Yesterday Once More
Disclaimer: Err. .me and my mate once came up with a pretty detailed plan to kidnap Jensen Ackles. . .so maybe one day I will own them.
A/N Thank you to everyone who read, faved, reviewed, alerted my first chap, you make me go all mushy inside.
Dedication: XdaisychainX for being my lovely beta
Rating: K+
Genre: Humour (hopefully) with a generous dollop of angst. Strange combination I know, but I swear I'm addicted to torturing these guys, and plus – c'mon it's John.
Dean: 16 Sam: 12
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I Don't Want to Grow Up
The sound of something breaking roused John instantly from his research, hunter instincts switching flawlessly to alert, and he could actually feel his body tense as it prepared for trouble. In fact, he was so focused on searching for any sign of danger that he near jumped out of his skin when his youngest son came barrelling out of his room like a bat outta Hell. Damn, if only the kid hauled ass like that during training then maybe John wouldn't have to ride his ass about it all the time. Before he had time to delve any deeper into that thought, he was met with the cause of Sam's sudden athletic prowess.
"Sammy! You are dead meat dude!" Pissed off big brother ả la Dean – not a pretty sight.
The two boys managed to chase each other around the house another three times before John realised resignedly that he was going to have to do something if he wanted to have any furniture left. With a sigh, he rose from his chair, drawing himself up to his full height.
Both brothers froze immediately. . Or they tried to. However, due to the small matter that they were both running at the time, John was treated to quite the display as they skidded across the floor, arms flailing wildly as they tried to regain their balance, socks slipping against the wooden panels, eventually coming to rest right at their father's feet.
When two identical sets of flustered, worried eyes looked up at him he almost broke down right there, the urge to simply pull his boys into his arms was almost overwhelming. The moment quickly passed, and he cleared his throat, looking purposely just above their heads.
"Do you two wanna tell me what the Hell you think you're playing at?" There was a tense silence for a few seconds and he was about to ask them again when two deep breaths were taken.
"He put -"
"I was just -"
"And then he -"
"So I tried to –"
Both boys started telling their tale simultaneously, their words muddling together into an indistinguishable mush, until Dean turned and thumped Sam on the shoulder, effectively shutting him up.
"Genius here put salt on my toothbrush" Dean stated angrily, pointing accusingly at said 'Genius'.
John groaned internally. Not this crap again. They'd only just got out of the last round alive, and Mrs Peters next door still hadn't forgiven him for what happened to her poodle.
"He started it!" Sam cried petulantly "Last week he replaced the photo on my fake ID with a string bean!"
Lord help him. Where did he start on this one? He didn't approve of messing around, if it happened on a hunt it could get them killed. But boys will be boys. Mary would have known what to do.
When he tuned back in they were already arguing again, inventive modifications of the word 'ass' being used enthusiastically.
"Both of you – quiet!" The brothers complied immediately.
"Dean. You're 16 for god's sake, and you remember how this ended last time? I can't believe you started this up again – you should know better." As his eldest hung his head in shame he felt a twitch of guilt in his heart, but ignored it as he swung his gaze to the youngest Winchester.
"Sam. You knew that he was baiting you, and you rose up to it, when you could have just ignored it. You keep asking me to treat you like an adult - then start damn well acting like one!" At Sam's hurt look he realised that his words had been too harsh. He closed his eyes for a second, and mentally told himself to lay off them a bit and get to the point.
"Look. I thought the two of you would have grown out of this kid's stuff by now. It always escalates – you know that! But you just can't leave it alone. So this time you boys sort this out between yourselves alright?" Their startled looks would have been comical if John hadn't gotten himself so worked up already.
"Alright?" He asked a little louder.
"Yessir" Was the automatic reply that fell from their mouths, even though it was clear from the expressions on their faces that their minds hadn't quite caught up yet.
"Well don't just stand there! Go and get ready for school – you're already late!" They both promptly scrambled to their feet and started making their way towards the bedroom they shared when something else occurred to him.
"Oh and Sam."
"Yessir."
"I hope that salt didn't come out of supplies."
Twenty minutes later both brothers were out the door in varying states of dress and cleanliness. Well, say you what you like about his boys, but they sure knew how to follow orders. He settled back into his chair with a relaxed sound and lost himself in his research once more.
He'd just started making notes in his journal when he was startled for the second time that day by the arrival of one of his sons.
"Shouldn't you be at school?"
