Title: A Phone Call
Author: Wysawyg
Disclaimer: The Winchesters, the Impala and everything belongs to Kripke and the CW and will hopefully continue to do so for many, many, many, many, many more seasons.
Summary: The last message on John's voicemail. Follows on from Something Wicked. Spoilers for 2x01.
Authors Notes: Many thanks to the awesome TraSan who beta'd this for me and soothed my 'Eee, not good enough' insecurity attack. Any remaining mistakes are all mine.
This tag is probably a lot more sympathetic to John than the episode is but hey, I have a John-bias. I'm all for John the bad father, he's certainly no saint but I don't believe he was deliberately malicious.
When John Winchester's phone started ringing, he cursed. It wasn't so much the fact that his phone was ringing but rather the position it was ringing from: the absolute bottom of his duffel. It wasn't the phone he cursed but rather himself. He knew he should have expected a call from one of his boys after the latest hunt he'd sent them on. He knew he would probably need to talk to them afterwards. Somehow these facts hadn't connected together to lead him to keep the damn phone somewhere in easy arm's reach.
He tugged the steering wheel sharply to the side, scorching the truck to a skidding halt in the lay-by and thrust his arm to the bottom of the duffel, hoping he'd wrapped all the knives carefully. Blind fingers searched for the elusive device, finally closing around the plastic and yanking it out just in time for the LCD display to flash the name 'Sam' at him once and then fade out.
There was no point calling back. If it was Dean calling then he'd probably just drop off a curt 'Job's done' and hang up. Sam, however… If Sam was calling then Sam had found out exactly what had happened all those years ago and Sam, being Sam, was probably stonking mad. John was already gearing himself up for the epic voicemail message which would probably detail every single one of John's faults in intricate detail. The bitch of the situation was that Sam was probably right.
John didn't bother starting up the truck again, just leant back on his seat and cradled the phone in one hand, waiting for the buzz that would signify Sam had finished his verbal essay. He waited… and waited… and waited some more and finally put the phone away. It was a cold day in Hell and he'd pissed off Sam enough that the boy hadn't even left a message.
John wasn't quite sure whether to feel relief when a few minutes later, before John had even recovered enough to stick the keys into the ignition, the phone buzzed. On the one hand, he had a message. On the other hand, he apparently had the epic message to end all epic messages. Seeing as he'd been sure Sam would be detailing his faults, it appeared that he must have a lot more than he realised.
John pressed nervous fingers to the relevant buttons and waited through the mechanical voice telling him things he already knew. After what seemed like far too long, the message began.
"You suck!" The message began in Sam's pissy voice. John was beginning to wonder whether Dean had somehow convinced his little brother those words were a different version of hello. It wouldn't be the first time. Admittedly Sam had been a lot younger back then but the memory of little Sam walking up to the counter and chirping 'Fuck you' at the attendant was seared in his memory. Dean had been on weapon cleaning duty for a month after that… until John realised the boy seemed to enjoy it too much.
"Oh sorry, I should probably start the phone call with something you actually care about. We got the shtriga. There, you can hang up now if you want, start planning the next wild goose chase to send us on." The venom in Sam's voice made John draw back from the phone and try to ponder what had set him off this time. John had known he wouldn't be able to face that shtriga himself. He still remembered that hunt as clear as yesterday. He'd left the boys alone in the motel room to sneak around the hospital and try to find out what was going on.
The hospital had been full of staff willing to talk to 'Mr Driscoll' of the Centre for infectious diseases but had given no clue about what was causing it.
He remembered ringing Bobby, hoping the senior hunter would have some pearl of wisdom. He remembered Bobby had listened to John describing the symptoms and then hissed, "Sounds like a shtriga. Goes after siblings. You got Dean and Sam with you?" He remembered the absolute silence followed by Bobby's single expletive "Fuck!" He remembered hanging up the phone and dashing to the car. He didn't remember the journey home, memory only restarting when he flung open the door to the motel room, spotting the hideous thing hovering over the prone body of his youngest. He remembered yelling at Dean to get down and then taking the shot. He remembered the thing escaping and having no desire to chase until he'd assured himself that Sam was still alive.
