A/N: Hello everyone! CarverEdlundtheLast: Nice to meet you. Always wonderful to see a new face. I'm glad you've liked it so far. It's a tightrope the show navigates well, balancing fluff and humor with serious angst and heartache. I am attempting to replicate that wonderful Supernatural tone in this fic. Hope you continue reading! ncsupnatfan: I'm glad you liked the scene. It's one I enjoyed writing. I'm pretty sure there's a reason Bobby doesn't really seem to react to any of their familial drama in the show. He's been hearing it for a very long time. As far as John, I won't give you any spoilers, but it is the '80s, technology is a little bit less advanced than it is now, and John does not have a permanent address.
Chapter 18
John closed the door, staring down at the hospital bed of the person that had started this mess. He was a slight, rather pale young man, sleeping peacefully as an IV pumped painkillers into his system. John wanted nothing more than to punch him. He whispered, "How could you do it, you son of a bitch?" Mentally he added, "If they're hurt, I swear I'll kill you." He cleared his throat loudly, to no result.
Finally the man slowly opened his eyes, blinking a few times and lazily turning his head to see John, who flicked open his FBI badge, "Agent Campbell. I'd like to ask you a few questions."
He looked around, bewildered, "What?"
John spoke slowly and distinctly, as though to a child, "I'm with the federal government. You're Andrew Black, right? I need to ask you about those children that went missing. On your watch. Any of this ringing a bell?" He was being a jerk, and he knew it, but right now he couldn't bring himself to care.
Andrew nodded vaguely, "Yeah. Okay," he gestured with his hand, "Go ahead agent. Sorry, the meds, I'm a bit… go ahead."
John nodded, and took out a notepad and pencil, "Okay, first, who sent the call?"
"Um, guy who ran the motel. Said there were a couple of kids living alone in one of his rooms. I'm sorry, that's all I know."
"Right. And it was, it was one of the kids that shot you."
"Yeah."
He smiled mockingly, "You were taken down by a kid?"
"Yeah. He had a gun, I went for it, he shot me in the leg. It's the sort of tragedy that sometimes happens in this job."
John smiled and arched an eyebrow sardonically at the notepad, "Yeah, 'tragedy.'" It was so sad that the jerk got shot, he thought sarcastically.
"Yeah. For the kid. Having to shoot someone. I wish he hadn't had to go through that."
John made a note on his paper, "And could you describe your assailant?"
The man chuckled slightly, "Right, 'assailant.' Agent, first of all, I want to get one thing straight, this boy isn't a criminal. He's a frightened child who acted out of fear and fight-or-flight. That's all. You must understand, most of these children are coming from broken, neglectful homes. They're half-wild, doing whatever they think is necessary for survival. That's why they have to be removed into the system. It's for their own protection. I don't blame the boy for what he did, a child of that age, in his situation, is not responsible for his actions. So, I don't want you going into this thinking of anything but the welfare of the children. Okay?"
John wanted to strangle him. How dare this man sit there pretending to care about Sam and Dean when this was his fault. They could be dead or worse, and he had the nerve to lecture John on kindness, "Just describe the damn kids."
"Okay. Both boys, Caucasian, absolutely beautiful. You know, the sort that would find families in a heartbeat, probably together. The older one, he's the one that shot me, about five or six, shaggy blond hair, green eyes I think…" He described both boys, in detail. John asked him a few more questions, but it became rapidly apparent that he knew nothing of import. John wrapped up the interview and left the room as quickly as possible.
The man spoke as he left the room, "I hope you find them. I'd hate to see anything bad happen to them. I mean, I feel kinda responsible, you know? I just wish I could do more."
John paused in the doorway, "I think you've done plenty already, don't you?"
He went to get some lunch, then returned to the motel crime scene. It had now been four days since the incident, two days since John had started searching, and he was getting desperate. He walked in, staring at the open window. He walked over to study it.
It was a normal window, with a wide sill and a view into the woods beyond. He climbed through, trying to determine the logical course of action from that point. He sighed. Nothing. To find them this way would take a skilled tracker and probably a dog. Fortunately, he knew someone who would be likely to know where to find one.