"Lunch break." was Dean's casual reply.
"You've been at school an hour and a half."
"Okay, a self-imposed lunch break. C'mon I need it! After last lesson with that witch Mrs Burton – who by the way totally has to be our next case, I mean the woman has warts for Christ's sake – I thought I deserved a little rest."
He chuckled a little to himself at Dean's explanation but his features soon morphed into a much more familiar frown.
"What're you doing over there?" He asked suspiciously as Dean seemed to take something out the fridge and stuff it into his jacket. His anxiety only increased when Dean turned to him with that shit-eating grin on his face - the one that showed all his teeth.
"Hey. You're the one that told us to sort it out between us. Well, I've brushed my teeth four times, gargled with mouthwash twice, eaten three burgers, drank two cokes, been punched in the face and made out with a girl, but I can still taste salt in my mouth. So, call me crazy, but that doesn't sound very sorted to me."
John's mind was still reeling from Dean's little list to comprehend anymore of his slightly demented rambling.
"- I mean you'd think it wouldn't taste like a freakin' sodium party in my mouth anymore, but noooooooo -"
How the Hell did he even get his hands on a toothbrush, toothpaste and mouthwash at school anyway? It's not like he had time to do it before he left.
"- I looked like some sort of hygiene freak, ya know the kind – I can't get clean! MUST WASH! I just can't get the germs out! They're everywhere, everywhere -"
All that food. Jesus. You'd think he didn't feed the kid. He'd already had breakfast this morning! Never mind knives and guns, next time they come across an evil creature he'll just get Dean to eat the damn thing.
"- Although, at least when I kissed Stacey later I had minty fresh salt breath -"
Punched in the face. Did Dean ever go a day when he didn't manage to get stabbed/shot/tortured/mauled or generally subjected to things that made John's blood pressure rise a few notches?
"- Wasn't my fault she didn't tell me she had a boyfriend. Pussy. Didn't even leave a mark before I set him on his ass -"
An hour and a half he was away. An hour and-a-freakin-half. God high school was different these days.
"- So, anyways, I'm just gonna make things even with Sammyboy, just so that we feel equal and sorted-"
Hell, he'd even found time to – wait a sec. "You made out with another guy's girl?"
Dean stopped mid-speech, his mouth hanging open as his eyes darted around the room, as if a suitable excuse would be crouched beneath the sink.
"And you're planning some kind of payback on Sam?"
Eventually Dean seemed to realise that he was looking up at his Dad from the bottom of a very deep hole of which he was currently its most prized and only resident.
"Wow. Look at the time. I should be getting back to school. Don't want to miss any precious learning time now do I? Bye Dad!" Dean hastily called out as he shagged-ass outdoors.
John sat stock still for a few moments, slowly processing the information he had acquired in the last few minutes. His emotions churned between disbelief, anger, amusement and worry until eventually he decided that the most sensible course of action was to go and get a much stronger coffee.
The first warning sign should have been the way Sam shut the door when he came home, or more specifically, the way he didn't shut the door. A forceful slam that rattled the pigeons out of the chimney of the crappy rented house they were staying in and alerting the oblivious Winchesters to their presence, would have been expected, and quite probably blessed by John as an excuse to get the Hell out the way of what Dean had long ago endearingly dubbed 'Sandblast Sammy'. Instead, Sam gently closed the door behind him with a slow movement that should have sent alarm bells ringing. However, John, despite his intelligence and resourcefulness when it came to things of a supernatural persuasion, admitted even to himself sometimes, that he wasn't too perceptive when it came to his sons. So, he simply thought that Sam mustn't have been as angry as he'd been expecting, and after a brisk greeting, buried himself back in his study book. Until, that is, he smelt it.
"Hey Sammy, you got any idea where that stink is coming from?" Only when Sam stopped silently, then turned and walked over to him with a stride so stiff he could give Frankenstein a run for his money, did he finally get that telltale prickling at the back of his neck that told him he was either about to get jumped by something paranormal, or go toe-to-toe with the Sandblaster himself. He prayed for the first.
When Sam reached the table in front of him he placed his hands firmly at each end and leaned over so that his face was mere inches from John, for some reason the awful smell that was hanging in the kitchen seemed to get stronger – oh.