Lastly he remembered getting so drunk that night that he could barely see straight the next morning. Yeah, John fucking balls and bluster Winchester had strode into town, sure that he'd solve the case in ten minutes flat and be out in time for breakfast. He hadn't realised the Shtriga had been there for a while and had merrily chomped its way through the souls of all the siblings in town and was now sucking down the dregs of the only children.
Siblings were a two-for-one blue plate special. You got the sweet, rich, innocence of the younger and then the sour guilt of the older siblings for afters. The Shtriga had been starving on the leftovers before John marched into town with his all-you-can-eat buffet trailing behind him. If John had walked into that motel room just a few moments later, he would have had a comatose Sam and the shtriga coming back for Dean the next night. John didn't dare let either boy out of his sight for weeks until he was sure the shtriga wasn't coming back.
It took a while for it to filter into the guilt-driven reminiscence that Sam was still talking. He would have to replay the message in order to find out what his son had said so far as the words had been lost in the haze of memory. "… He was ten, Dad. Ten fucking years old." John blinked, unsure of whether his youngest seemed to think he'd forgotten the ages of his children.
Apparently you forget one birthday and that's it: guilt trip for life. John listened cautiously, trying to get any hint of what Sam had been ranting about. Instead he found himself wishing that his son couldn't say quite so much with a sullen silence.
"Sam, who you ringing?" He heard the muzzy voice of Dean.
"Just Dad," was Sam's reply and the words stung.
"Oh. You been on the phone a while. Why did you ring him?"
"To tell him we'd finish the hunt." Sam stated and John could almost hear his eyes rolling.
"Dude, I was kinda hoping not to remind Dad of how badly I screwed up the first time around." John felt time slow in that moment as his eldest son's soft-spoken words seeping into his consciousness. Surely Dean didn't… It would be ridiculous to think… No-one could assume that… Oh crap. John wanted to thrust his arm through the phone, grab his boy and shake some sense into him. Unfortunately, or perhaps very fortunately for Dean, phone companies had yet to develop any such technology. A mild electric shock would've done except for the fact he was fairly sure Sam was the one holding the phone at that moment.
"You didn't screw up, you were ten." Sam pissy-voiced.
"Those statements aren't mutually exclusive, Sammy. Can we save the argument for when Dad isn't on the other end of the phone line? Just tell him we got the shtriga and hang up."
"Maybe I want Dad to hear." John was all too sure Sam did.
"Maybe I don't." Dean said curtly, "Dad's out there hunting the thing that killed Mom and you want to waste his time with something that happened almost eighteen years ago?"
"Yes. Especially when you've had eighteen years of guilt from it." John needed to have a serious talk with his boy when he caught up with him. Sure, he'd always taught them not to wear their heart on the sleeve but that was common sense. Hiding guilt for eighteen years was fucking ridiculous.
"I deserve eighteen years of guilt." Dean yelled, his loud voice distorting in the tinny speaker of the phone. The next words were spoken so quietly in contrast and sounded broken, "That thing was alive for eighteen years longer than it should've been because of me."
"You don't even know it's the same one." John decided maybe the electric shock while Sam was holding the phone wasn't such a bad idea. Even he could tell that was exactly the wrong thing to say.
"So the one which is out there because of me could still be out there killing? Wow, thanks Sammy. I feel miles better now."
"Dean, I didn't…"
"Drop it, Sam. Just leave a message and hang up the phone."
"No."
"Gimme the phone."
"No!"
"Sammy, give me the fucking phone!"
"I don't want to."
"Sam, despite recent events, you are not five fucking years old anymore. You don't get the last bowl of lucky charms. You don't always get to watch your cartoons on the TV. Most of all, you don't get to win arguments with 'I don't want to.'"
There was a long silence and John could picture his sons staring at each other, waiting for the first one to break. John put his money on Dean breaking first. His oldest was far too lenient with his younger sibling.
"I never got the last bowl of Lucky charms." John blinked at Sam's voice. Of all the things to talk about, he picks the bloody breakfast cereal. "You made me eat spaghettios."
"No, I didn't." Dean said with a weary patient air. "You sulked until you got the last bowl."
"Did not." Sam said sulkily which almost certainly wasn't helping his argument. He could hear the light-hearted note in Sam's voice, the sound that Sam was trying to shrug off the argument, make things alright with a joke. John held his breath to see if it'd work. "I think I'd remember."
