This is so not what Dean had wanted to do tonight.
Sooooo not what he wanted to do.
And yet, here he is.
On his merry fuckin' way to fetch dear old shitfaced Dad from a bar.
Thanks soooo much.
Not like Dean had wanted to sleep or anything.
Why on Earth would he want that when he could be half asleep rushing out his motel room in just his t-shirt, jeans, and boots.
With snow on the ground.
Rushing because the motel manager kicked the motel door open, "Dumbass. Your damn door," Dean mutters.
Realization catches up with his sleep deprived brain, blushing his already cold, exertion, and fever flushed cheeks. "…Aw. Shit. Maaaaan. He's gonna charge me for that!"
So yeah, the dickhead manger kicked in the door and then just stood THERE. In the *doorway*, watching Dean until his patience ran out. Which, of course, happened to be just when Dean had finished stumbling into the absolute bare *minimum* of clothing. Ya know, enough to be respectable. Dean rolls his eyes, and wiggles his hands further into the pockets of his Levis.
"'Cause it's not like I'm half asleep on a cold ass freak'n winter night traipsing on down to the fucking bar to get my asshole of a Dad, who I KNOW is completely wasted, and, more'n likely still angry, no, *furious*, cuz, why not, right? It's me. God damn it." *And awesome. I'm talking to myself. Sarcastically.* "Not like I wanted to freak'n sleep or anything! Noooo, nooooo. Or be friggin' warm! Sonofabitch!"
Talking to himself.
"Out loud." *Well of course out loud, ya moron; That's generally how talking to yourself goes.*
"Complete with gesturing?" He makes the 'MEEsha?' face at himself and jams his hands back into his pockets. *Well, yeeeeaaaah, ya are waving your arms around, ya know.*
Thank God…*Or thank Chuck?*
Frowns in thought.
*Shits too confusing anymore,* The hunter shakes the thoughts from his head.
Damn he's cold! A violent shiver rips through him. But no matter. He is totally amped anyway: The bar is within walking distance from the motel Cas and him, Sam, and their Dad are slumming it at.
Okay, so maybe walking distance isn't all that great. Yeah. Annnnnd he's not exactly amped. 'Cuz walkin'. So. *Not* awesome then. Dean kicks at a mound of black snow, glaring at the salt coating the asphalt. Man he hates salt. Hates, hates, *hates* salt. Just the *thought* of salt laying siege to Baby."UGH! I hate the friggn' winter!" He kicks at another crispy pile of filth. Winces. Growls. Grumbling and sneering at the oh-so-cheerful protest his body is forcing him to remember: Hey, dickhead! You're fucking hurt and tired and cold and trudging,
Damn it. Gesturing again.
Hands: Hiya pockets! 'Member me?'
Shakes his head.
Where was he?
Cheerfully lamenting on midnight stroll.
*Freak'n hate the damn cold, man. And salt. Definitely salt.*
"Finally,"Dean opens his arms in greeting, halo of misery dissipating to relief, then resignation, as he carefully weaves a path around salt encrusted cars, *Wince.* toward the bar.
"Huh," He grins, despite himself, approaching the entrance, pausing for a moment, not to prolong the inevitable confrontation, *Nope, definitely not, 'cause'M'not a kid and scared or anything.* but to admire how freakin' *cool* the waist high snowbanks flanking the path to the door glow blue, courtesy of the neon *Budlight*sign.
"Awesome." He cups his freezing hands over his mouth, continuing his admiration of neon illuminated snowbanks while breathing hot air into his hands, warming 'em up a bit so he can feel the door handle.
Having had enough of the cold, Dean enters the bar, stomping the snow *And salt.* off his boots, before leaving the sanctity of the entryway. Not big enough to be a foyer, he thinks. Wasting time again.
*Really shoulda worn a coat. Idiot. I am an idiot.*
He's shivering his ass off and can't help rubbing his hands over his arms for warmth, while his keen eyes seek out dear ol'Dad. Not like it's too hard flushing out his father; It never was.
What is hard, though, is the lump of fear stuck in his throat when he spots his father.
Despite being long past four years old, the sight of his father cemented at a bar pounding however-the-fuck-many beers, following it up with shot after(god knows how many) shot, still fills him with trepidation.
So maybe he *was* prolonging the inevitable.
An onslaught of memories assault him: Fists laden with brass knuckles, belts and whips; kicks from steel-toed boots, vile insults, impossible rules, shame and failure, tubes down his throat, catheters, agony; shotguns and Bobby. His breath catches in his throat: Broken ribs grinding with the sudden movement of his diaphragm, leaving him nauseous, dizzy and frozen. *Like I'm in fuck'n carbonite.*
Dean's on edge; Adrenal glands preparing for that inevitable confrontation. The*promise*, of 'Agony-by-Way-Of-John-Winchester', is too real, and no way is Dean in fighting shape. As *if* he would ever fight his Dad. He tried once. Shortly before he went to Stanford for Sam's help all those years ago. Never again. That had been *bad*. So bad, Dean had up ended up left for dead, then all alone in the Intensive Care Unit.