He struggled with his decision, even as he asked a policeman where to find the nearest payphone and walked over to it. He stood, glaring at the glass booth. Did he really want to get Bobby involved? The dick would rant at him for at least thirty minutes before getting down to any kind of business, and would probably hold this over him for the next ten years. John cursed under his breath as he got inside and closed the door, then inserted his quarters and punched in the number.
He listened to it ring for a while, then a voice sighed into the phone, "This is Bobby Singer. Whoever you are, leave me the hell alone."
"Bobby, it's John. Listen, it's an emergency."
"John. Just who I was hoping would call. I got something to tell you."
"Yeah. Not right now, Bobby. Look, it's about the boys-"
"Yeah, I know."
"They've disappeared and- What?"
"I know." Bobby looked over to where Dean sat on the couch, Sam curled against his side as Dean read him a children's book. "They're with me. They're fine."
"And you didn't think to let me know?!"
"I'm sorry, is there some secret John Winchester direct hotline that I don't know about? 'Couse I don't have that number."
John sighed, he was furious at the man, but he didn't really have a right to be. "Fine. How long have they been up there?"
"Four days. Dean called me the day this whole thing started. I drove down that night to pick them up."
"I still can't believe you didn't tell me."
"Hey, you get a car phone, you can bitch all you want. Meantime, shut up."
"Fine, Bobby. I'll be up tomorrow to get my kids."
"Okay." John hung up, then exited the booth, walking back to the Impala. Now he knew they were all right, his concern turned to anger. He hit the steering wheel. Why did Dean go to Bobby instead of him? Why did he have to let that idiot with CPS in? That kid had ruined everything.
Dean smiled as he heard the Impala pull up outside Bobby's house. He heard the car door slam, then gravely footsteps on the area in front of the house.
He ran to greet his father as he walked in the door, "Daddy!"
"There you are, you rotten kid. Come here." Dean's mouth fell open in shock as John grabbed one of his outstretched arms and half-carried half-dragged him out the door.
Dean was starting to be frightened as John took him around to the back of the house, into the gravel salvage yard where Bobby kept the scrap cars, piled ten or more high all over the lot. "Daddy, what's going on? Daddy!" John whirled him around, "How could you do that?!"
"Do what?"
"I gave you an order! Stay in that room, don't talk to anyone. One damn order, and you, you dumb kid, you couldn't follow it! Do you have any idea how worried I was?! I thought you were dead!"
"I'm sorry! I stayed inside, I promise!"
"Really. Then how did the manager know you were alone in that room? Now we have CPS on our asses, and it's your fault!"
"I don't know how he knew. I'm sorry." Dean held back tears. He wouldn't cry. Only babies cried.
"Stop saying that! You made this mess!" He paced a little, "You know, is it really too much to ask, a little responsibility? A little obedience and respect? I give you a home, food, love, and this is how you repay me? You ungrateful brat!"
"I said I'm sorry!"
"Sorry's not good enouph!"
"Well then, what do you want?" Dean meant it. If an apology wasn't sufficient, what did Daddy want?
John backhanded him hard across the face, sending the boy down onto the gravel. Dean tasted blood in his mouth and spat out a front tooth. Already loose, it had been shaken from its remaining moorings by the force of the blow. "Don't you get fresh with me, boy! You smart-ass piece of crap!" Dean began to sob, unable to control the tears. What was happening? Daddy had never struck him before.
"What? Baby gonna cry? I'm going easy on you. I should wear you out and hand your worthless ass over to child services, you pathetic, no-good..." He trailed off, breathing hard, seemingly out of steam.
Dean looked up, then down again, unable to bear the look of disappointment in his father's eyes, "I'm sorry."
John shook his head, "Shut up." Then he turned away and walked back toward the house.
Dean put his head in the dirt and cried. He wished he was dead. Why did he have to ruin everything? Was he really worthless? He stayed there a long time, John's words whirling around in his head.