"Fuck you, Sammy." Dean's voice was low and angry and John let out his own breath with a hiss. "I'm the one who'll never forget one fucking thing about that whole fucking day. You had the goddamn lucky charms. Now give me the fucking phone." If John didn't know better, he'd say Dean was on the verge of tears, a hitching catch in his voice. "You know what, Sam? Just do whatever the hell you want as usual." John heard the sound of footsteps walking swiftly away and then the slam of a door.
"Shit," The quiet exhalation was pure Sam and John silently agreed. Moments later there was the rat-a-tat-tat of a fist against a wooden door. "Dean? I'm sorry. Come on, Dean, let me in." There was another series of knocks that went unanswered and another sigh, "Please, Dean. I didn't mean it, I… Fuck!" Sam yelled and there was a loud smack noise, the line getting more crackled and distorted.
John frowned at his phone and turned up the caller volume, bringing it closer to his ear to try and make out what the hell had happened. "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit." Sam's litany reached his ears.
Next came the distant noise of a door opening and closing. "Sam," Dean's voice croaked and John wasn't sure all of that was due to line distortion, "Why the hell did you just throw my phone at the wall?" Dean's voice was too calm, too level: a sign that Mount Winchester was about to explode.
"By accident." Sam's voice sounded small and quiet. Sam relying on little brother immunity against his brother's anger.
"How the hell can you accidentally lob a phone really hard into a wall?" John was almost counting down the seconds until the shouting started.
"I was mad."
"Accidentally mad?" John was surprised to hear a humorous quirk in his oldest boy's voice. This should be when the yelling began.
"No, I was mad on purpose. I just threw the phone before I remembered it wasn't mine."
"How could you mistake your girly, geek phone for my sleek, manly phone? More to the point, who has to go hustle pool to pay for a new one even if it was yours?"
"Sorry." Sam sounded meek. John couldn't remember the last time Sam sounded meek. He had a feeling it was the time when John had returned from a routine hunt to find half the motel room on fire. Sam had still never explained that.
"Was that the toilet paper word of the day or something?" John's head spun. A joke? Dean was making a joke? Dean should be hitting the ceiling by now.
"Nope. It was callisthenics." Sam replied, "Do you think Dad can still hear us?" John couldn't help but smirk at the worried note in his youngest's voice.
"I think you killed the off button." Dean snarked in response.
"You mean Dad'll be listening in for the rest of our lives?" Sam sounded horrified, John wasn't quite sure whether to be offended or not. He settled on 'Not': he was sure there was aspects of his boys' existence that he really didn't need to listen in on.
"The battery'll run out first, boy genius." He could definitely hear Dean rolling his eyes that time.
"Or the voicemail capacity."
"Nah, Dad paid for high-volume storage. You wouldn't want a message like 'John, found the demon's weakness. It's… beep"
"I always suspected the demon was susceptible to beeps." John needed to ask his son how the hell he'd managed to calm down Hurricane Dean. In the years subsequent to Sam's Stanford departure, John's only refuge was getting out of the motel room for a few hours and making sure to bring back some beer when he returned.
"I'm still mad at you." Dean growled. John wasn't sure whether to be glad Sam hadn't gotten off completely scot-free.
"What for?" Sam's voice was innocence personified. An irony considering the situation that had caused the fight in the first place.
"For breaking my phone, dumbass." John blinked. He had to truly admire Sam's diversionary tactics. Either that or Dean was giving his little brother a free out for the fight.
"It was an evil phone." John rolled his eyes.
"Don't start that again." Again? John brought the phone up closer to his ear.
"Start what?"
"I haven't forgotten the time you exorcised my CD player." John frowned, he'd always wondered what happened to that CD player. It had been a present from Bobby who had argued that Dean needed to develop some musical taste beyond the mullet rock era.
"It was making screechy noises." Sam defended himself.
"It was playing music. Admittedly it was Bobby's taste in music but still."
"When I poured holy water on it, smoke came off." Sam retorted.
"Of course it did, idiot. You fried the electrics and set half the flaming motel room on fire. I can't even look at CDs anymore with remembering that smell." 'That was what happened?!' John thought in alarm. One of these days he needed to sit the boys down and get their version of childhood. He had a feeling he was missing out on a lot.
"Is that why you only have cassettes?" Sam's voice was quiet and cunning.
