OKAYS---sorry for the massive delay in getting another one of these posted...a thousand lashes for me...I hope this shot satisfies as an apology although god knows I don't deserve forgiveness for making ya'll wait so long!
I tried something a little different this time around so let me know what you think...okay enough of this stuff to what you clicked the link for:
5. Hunting Nights
The Chalman home loomed over the dense, overgrown grass tinted yellow from lack of upkeep and proper watering. Time had aged the wooden structure and its elusive hands had carved its mark into the whitewashed slats and bordered windows. Every creak and groan from the rotting floorboards echoed into the vast shadow cast by the deteriorating two-story. Their resonance in the still night air punctuated with each heavy, panicked footfall and cries from a desperate, searching man.
"Dean!" John yelled blindly into the darkness, his eyes darting frantically over the inner remnants of the dilapidated house. This was a nightmare. A friggen' nightmare. One he'd had in the worse tirades of sleep—a scenario he was ever conscious of in his waking but never contemplated and deemed impossible. And yet, it was happening, in the shadowed veil of living, breathing nightfall, it was happening.
"Son? Dean!" The dark-haired man clamored up the ancient stairs, nearly breaking the tiny wooden banister under the fierce grip of his left, his right clinging tightly to his trusted rifle. It wasn't supposed to have occurred this way but Fate was a cruel bitch.
His entire game plan had changed the instant he'd given into Dean's manipulation and allowed the boy to swap Dad's trusty EMF for his invention evolved from the old busted up walkman John had given him for his twelfth birthday. Damn thing made more noise than it was worth and if he hadn't been trying to find the damn volume control then he would've caught sight of the pissed off spirit of Martin Chalman sooner and the nosy neighbor, eyes wide with fear, before he fired a round of rock salt into the haunting bastard. Shot to hell didn't even begin to describe the situation as a police escort back to the hotel and a round of questioning from the son he'd left behind with piles of research concluded the evening.
And then it had come to this. John couldn't go back to the house; he'd been seen and more than likely being tailed. The job offered a nice payment, but it had to be completed first—damn capitalists. The only hope for payday and security of the frightened town was Dean and there was no other option but for the boy to finish the job--alone.
I can handle it.
The anguished father shook his head as the words spoken mere hours before tormented him.
Let me do this.
John had known better, and still he'd said yes. He'd relented to the incessant plea of his oldest for him to simply grant a solo hunt and the lingering need for finances. At the current moment, regret seemed too simple a word.
"C'mon, Dean!" John growled. Worry drove his actions, and betrayed all knowledge of the hunt as his voice raised to a course scream with each utterance of his son's name. Let the damn bitch Chalman come after him, he didn't care.
He rushed toward the other end of the long, narrow hallway only to come to a halting stop in front of a large bay window overlooking the acre of land resting behind the homestead. A small shed stood out like a black scar in the thick turf, the wooden entrance partially unhinged and swaying ever slightly in the small wisps of midnight wind.
It was the trigger John needed. Thousands of facts, articles, and internet searches flooded back with rapid speed, each one filling in the missing parts of the puzzle and plausible location of his missing son. Martin Chalman was more than a murderer and suicide victim, he was a gardener, and had chosen his haven as the proper place to commit both.
Fear creeped along John's spine, wrapping around every furious breath and determined sprint as the father fled to the decaying relic. Long strides and a quick turn brought him into the structure, and searching eyes soaked in the dim environment. Only one side of the room occupied everything but by looks of the broken shards of wood, and mess of scattered tools it had not always been so.
The weary dark haired man sighed tremblingly when nothing but piles of rubble met his glassy gaze. Masses of brown, charred black, rotted gray and then--red--deepest crimson in the shallowest pool seeping toward his booted feet. Quivering legs brought him closer to the shattered remains of a work bench and glimmering assortment of iron and steel instruments under which the source of such jarring scarlet could be found.
Adrenaline coursed through every vein, governing the strain and ripple of muscle against the heavy obstacles imprisoning the bloody origin. John didn't speak, his face stoic, as he refused to allow himself a thought beyond each jerk and clatter as the remnants were tossed aside until all was revealed.