Bobby came downstairs as John slammed in, obviously fuming. The man stopped in front of a table, staring at it, as though about to flip it over, then just pushed everything off of it instead, a string of curses coming out of his mouth. He leaned heavily on the table, then went into the kitchen for a few minutes, before disappearing further into the house with a beer. Bobby walked into the kitchen to see a couple of empty bottles on the counter. He threw them away, then returned to his desk to continue his translation.
It was some time later that Bobby heard the door creak open, quietly, timidly, accompanied by a soft but constant sound of crying. He watched as Dean slowly walked inside, then closed the door. The boy looked straight at him for a moment, then bolted upstairs. Curious, and concerned that this display might be related to the one shown earlier by the elder Winchester, the hunter made his way upstairs, not bothering to knock as he entered the boys' room. Dean lay on the bed, sobbing into the pillow, as though terrified for the sound to be heard. He shied away as Bobby reached for him, crying out and raising his hands defensively as he cowered. "I wasn't crying," he said defiantly.
Bobby gently lowered the child's arms, taking his blood-smeared face into his hands to study, "What happened, kid?"
Dean swallowed, "I… I fell outside. Cut myself on the gravel." Well that was obviously a pack of lies. He was missing a tooth, he had a split lip and more blood coming out of his mouth, and gravel didn't leave a hand-shaped bruise on a person's face. Still, he knew better from his own childhood experience than to call him on it. "Yeah. Hurt's, don't it? Here, you're kind of a mess. How 'bout I pull up a nice bath, and we can get all that dirt and stuff off." Dean pulled away, climbing off the bed, "I can do it."
"You sure? It's no tr-"
"I said I can do it! I don't need help, I'm not a baby!" Dean stormed out, trying, and failing, to slam the door behind him. Bobby stayed behind, sitting on the bed, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do next. There wasn't really a handbook for this kind of thing, after all.
Sam toddled up from where he'd been hiding in a corner of the room, holding out his arms to be held.
Bobby shook his head and picked him up, "You're just as confused by this damn family as I am, ain't cha, kid?" Sam looked up at him inquiringly, reaching up a hand to tug on his beard. Bobby sighed, and continued to sit with the only Winchester who seemed to make any sense. "'Least you don't have any issues yet."
Bobby found John some time later, sitting on the couch, still drinking. He grabbed John by the collar and led him outside, John complying more out of shock than anything else.
"What the hell, Bobby? Get off me!" Bobby grabbed him by the front of his leather jacket, "How could you do it? Do you have any idea what you've just done to that poor kid?"
John appeared unfazed, "Dean tell you what happened?"
"Yeah. He 'fell on the gravel.'"
"Well, that's what happened."
"Bullcrap! Do I look like a natural born idjit? No? Then don't insult my intelligence!"
John pushed him away, "I'll do as I like with my own damn kids!"
"Not under my roof."
"Oh, you're not one of those, 'spoil the child and to hell with the rod' people, are you?"
"Not unless your 'rod' involves giving a five-year-old a bloody mouth."
"That was an accident."
"Really? Don't look like an accident."
"Kids have to be disciplined sometimes!"
"For what? What did he even do? He saved Sam's life!"
"Yeah, and it wouldn't've been a problem if he hadn't let the damn fed in in the first place."
"Are you even listening to yourself? You left them alone! What choice did he have?"
"Well then why did he have to shoot the man? He could've just talked himself out of it."
"He's five!"
"He has a responsibility to this family not to get us all in trouble. Now look at the mess he's made! How am I supposed to get us out of this?!"
Bobby paused, shaking his head, "You are one cold-blooded son of a bitch, you know that? Whatever, I won't let you hurt him again."
"They're not your kids!"
"And this ain't your house!"
John watched him for a moment. "Fine." He stormed off into the house, Bobby at his heels. Dean was in the kitchen, getting something to eat.
"Pack your crap, Dean. We're leaving." Dean stared at John a moment in shock. "That's an order, Dean. NOW!" The boy flinched and startled at the words, then ran upstairs. Bobby stood, glaring at John. John gave him a defiant look.
As they drove off You Give Love a Bad Name by Bon Jovi came on the radio.