"No!" Dean said too quickly and John shook his head at his boy. Sam was on to him.
"Dean's scared of CDs. Dean's scared of CDs." Sam's sing-song taunting voice came over clearly until it was cut off by the thump of two bodies colliding and the muffled ow. "Dean! Let go of my arm!"
"Say it, Sammy."
"Dean!"
"Say it…"
"I'm not five anymore." Sam protested.
"And?"
"And Dean is the best big brother in the world. Now get off me."
There was a low amused chuckle from Dean. "Good boy, Sammy."
"It's Sam."
"No sulking, Sammy." Dean sounded far too amused. "You know, Dad probably heard all that."
"Perfect," Sam grouched. "Now when we do catch up with him, he'll be too busy giving us a lecture for me to yell at him."
"I'll stock up on the…" Whatever Dean was planning on stocking up on, though John suspected it was popcorn, John didn't find out as Dean's phone apparently chose that moment to finally lift free from its mortal repose and head up to cell phone heaven.
John sat there with his phone still pressed to his ear for a long moment, listening to the mechanical feminine voice repeat his options over and over again until he finally pressed two to save the message, adding it to the growing collection in his voicemail box.
A pang of longing hit him and he resolved that as soon as possible, he was going to see his boys. First of all, he needed to go see a man about a gun.
The clank of metal on the ground and a muttered hiss drew Sam out of his daydreams and he peeked out the door of Bobby's home to where Dean's legs were just visible from underneath the Impala, "Need a hand?" He called.
There was a grunt and a muffled ouch from Dean, "M'fine, Sam. Can you just kick that wrench back?"
Sam walked over and booted the metal a little harder than necessary, his irritation creeping through. His brother didn't seem to notice as he just took the tool and silently got back to work. Sam walked back inside without a word and headed out to his bag, pulling out the plastic bag which contained all the recovered belonging of John E. Winchester (deceased). He pulled out his father's phone, running a finger across the scratched metal and then pushing down on the On button. The phone immediately prompted for a pin code.
Sam hoped against hope that his father hadn't done the sensible thing and opted for a random set of numbers. Sam knew he couldn't fix the Impala. Sam was beginning to suspect he couldn't fix his brother. Sam clung to the hope he could at least fix this stupid phone. He knew the sensible thing to do was to wait until Dean was finished with the Impala. His brother was the one with the technical know-how of the two but seeing as Dean practically combusted every time their father was mentioned, he felt the conversation 'Hey. Want to fix our dead dad's phone?' wouldn't go well.
He glared at the display once more and racked his brain for a likely sequence of numbers. He tried their mother's birthday first, the obvious choice, but was met with a 'Pin incorrect'. One try out of three down. There were three more possible birthdays: their father's, Dean's and his. He was fairly sure it wouldn't be their father's, something like that didn't seem like his style so he tapped out Dean's.
He couldn't help but feel a little dart of surprise as the phone lit up with a welcome message and invited him in. He made a note to tell Dean about that, as soon as his brother didn't look like he was about to crack open at every mention of their father's name.
His first stop was obvious and he scrolled over to the voicemail, pressing the green button to play. "You have one new message," The voice told him before adding, "And five saved messages. To listen to your messages, press one. To.." Sam didn't bother to listen to more before jamming his finger on the button for one.
The voice on the other end was unfamiliar and female, another as yet unmentioned friend of their father with some information about the demon. This roadhouse place sounded like a good first stop on tracking the demon down again and Sam made a mental note to tell Dean about the message soon. His brother needed something to focus on.
When the voice asked him about saving, he quickly hit the relevant button. "First saved message…" The voice told him and Sam knew he should hang up, that these were probably private but he couldn't turn away from the last threads of his father. The mechanical voice finished the last of its words and the message began:
"Hello John. It's Hamish, you remember me?" An all too familiar Scottish brogue sounded down the phone line and Sam leant back in his chair and settled in to listen.
Authors Notes: And so it ends. I'd like to say thanks to everyone whose read and reviewed so far especially to the anonymous reviewers to whom I haven't been able to reply personally.
Hopefully this rounds off the series well! I thought I'd leave it up to the readers to decide whether Sam ever tells Dean about the messages.
As always, feedback/concrit/etc greatly appreciated.