Disclaimer: The Winchesters belong to Eric Kripke and I will be forever grateful to him for sharing them with us. I hope he doesn't mind me borrowing them from time to time; I promise to return them as I found them.

And I know the rule. If I break them, I buy them.

A/N: This isn't a particularly long part but it's building, I promise. I should be able to update again before the weekend is out; my beta has some more to read today. For myself, I'm spending most of today at Qwest Field in Seattle where it's a country music fan's dream. Blaine Larsen, Gretchen Wilson, Big & Rich, Dierks Bentley, and Kenny Chesney. Yay! I may be in such a good mood tomorrow that I'll find it impossible to torture Dean further. Or I may be so tired that I'll want to torture him a lot more. Stay tuned!

Father and Son

Chapter Two

Dean followed his father's advice and took a hot shower. He stood under the showerhead, the water beating on his back, thinking about John's reaction to the events of the night.

John wasn't completely unfeeling. He didn't like to see either of his sons in pain, but he normally didn't respond in such a gentle way. His usual tact was to be tough and not let either of them indulge in self-pity, but Dean always saw the concern in his eyes when he would clean their wounds and address other injuries. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen John react with such – tenderness – but even then, it had usually been reserved for Sam.

John walked into the first bar he found. It was almost midnight on Tuesday and the small place held only a few customers; mostly older men who probably spent a good part of the day on the barstools they now occupied. He got some suspicious looks, but mostly he was ignored.

"Can I get a draft?" he was surprised to see the bartender was a young redheaded woman.

The glass was set in front of him. "You've not been in here before."

John took a long swallow. "No. I'm just passing through town."

The bartender smiled at him. "You might want to find a place to hole up for the night. The radio just said there was a big storm rolling in."

"I noticed the wind was whipping pretty good. I got a room at the motel down the street."

"I bet ol' Gertie was shocked to get a customer. We're not exactly a tourist destination."

John smiled. "I'm not exactly a tourist."

Before too long, John found himself in a game of pool with two of the younger men in the bar. He liked small towns; once you had the trust of one person the rest usually fell into line. He got some interesting information and won a couple hundred dollars; neither one took a whole lot of effort.

When John returned to the motel room, he found Dean sitting up in bed flipping through television channels. John's journal was open on his lap.

"I brought you back a burger if you're hungry." he said, dropping a paper bag on the bed next to his son.

"Thanks. I raided the vending machine, but this smells good."

"How are you feeling?"

"Okay. I'll be ready tomorrow. What did you find out?"

John slipped out of his jacket and sat on the opposite bed. "I saw a pretty decent light show going on the house when we left; other people in the town have seen that, too."

"What do you think it means?"

"I'm not sure." John said thoughtfully. "But there's another story about the house Caleb didn't tell me."

"Oh yeah?" Dean asked, digging into the hamburger.

"Jackson Border's father was into something, at least that's the rumor, and he never had a crop fail. People in town think Jackson was into something Satanic, but not what his father was into. Jackson wasn't quite the farmer his dad was. He supposedly had a lot of interesting parties at the place after his father died. Supposedly there were animal sacrifices and other fun things like that." John took his journal from Dean and paged through it. "There was supposedly an altar set up in the basement, but who knows how close to the truth that is. Father and son may not have gotten along very well, either. There are a lot of stories about them getting into fights in town."

"What if Jackson and is dad are battling it out in the house?"

John looked up. "What?"

Dean shrugged. "If they didn't get along when they were alive, why would they get along any better dead?"

John smiled at his son. "That's a good thought."

Dean practically beamed.

"Let's figure out what to do with that tomorrow." John said putting the journal on the table that separated the beds. "I, uh, I think we need to talk about what happened earlier."

Dean felt like he'd been hit in the stomach. "Yeah, I'm sorry –"

John held up a hand. "No. What I mean is, we're used to having three people and we're going to have to do things differently with just the two of us. That was my fault."

Dean looked at his father; he didn't know what to say.

It only took a moment for things to change again. John started talking about two-man strategy and how they would have to be more careful going forward. Dean listened half-heartedly, the rest of the burger tossed into the trash.

He lay awake long after John was asleep, thinking about how different things really were going to be. It wasn't just the hunting strategies; the entire dynamic had to change. John's momentary attacks of compassion were more than a little confusing and Dean found himself wishing they would last longer.

TBC