Disclaimer: The characters found within are the property of the CW from the brilliant mind of creator Eric Kripke.
AN: This takes place seven months after the end of my last fic, Fortunate Son.
Dean fired off his last shot, the tenth beer bottle shattering. He glanced back at Dad and Sam, but neither of them were watching him be a badass.
No big deal, he thought, checking his clip. It's not like it was really news how good he was at shooting.
He watched them for a moment. Things weren't getting heated yet, but it didn't take much lately. Puberty was hitting Sam and, by extension, the whole Winchester family, like a freight train.
"Looks like we need to make some more empty beers, dad!" Dean called out, trying to distract them before things went sour. He let out a sigh, going to collect the broken glass.
He put all the broken pieces in the coffee tin, sucking the blood off a prick on his finger, and went back to the Impala.
John turned to his oldest, trying to shake off a growing aggravation. "Done already?"
Done for awhile. "Yep."
"Your turn, Sammy." John took another bucket of empty bottles.
Unlike his older brother, Sam was not enthused by the idea of target practice. "This is stupid."
John raised an eyebrow. "You callin' your brother stupid?"
"That's not what he meant." Dean began-don't drag me into this, please.
"I don't need to practice shooting beer bottles! It's not like they're gonna try to knife me."
John pushed the bucket into Sam's arms, his face making it clear there would be no argument.
Sam scowled, marching his lanky form over to the stump.
Dean leaned against the Impala. It might as well be pouring rain based on how Sammy was acting. He blew into his hands. Wyoming was not the place to be in January, that was for sure.
"Remember those nuns we were looking into at St. Stephen's?" John asked.
"Double haunting." Dean glanced at his dad. "Double suicide. Lovers gone sour. I remember."
"I want you to take care of it today."
Dean straightened, not sure he'd heard his dad correctly. "On my own?"
"Is that a problem?" John gave him a sideways glance.
"No, sir." Dean hoped he didn't look too excited. It shouldn't be exciting, after all. Two people were dead, other than the nuns, of course. It was horrible. "I can do it, no problem."
John nodded.
The sound of beer bottles shattering echoed through the field. Despite his foot-dragging, Sammy was about as good a shot as Dean already.
Dean caught the way his dad was looking at Sam and began to think there was another reason why his dad decided now was the perfect time to send Dean off on his own mission. Wouldn't do any good to bug him about it, though. "Can I take the car?"
John smiled at him. "Nice try. I'll drop you off. Sammy and I are gonna go by the store. You can give me a call when you're done."
Sammy turned to his dad, not looking for approval like Dean had but hoping his torture would be over.
"You got more bottles." Was all John said.
•••
"-the most pointless exercise."
Dean slammed the trunk as he finished putting the guns away. Neither Sam or John noticed too busy bickering.
"Staying sharp is not pointless, Sam Winchester."
"The only thing sharp is those bottles!"
Dean shut the passenger door, exhaling heavily.
"We could at least go hunting for deer or something. That's not pointless. Moving target, endurance exercise, and you get to eat when you're done!" Sammy continued as John pulled back onto the dirt road.
His dad's grip tightened on the steering wheel, his words measured. "That's a good idea, son, but we're heading out of town as soon as these nuns are taken care of."
Sammy glared at his dad's reflection in the rearview mirror. "Wow. We've been at this school for four days. That's a real record, dad."
"You better watch that tone, son," John said tightly. "It's getting a little out of hand. Don't you think?"
Sammy compromised by sinking down in his seat and glaring out the window.
Dean glanced at his dad. "Can we listen to music?" He asked tentatively.
"Can we not?" Sam snapped bitterly from the backseat.
"Dammit, Samuel." John turned in his seat. "One more word out of you, and you get five miles." He hit the radio button with such force Dean was surprised it didn't break.
Happy Birthday to me. He thought dryly.
•••
"You got everything you need?" John asked. It would be dark in about an hour, and he'd parked a little ways away from the old mission.
Dean pat his pockets. "Crowbar, salt, matches. I'm good."
John hesitated for a moment. Dean could do it. He knew, but it felt like a rite of passage, and he wished he had some sort of profound words to impart on his son. "EMF reader?"
Dean pulled it out of his back pocket.
John smiled. "Alright. Get outta here." He watched Dean walk off. He stopped at the driver door for a moment, taking a deep breath before getting in.
Sammy was still sulking.
"Wanna ride in the front?" John asked. Take the olive branch, boy.
As if John had demanded he walk barefoot over hot coals, Sam climbed into the front, slamming the passenger door shut.
John closed his eyes for a moment. Give me patience, Mary.
The Impala turned around, and they drove a little while in silence before John pulled over outside of town. He put the car in park before shutting it off.
Sam refused to look at him.
"Part of the reason I sent Dean off alone tonight was so you and I could talk."
"I figured."
Patience.
"You and your brother are old enough to come with me on more hunts. You're both capable of helping, and when you can't, you can do homework in the car. That means we're gonna be moving around more than we have in the past and, while I believe a little teenage attitude is healthy, you have got to lighten up, Sam." John got it out. And if it were Dean, that would have been enough.
If only.
"When is this ever gonna end, dad?" Sammy turned to his father, exasperated. "Before or after I'm too old to do anything with my life?"
John bristled. "You know when."
"Ah, yes, the mythical revenge."
"You need to choose your next words carefully, boy." John's tone was deathly level.
Sam took a deep breath.
"We can make this work if we do it together," John said, trying to sound more open. "Your mother comes first."
Sam had the good sense to bite his tongue.
When no remark came, John turned the Impala back on. Sam made a show of looking more relaxed. He didn't want to keep fighting tonight. John had pulled the trump card. There was no arguing when he brought up mom. Dean was the same way.
Sam always felt bad after he said something, but he couldn't help it. A ghost controlled his whole life! The irony of that was not lost on him.
He didn't know his mom. He had no memories of her, only short brief statements about her grilled cheese sandwiches or "if your mother knew" or "the thing that killed mom." Whoever she was, she wouldn't have wanted this. She couldn't have.
Sam refused to believe that his fathers' crusade was the best way to honor Mary Winchester's memory.
AN: Tune in next chapter for my first attempt at writing a ghost hunt! Wish me luck