening device in here?" John asked.
Bobby froze. His gaze moved quickly around the room, as though checking for any such devices. He shook his head. "Nah, he couldn'ta put anything in here; even when I go anywhere, Jack's here. He couldn'ta gotten in."
John laughed bitterly. Bobby didn't seem to realize the flaw in his logic. "Bobby," he said, smiling without humor. "Jack isn't exactly difficult to get past. Your dog is about the worst guard dog I've ever seen; all Raver would have had to do is bring a rawhide with him and Jack would have let him have the TV, radio, and half the good china."
Bobby sagged. "Yeah, you're right." He glanced at Jack, who was sleeping in the hallway, completely oblivious to his horrific failing.
Sharp as ever, Dean spoke up. "So what are we doing sitting here? Let's find the bug and get rid of it."
This was, of course, the only logical course of action, and they set to it immediately.
A sweep of the house revealed not one, but five listening devices planted everywhere from Bobby's bathroom – "What the hell? 'S he some kinda pervert, too?" – to the kitchen, hidden cleverly inside the spice cabinet, angled out where the wood was warped and the door didn't quite close.
Bobby was beyond pissed. John couldn't help feeling a little bit defeated. Raver was clearly much more intelligent – not to mention capable – than they had at first given him credit for … and more obsessed.
"Now what?" Dean asked, once they were fairly certain they were indeed the only ones listening. They were all sitting on the porch; it was the easiest room to search, and the only place at Bobby's they were one hundred percent sure was safe.
"Now we call Sam; he needs to know what Raver is up to."
John wasn't at all sure that was a good idea, but he didn't think he was in any position to argue with Bobby. Part of his apprehension, he knew, was just nerves about Dean's reaction should he and Sammy meet, as they no doubt would eventually – it was just a question of how long John could put it off.
TBC