The smallest hint of sand colored hair starkly contrasted the sea of brown and captivated John. He needed to see more of it. He needed to know. Rapidly, John threw the remaining splinters away, and didn't try to silence the sharp gasp that escaped him as he slowly took in the ashen face of his oldest child, slack and still, painted red along the side.
"Dean?" John whispered harshly, but initial shock gave way to urgency and he commanded, "Dean!"
When no reply was offered from his son, John set to work clearing away the rest of the rubble until the better half of Dean's torso was uncovered before stopping the action. Kneeling down along side the motionless form of his first born, John lightly tapped the side of Dean's stubble laden cheek doing his best to coax his son into consciousness. Each slap intensified as the seconds wore on, and within an instant John decided that waiting wasn't an option anymore. He needed to act, and he needed to do it now.
Placing his hands underneath Dean's shoulder's, John adjusted his position to gain a better balance and pulled, grunting against the resistance as he tried to drag his son's body from the rest of the debris. Dean's torn jeans came into sight, along with a small flutter of eyelids, and John hauled again, this time able to pull Dean into almost a half slump against him.
Dean's head lolled back and a brief glint of green met John's brown. "H-huh…"
"We're getting out of here, son." With haste, the father draped one arm across Dean's back and bent to place the other under his knees, a swift movement later and John was rewarded with a bloodcurdling scream from his eldest and the pained stare of jade. "What? Dean? What?"
It was as if the darkened stain covering the front of Dean's T-shirt was only now coming into being. John swallowed the bile seeking to rise, and tried his best to offer some form of comfort as his son fought jerkily and weakly in his hold. But it only made Dean squirm more.
"Dean, stop!" John ordered firmly, tightening his grip. It was the only way to get his son to listen, orders were always followed and it'd worked in his favor because Dean indeed stilled. The father hardly managed to break from the confused, agonizing stare of his son, and scanned the area quickly for any sign of the malevolent spirit.
Satisfied that as long as the thing wasn't on his heels things they were good, John asked Dean if he was ready, and received a small nod in return. It was enough, and John broke out into the fastest pace he could without jostling Dean too much as each moan and whimper was like dosing his legs with lead almost bringing him to a stop each time they reached his ears.
"Dean, you gonna have to stand." John stated and lowered Dean's feet to the ground, resting his son's lax body against the familiar black machine.
"M-kay" Dean drawled, unfocused, half-lidded eyes watching his Dad open the car door and throw a mass of objects into the back seat before shirking off his jacket.
"Okay," John muttered, balling up the outer layer and pressed the material against Dean's torso, unsure exactly where the injury lay but the sharp wince from his son proved he'd gotten close enough. "Can you hold that? Good. Alright, let's go."
The search for a hotel was as traumatic as they come. John's entire body shook from the effort to focus on the road and keeping his son conscious. Dean's head wound was the main concern and without proper lighting he really didn't know the extent of the damage. The problem was Dean was always the sleeper, his favorite past time really, and John's already strained nerves were completely frazzled by the time he'd jerked the car into the nearest motel parking lot.
With clouded eyes and weary, drained features, Jonathan Tyler booked the closest room on ground level he could get. The place proved perfect, as neither the manager nor the small amount of people drinking in the far corner of the lot questioned his carrying of his son into the room, or the rushed sprint back to the still running car to retrieve the stark white med kit and the keys that were dangling from the ignition.
John clamored back into the cramped room, arms loaded with supplies, only to find Dean had managed to curl up on his uninjured side. His eyes gradually sliding shut. "Dean!"
Dean turned his head slightly at the sound of his name. The droopy lids cracking a bit revealing more of the clouded jade. "W-what?"
"I need you to stay awake, son." John spoke softly. The same comforting, yet foreign tone he'd used when the boys were little, never when they were men. With shaky hands, John sent down the supplies and let his eyes scan Dean's prone form. His thoughts gathered, he set to work on adjusting Dean on his back.
"No." Dean snapped, swatting futilely at the hands that sought to lift his shirt to survey the damage.
"Dean, you're bleeding. I have to see." John stated firmly, grimacing along side his son when the cotton clung to the caking blood and torn skin leaving in it's a wake a fresh trail of red.
"Stop…fine." Dean mumbled and flinched under John's touch.