"Yeah. I've got an idea where it's coming from." John gulped subtly. "You see on a Friday, like today, I have a PE lesson in the afternoon." John felt himself gradually backing away. "Now, PE is hard work, so I get kinda sweaty. I'm sure you understand." He paused for a moment to give John a sickly smile that for some reason made his stomach feel distinctly uneasy. "So, when I get back to the changing rooms I always put on some antiperspirant." He continued in a deceptively calm manner. "But do you know what happens when somebody replaces the top layer of your deodorant stick with cream cheese?"
Well. You had to give him points for ingenuity.
"I can guess." He eventually croaked out in a voice that didn't sound like him at all.
"That's what I thought." Sam said in the same psycho killer voice that was starting to concern John rather a lot. However, before he could share any words of sympathy, comfort, understanding, or even think of something remotely safe enough to say without risking being victim to a nasty case of patricide, Sam was action-man walking towards the bathroom. This time his signature door slam was present and the pigeons of course shot immediately out of the fireplace, flapping around the walls in a crazed fashion and slowly turning the room a cloudy black as soot was dislodged from their feathers.
"Bit bloody late" was all John muttered before dutifully standing up to begin the fun task of catching the frenzied birds.
Pecked, scratched and dirty, he collapsed into his chair with the intention of staying there until he lost consciousness or he woke up from this bad dream. When he heard the squeak of the front door yet again he decided that it was making its way up very impressively on his "things he'd like to kill if they weren't inanimate objects" list, and he couldn't help but release a heartfelt moan.
"Jeez. Nice to see you too." Dean said indignantly as he passed his father on the way to the fridge.
"For goodness' sake Dean - step away from the food! I don't care if it's to chuck down the well that appears to exist in your stomach just to see how long it takes before you hear it splash at the bottom, or to use as a weapon to try and make that vein in your brother's forehead explode. Just move the Hell away!" Dean obediently put down the slice of pizza that had been half-way to his mouth and shifted slightly from foot to foot as he took in John's agitated and weary appearance.
"So ... I, er, take it you heard about my joke on Sammy at school at today, huh?" Dark eyes that held the promise of pain if he uttered those words again fixed on him and he shifted from foot to foot a little faster. Just as Dean was about to give in and bolt for the TV, a knock at the front door gained the immediate attention of both of the eldest Winchesters. A look was exchanged, and John automatically reached for the handgun he kept in the draw next to him. He retrieved it quickly and gave a small nod to Dean as permission to open the door.
"Um, hey buddy. This is really random I know, but this guy outside just gave me twenty bucks to give you this note. So, well, here ya go, hope it's good news or something, whatever it is that this is about." John eased his grip on the weapon as he saw the man walk away looking pretty confused. That was weird, okay, very weird, but maybe not life-threatening kind of weird. However, his relief was short-lived as he noticed how pale Dean's complexion had gone and the way he seemed to have frozen to the spot. Then, suddenly, all that was left was the piece of paper floating slowly to the floor as Dean ran outside like a wendigo was on his tail.
John was across the room and out onto the garden in seconds, gun in hand, eyes instantly finding Dean standing in front of the car, hands caressing its hood absently, a look of what could only be described as 'dangerous' written across his face. John lowered his gun and stepped forward cautiously, moving behind Dean until he was close enough to feel the heat of Dean's anger radiating of him waves. To say he was unnerved by the look in Dean's eyes as he turned towards him would be an understatement.
"I'm gonna kill him." He stated plainly, and then marched into the house. John rubbed his hand roughly over his eyes and counted to ten, when he glanced up again and everything was still the same as when he'd last looked, he walked back to the house and snatched up the note from the floor.
To the owner of the black '67 Chevy Impala just outside your house.
I'm sorry to tell you that I am in desperate need of some money, and in order to pay some guys I owe, I have stolen your car.
You'll probably never see it again.
Sorry.
Well, at least that explained what sounded like his second born being tortured in the other room.
John lowered himself gently into his seat for what seemed like the hundredth time that day, his back aching in protest. He sat there for a while as the shrieks of pain gradually increased in the background, causing the neighbours to start banging angrily on the wall and one last pigeon to fly out from its hiding place behind the couch. A slow smile spread over his face. That's it. Tomorrow, both of them were getting Nair in their shampoo.
A/N My muse deserted me for this shot! John is so darn hard to write for. I tried not to make him too fluffy, because it's just not his MO – but not too mean either, because I actually like his character, and plus, it jus' ain't nice t'speak ill o' the dead. Tell me if I did alright.
