Author's Notes/Warning: You may be happy to know that after this chapter John and Dean separate for a bit, so the scenarios won't be the same like they were for these first two. That won't last, of course. But for now, I hope you enjoy.
Dean's POV - Chapter 2.5
Dean awoke with a jerk. The sharp sting to his ass had him instinctively reaching under his pillow to retrieve the blade he kept there for whatever or whoever lurking in the dark had the nerve to come his way. And why the hell were they smacking his butt?! He quickly flipped over, his eyes taking a moment to focus on the form leaning over him. All the sunlight around the figure gave it an ethereal glow and for a moment he remembered his mom. "Angels are watching over you."
"Dad?" he guessed nonetheless, covering his eyes to see better. It was him. "What…What's going on?"
"Get. Up. We have work to do, but you need to get your head on straight first."
Dean contemplated this. He knew getting up meant it was a new day and John would surely be coming after him for slacking off while he was gone. But he hadn't really been slacking off. Not entirely.
It was the morning after night two of his alcoholic getaway and he once again held his head in his hands, pondering his slacking-off argument to the beat of a dull headache. It was so loud in his head. He looked over at John to see if he noticed how loud it was and to get a read on him while he was at it. John stood in the doorway, practically huffing at him, but he didn't seem poised to snatch Dean from where he sat. He looked more like he couldn't decide what to do.
"Get it together. I'll have something in the kitchen waiting for you."
Dean exhaled a small breath. Another momentary reprieve. He was sure this wouldn't last long, but he'd take it.
As John closed the door behind him, Dean laid back on the bed, knees bent, arm over his eyes. Belinda had been a hell of a good time, but all they did was drink, talk and make out. The talk was informative, sure. But she had been too blitzed to do much else without Dean feeling a little like he was taking advantage of her in the wrong way. So he didn't and he had the blue balls to prove it. He could have left the night before and at least been home before Dad got there. But Belinda's place was too far from his house to walk in that condition. Plus she clearly wanted him to stay and this time he obliged. Normally he didn't. Don't let them get attached, that was his mantra. Ah, but she was sweet. He smiled thinking about her luscious southwestern accent, that blonde hair. Sam's girl was a blonde, wasn't she? He had seen her from a distance once and Sam acted like she was special. Dean was pretty sure that was his girl. Coming back to reality, Dean assured himself that Belinda would be worth the short wait. There was certainly going to be a more-sober round two, first chance he got.
Dean threw down his arm and huffed at the ceiling. "Get up, Dean Winchester. Go take your licks and get it over with."
He leaned over the bed, looking into the pile of clothes next to it. They always traveled light, so how he had accumulated this much stuff, he didn't know for sure. Digging into the pile, he retrieved a pair of jeans and flipped back over to the other side of the bed to pull them on and hop up. He wasn't even sure why he was putting on pants just yet. Dad had warned him enough times that he wasn't too old to go over his knee — metaphorically he hoped — and if anything was going to earn him a beat down, it might just be this. He decided to test the waters — finding out exactly what was waiting for him in the kitchen right now — and get fully dressed later.
He padded into the kitchen, hoping to look as contrite as possible. He knew not to challenge Dad with eye contact, so he didn't look up right away.
"You need a sick day, playboy?" Maybe his Dad really was trying to be the nice guy? Naw.
"No, sir. I'll be alright."
Dean saw the patented Winchester Hangover Cure waiting in his father's hand and took that as a potentially good sign. "That for me?"
"Yup. Good for what ails ya."
He wasn't sure what to make of his dad yet. He couldn't be sure if he stepped over there to take the drink that his dad wouldn't suddenly grab him to get all in his personal space and read him the Riot Act. Of course there were worse things.
"Don't worry. I didn't poison it," his dad said, holding the drink out to him.
" 'S not what I'm worried about," Dean mumbled. He hated the taste of that stuff, but he knew it would work in a flash. Now if he could only be sure what his dad's end game was. The man was nothing if not cunning and he wasn't above using that cunning to trick him and his brother into confessing all sorts of things they swore an oath to never reveal.
"Yeah? What are you worried about then?" This was cat and mouse. Dean was sure of it and he was looking at the biggest cat in the room. But he'd drink the nasty drink because it was the perfect way to stall — for a second.
"I know you're mad."
Silence. Dean was feeling five sizes too small now.
"You're mad, right?"
"About what exactly?"
Seriously? He was going to play this game? With the mess everywhere and the weapons? Dean knew what he was supposed to be doing and he knew John was waiting on him to admit it. "You told me to clean them, Dad, and I was doing it. I really was, I just…"
"You just what?"