Hell, most of the time *not* fighting back ended him there anyway.
Damn it! He clenches his teeth, tenses his jaw, wounds protesting aggressively.
*But that can't happen now, right? I'm a grown man.*
*Like you were when Daddy left you in ICU before you got your wittle brother to find your daddy. Pathetic.*
*Shut it! Can't happen!*
*You were a grown man when Sam left you for Stanford too. You weren't a kid when Sammy left you for Flagstaff either.*
*Shuddup. It's different now.*
*Keep telling yourself that, Dean. You know, way down deep what* will *happen tonight. You fucked up. And you know it.*
Dean gives himself a mental shake and shoves down any and all protest from his body as he furthers inside. Well, he *tries* to, anyway, but the haze of cigarette smoke and cheap cigars enveloping him are making it really fucking hard. As if the simple act of *breathing* wasn't hard enough, he now has to deal with this bullshit. And that leads to coughing. Combine his injuries, with the cold, and now this? He'll be lucky if he only ends up with pneumonia. Pleurisy loves to skip along with that anytime he gets like this. . A. Bitch. Pleurisy *and* broken ribs?! Joy of joys. God help him. Oh please no. Plea- And there it is: He's coughing. And getting looks. Just fucking AWESOME.
Dean is good and pissed now.
Terrified is more like it, that helpful little part of his brain supplies.
*There you are.*
He narrows his eyes and sets his jaw. Dad found: All the way at the end, back to a wall, eyes facing the entrance. Well, his Dad's eyes * would* have been facing the entrance, had they not have been gazing into his dear old friend: Jack.
Dad always could find the time for his friend Jack.
Could always find the *money* for his friend Jack.
Always. Best a'friends those two. Always had the time, the money, and the want.
Couldn't find it for food.
Couldn't find it for clothes.
Couldn't find it for school supplies. Or proper shelter.
Surprising though, since Sammy needed those things. *You did too, that sixteen year old at Sonny's argues*
But then again,
That was Dean's job.
'Take care'a Sammy, Dean. Watch out for Sammy, Dean. Don't let anything happen to Sammy, Dean. Sammy is what matters, Dean.'
'Your mother risked her life for Sammy, Dean. Not you. It's on you.'
Sammy is what matters.
Sammy is what always matters.
Jack is what matters.
Jack and his Dad? Great friends.
Dean and Jack? Not suhmuch.
Dean and Jack *and* Dad?
Oh that's party time.
Sammy wasn't invited.
Dean made sure of that.
Not that'd his Dad would ever think to invite Sammy though. After all, Dean was the one with the job. The one who had to remember and follow every single rule;Obey without question. Had to be that perfect little soldier.
So many rules. So much to screw up.
But one job.
The job he screws up all the time. Just like everything else.
Man, he's such a fuck up!
He is such a fuck up, that his Dad loved to celebrate just how much of a fuck up his first born was.
*All. The. Time.*
So whenever Dad and Jack, or any other of their close friends, see: Jose, Bud, Miller, Jim, Evan, Johnny, decided to get together, Dad would invite his other friends. And, whoooo boy did Dad love these guys: Belt and Whip. When Belt was uncooperative, Whip had a blast. When ever possible, his father preferred Whip. Dad really loved to invite his boots to the party as well.
Sometimes though, when he was in dire need of discipline, when he needed to be reminded of his duties, and all the rules, god were there so many rules, Dad would not invite the others.
It would just be him and Dad and Whip.
Sometimes just him and Dad.
But, hey, at least he got some attention, right?
Dad and Dean time.
Who was Dean to question?
*Thought I buried this shit. Apparently not. And the bastard still scares the Hell outta me. Fucking pussy. I'm such a fucking pussy. Maybe Dad is right after all…*
Anger growing, he wades through the hoard of drunk, sweaty, leather clad, gag inducing body odor—seriously, have these dudes ever heard of deodorant? Second thought, do they even *know* what that is?—belonging to…ew…what-the-fuck-ever-scum-bar-patrons to get to his father, John Winchester, in all his resurrected glory, firmly butt fucking a bar stool.
*Cough.* Damn it.
*Great. Here goes nothing.* Dean clasps his hand on his father's jacketed shoulder. "Dad, hey, c'mon, you're wasted. Time t'go, dude." Man, Dean did NOT want to fetch his Dad from the bar.
Should'a made Sam do it.
*Who'm'I kidd'n. I wouldn'd'uh made Sammy deal with this shit. Never have, never will.*
Shouldn't have to do it at all, damn it. Yet, here he stands…