"No, you're not." The heated and utterly true statement left the room in silence as Dean bit his lip hard against the pressing of his Dad's fingers along the wound, and the hiss of antiseptic as it was poured liberally.
"I don't think its deep enough for stitches." John declared after cleaning the wound for the second time and applying the thick white bandage hiding the ripped skin beneath. Dealing with hunting accidents first time around was tough enough, an infection wasn't an option. "Should heal okay."
"Told you." Dean snarked and reached outan arm in search for a pillow. Lying flat was a bitch and he wasn't going to sleep that way if he could help it.
"Yeah, but you still got a nasty cut on your head." John replied with a tight smile at his son's stubborn streak while studying the raised gash just above his son's eyebrow.
"It's fine."
John dropped his head in mock annoyance and pick up the damp rag he'd used earlier to get the rest of the dried blood off Dean's face and to apply some antiseptic as well before placing two butterfly bandages over the wound. "So you've said. There. Finished."
"Good. Can I sleep now?" Dean slurred, shifting as much as his body would let him and shutting his eyes.
"No!" John exclaimed, shaking Dean's shoulder firmly. "I need you to stay awake for a bit, okay?"
"Dad…" Dean whined and rolled his eyes towards his father who'd moved to sit watchfully on the adjacent bed.
"Chances are you got a concussion, Dean. You know the drill." John's tone was that all-knowing, ex-Marine, 'I know I taught you this' one that Dean loathed.
"Don't care. Tired." Dean muttered trying his best to sound firm and equal in authority.
John reached out and applied pressure to Dean's bandaged torso when his son's eyes slid shut rebelliously, only to snap wide in full consciousness as the sensation of pain set its course. "Yeah, well, I do."
Dean groaned and struggled to settle into a semi-half-sit seeing as that way at least he could block another attempt by his Dad to inflict pain to what was already torture. "You suck."
"Watch it." John ordered, pointing a finger at Dean, "No son of mine is dying 'cause I let him fall asleep."
"I'm not gonna die." Dean refuted strongly.
"You're not gonna sleep either." John retorted with a smile when his son huffed defeated.
"Fine." Dean rested the crown of his head against the head board and sighed. "Now what?"
John considered the question for a minute but already knew where he wanted to take this conversation---where he needed to take it. "Well, you could tell me what happened tonight."
"What can I say? The dude didn't want to get toasted. But I got him." Dean smarted with a tired smirk although John's face was less than amused.
"I knew this would happen," John shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair, "I just knew it."
"It was a freak thing, Dad. It happens." The son offered wearily. Dean had known the instant Chalman had materialized behind him accompanied by every rusted tool in the shed that this conversation would be happening. He just didn't want to have it now.
John shot his son a stern look. "Not if you're prepared."
"I was." Dean countered sullenly.
"The fact that I found you bleeding says otherwise." John snapped, all the fear and urge to comfort leaving in one swift instant, only to be replaced by anger at the situation for being what it was, himself for letting it happen, and at Dean for just not paying attention.
Dean sat up straighter in the bed, ignoring the shooting pain down his torso and the steady spin of the room. "It's not that bad!"
"Bad enough." John contended heatedly, jumping off the bed and beginning a furious pace, "What would've happened if I hadn't shown up? You think some random person is just gonna drop by an abandoned shed to help you?"
"No." The reply was so soft John had to strain to hear it.
"Come again?"
"No, sir." Dean's eyes, laced with indignation, locked with his father's as the trademarked phrase left his lips.
"So what? You figured that since you were out on your own this time you could do whatever the hell you wanted? That you didn't have to be careful?" John pressed, anger rolling off of him in waves.
Dean swallowed visibly. "No, s-"
John was on roll, not to be interrupted. His voice roared in the tense air, pounding in Dean's ears. "'Cause let me tell you something, boy. This isn't happening again! Ever. I don't care how friggen' old you think you are. If you can't handle a haunting like this one alone, then how the hell do you think you can beat something bigger?"
"I don't know." Dean shrugged, muttering to the ratted comforter swimming in his gaze.
"Damn right you don't," John exasperated, the words losing their former heat when he actually looked at his son's defeated posture. "It's too big a risk."