And there it was. He could see John was on to him. He could tell John knew something was going on with his son, but didn't want to be the first to voice it. Could he tell it was Sammy? That he missed him? That he hadn't heard his voice in so long that all he could do was worry and feel like he was missing an appendage? That he had tried reaching out more than once, but had been silently rebuffed like the nerdy girl at the dance? And it was hurting him. He couldn't really think straight because maybe he had a different identity before the fire; before his mom was snatched from his grip. But now all that Dean was was tied up in his role as Sammy's and Dad's caretaker, partner, referee, and whatever else they needed. And sure he could let his dad go in and out of his life, the tenuous thread connecting them enough to sustain Dean as long as that thread never broke. But Sammy was different. Dean's main purpose was to protect Sammy. From what, he wasn't always sure. But without his purpose, Dean was floundering. And Dad could see it, couldn't he? Dean could tell Dad the truth. He should tell him that he was just barely hanging on.
But that would be weak. Dad wouldn't appreciate weakness like that. Can't afford to be emotional when there are real monsters out there trying to tear you limb from limb. So he held back, taking another sip of the cure.
Maybe his dad could forgive the weakness if he knew he really had followed at least some of his orders, not that he should have had to order him in the first place. Dean always knew what he had to do. So he held out hope that the research he had uncovered would mollify his father. "Did you see?" he asked.
"I noticed something. I haven't had a chance to look at it yet. Got a little busy cleaning up your mess, taking care of you." Dean cringed. He was becoming more of a burden than he should be and he wasn't quite sure how to stop the roll these damn emotions were on. If he stood there much longer, he was going to lose his shit. All he could do was apologize, but even that had to be curtailed because it would expose him for sure.
But it seemed his dad caught the hint. He wouldn't want chick flick moments anymore than Dean did, so when he offered to take them out to eat after they cleaned up the house some, Dean gladly accepted it. It meant Dad was calm again and Dean, hopefully, was off the hook. And look! Dad even bought pie!
"Thanks, Dad," Dean said with all the gratitude of any kid who gets an unexpected treat. He really did love it when they remembered the little things that mattered solely to him.
"Umm hmm. Get moving."
They were headed to a diner. The diner. And Dean couldn't think of a way to talk his dad out of it; not after his dad had just extended an olive branch. He had just gotten off the damn hook and if Belinda was at the diner, it would surely dash the peace all to hell. All he could do was hope Belinda was as burnt as he was and would either be late or call out sick. Maybe it was her day off. He could only hope.
As they stepped into the diner, Dean looked around as quickly as he could, his eyes scanning every face, every corner of the place. He was about to relax when his eyes set on the waitress behind the counter. He thought her name was Theresa. She was a friend of Belinda's and had been there when Dean sat in Belinda's section, drew her into a conversation, then made his way to the counter to continue their flirty talk with Theresa cutting her eyes at the pair and occasionally interrupting them to let Belinda know her real customers needed her. But Dean could tell Theresa was the willing accomplice type, so he spread his charm as much over her as he did the object of his lusty affections.
When Theresa told him and John to sit down, Dean wanted to be as far out of her earshot as possible, maybe even out of her zone of the restaurant? But it was slow right now and Dean didn't see any other waitress on duty. Not even Belinda. Thank God for small favors.
"Can't be too careful," he had told his father about his choice of seating. And there was that look again. He was making Dad suspicious. He had to stop doing that.
"Yeah," John said slowly. "You're right."
Dean would have to get his dad's mind off his behavior and back onto the case. But his dad wanted to order first. Then he started asking Dean about how he was feeling and talking about going to see Sammy? He couldn't believe it. His dad rarely spoke so matter-of-factly about visiting the black sheep of the family, as if he really was just some normal kid away at school and Dad was his normal parent wanting to pay his kid a visit. How did he suddenly get to act like he hadn't been part of the cause for the rupture in their family? Dean was getting geared up to say something and damn if that wasn't when Theresa happily bounced over to his table, looking at Dean like she knew him and building his dad's suspicions all over again.
Dean ordered the most innocuous thing he could think of, because his stomach wasn't quite back up to speed yet, plus he really wanted to move Theresa along. He wished she would stop smiling at him like that; that Cheshire cat grin that even a blind man could see, let alone eagle-eyed John Winchester. But if Dean pretended like he didn't know her, she may cause him more trouble than he cared to explain in front of God and everyone. He hoped his own conspiratorial smile would be enough to buy her silence. And it seemed to work.
Theresa left them to fill their orders and Dad, thankfully, finally turned the talk back to the case. Now that was something Dean could get behind.
Dean told Dad what he had uncovered about the victims and the possible link between them. He even risked sharing what Belinda had told him about the house-sitting service, knowing his dad would want to know how he got that particular piece of information. But Dad would have to chalk it up to Dean's awesome investigative skills. After all, he had learned everything from the master.
So they would look into that possible connection and if it meant Dean had to endure yet another quirk of his dad's eyebrow as he questioned Dean's choice of informant, then it was worth it to hear his dad say, "Good work." It didn't take much to make Dean feel all of his worth again. Without Sam there to take some of that focus that Dad gave him, Dean could have a moment to bask in the light of his father's eyes that now looked at him with pride.
Now if only Dad would let go of the fact that Dean's informant was a female. What did Dad expect? He left him to his own devices and Dean got the job done — the Winchester way.