Dean's head snapped up at his father's confession and the worry interwoven therein. "I'm a good hunter, Dad."
"I know." John agreed, his lips forming a sad smile as he sunk back down onto the bed, "A damn good one. But this…"
The sandy-haired boy tilted his head as he waited for his dad to continue, but the man never did. "What?"
"This can't happen again, Dean." John waved his hand as if the movement summed up the entire ordeal and then simply sighed.
"It will" Dean replied matter-of-factly to which John gave a sharp look, "No, dad, I mean, how is this…different? We get separated on hunts all the time."
"It just was."
"How?" Dean inquired and made the effort to swing his legs over the edge of the bed and teeter in a precarious sit. He wasn't getting any sleep now anyway.
John studied his son for a moment, the words he wanted to say seeming to border the overly emotional. He shoved them aside and gave a gruff answer. "Could have been worse."
"Yeah," Dean nodded, a frown on his face, "But it wasn't. And we both know that it comes with the territory."
"That doesn't mean we increase the odds." John replied with finality.
"No, but I really don't plan on hunting with my Dad when I'm forty." Dean quipped; then quickly covered his ass, "Not that there is anything wrong with that."
"Especially when your dad is as cool as me," John gloated, allowing the lightness to enter the discussion.
"Right." Dean breathed mockingly.
"Hey, if I remember correctly you were the only 10 yr. old on the block with a sawed off shot gun of their own." John pointed out in perfect seriousness.
"'Cept I don't remember it being on my Christmas list." Dean countered. If he remembered correctly, he'd asked for a bike.
"Oh it was there. Fine print. Right below that Latin book I got you." John shot back, not to be out done. Thoughtful silence drifted between them. It was comfortable, no longer intense and fueled by seething rage, but just merely existing.
"Dad?" Dean ventured, watching as his father rose to stand again.
"Yeah, Dean?" John replied off-handedly as he gathered the mess of medical supplied and tried to sort them back in order.
"I still want to." The admission was soft, but resolved.
John knew it was unnecessary, but pressed anyway. "Want to what?"
"Hunt solo." Pleading eyes met John's and a knowing nod was all he could offer in reply. The idea still frightened him, and the images of tonight's ordeal were already burned into his memory bank only to resurface in the deepest of dreams.
"Alright, but few and far between and not unless it's absolutely necessary," John managed to sound somewhat authoritative once he'd found his voice, "And I'm calling Caleb because I think he has a contact that deals specifically with protective charms."
"Why do you need that?" Dean questioned incredulously.
An easy smile crossed John's face. "I don't. You do."
"Huh?" Dean's face scrunched with confusion, then unfolded in revelation, "Are you kidding me?"
"It's a perfect solution." John countered quickly, "Besides, this way we cut the odds in our favor."
"I'm not wearing some stupid charm." Dean protested vehemently.
John's face grew stern. "You'll do as I say if you ever want your own hunt again."
"Dad…"
"I think it's safe for you to sleep now." John declared without missing a beat, effectively shutting down the discussion and set about looking for his phone.
"Fine." Dean huffed, although any irritation was drowned out by a loud yawn as he laid back down and let his eye slide shut.
John waited a moment before sinking down into one of the small chairs and dialing Caleb's number by heart. This would solve their problem for now. He'd get a good one. The best protective symbol there was because this wasn't just anyone he was trying to protect this was his son.
Placing the phone to ear, John listened as the series of high pitched rings hit his ears, only to be replaced by the expected voicemail message seconds later as well as a muffled request from his exhausted son to ask Caleb if there was any chance of just getting one tattoo-ed to his body.
John smirked and left a short message, void of Dean's request. Solo hunts and Dean alone were enough to deal with. No son of his was going to be walking around looking like a friggen' Picasso. Nope, no sir. Not gonna happen.
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Okay so like it? hate it? i need to know...I figured that Dean and John prolly argued somewhat and what better way to do it than over independence seeing as that seems to be a constant struggle with the Winchester boys...Anyways, hopefully it wont take me so long to get another one up, but i do hope you guys are checking out the VS cause that's the major cause of my tardiness...which again, i beg your forgiveness for!
Okay as always, thanx for reading and reviewing! have a good one!