More from the JohnandDean cuteness that is taking over my life. Those two are just too...too...well, whatever they are, I adore them.
John had known it was going to be a bad day the moment the toaster blew up.
"Fucking piece of shit!"
He held one hand to his singed eyebrows and yanked the power from the smoking appliance with the other. His toast was unquestionably KIA, and that had been the last of the bread. He would be six feet under before he started eating that sugary crap the boys ate.
Speaking of boys…Dean stumbled into the kitchen, ill tempered as he always was before injecting caffeine straight into his veins. A grunt that could have been interpreted as 'good morning, dear father,' or 'why the fuck is the toaster on fire?' was the only greeting John received before his seventeen year old flopped into one of the kitchen chairs.
The two had a very strict morning ritual, and hell was likely to descend on earth if it was ever broken. Of course, it was that day that Satan decided to start home visits. Hurricane Sam hit the kitchen at a quarter to eight, a whole ten minutes ahead of schedule and fucked their morning right out the window and into the drive.
"Morning." Sam obviously saw nothing unusual in his father destroying kitchen appliances before the morning news, and breezed cheerily to the Lucky Charms.
John was able to manage an eloquent, "Mornin'"
Dean grunted like a bear woken three weeks before hibernation was due to end, and fought valiantly with the kettle.
Milk in hand, Sam, who despite possessing the IQ of an Einstein in training, and being the smartest kid in his school, had somehow never managed to grasp the idea that Dean could ever be anything other than SuperBrother twenty-four/seven. A grunt failed to embody anything remotely resembling SuperBrother's usual charm and wit.
"Are you sick?" Yes, once he hit puberty, Dean failed to function before nine am unless there was coffee involved. Sammy, bless him, had somehow managed to grow up oblivious to his brother's unhealthy addiction, aided no doubt by Dean's careful attempts to get his fix before Sam surfaced from the bathroom.
Another grunt. An unmistakable 'fuck off', but at least the coffee had made its way from jar to mug.
Sensing a brotherly conflict that would have Sam pouting all day, and Dean tripping out on guilt, John stepped in and sidelined his youngest before Dean's claws advanced.
A bowl full of sugar and a coffee strong enough to strip paint and the two boys were ready for school.
"Hey dad?" His usual cheerful self once more, Dean looked over his shoulder as he threw a battered gym kit into his bag.
It was John's turn to grunt, the milk in his bowl turning a ghastly shade of pink. It was a miracle his boys had any teeth left.
"Can I go out tonight? The guys from Shop are having a post 'we-built-a-car-and-it-didn't-explode' party.
"Impala's going to be out of action, I'm changing her fanbelt."
"No worries, Rob's place is only fifteen minutes down the road."
Which meant Dean could make the trip in five if he ran it. The boy was bright eyed and earnest, like a puppy looking to its owner for a reward after learning a new trick. They weren't hunting anything, and Dean had worked his ass off on that project.
"Be back by one." John grunted, taking a bite of his cereal. Dean let out a muffled cheer and a 'yes, sir' before sprinting out of the door, Sam on his heels.
Yeah, John had known it was going to be a bad day the minute the toaster had exploded.
The minute he realised he actually liked Sam's shitty breakfast cereal, he'd known it was going to be a fucking awful day.
Or course, it wasn't until a quarter after one am before he realised just how fucking awful.
The phone rang, and he had it in hand before the second ring, ready to lecture/curse/reassure or rescue the teen he knew would be on the other end.
"Dean." He managed to keep his voice low and calm. Dean was a good boy, and he always obeyed John's orders. If he was late, there would be a reason.
"Hi dad." Sheepish, embarrassed, worried and yes, a tiny bit afraid. John was on edge in an instant.
"Where are you?" He'd finished repairing the Impala an hour or so after Dean dropped Sam home from school and left for Rob Jordan's house. He had the keys, ready to jump behind the wheel and hightail it to his son.
"The police station."
Police. Station. Maybe he'd heard wrong.
"What?" Yes, the bear had come out of hibernation and he was pissed.
"I've been arrested." Dean said meekly, answering both the where and the why at once.
Drunk. Was Dean drunk? He didn't sound it.
Arrested. God almighty, Mary was going to be cursing up a storm in heaven. I don't care how much he looks like his daddy, Jonathan Winchester. You are not teaching my son how to hotwire a car before he is tell enough to see through the passenger window.
What the hell had he done now?
"Dean." Definite growl. Just the right level of scary. Sam was going to be riding shotgun for the next decade. Dean could sit in the trunk.
No. The trunk had sharp objects. Things that went bang.
The roof. He could strap him to the roof...
His son didn't get arrested, goddamnit. If and when they broke the law, they did not get caught doing it!
"Maybe you should come down here." Dean sighed wearily down the line.
"Do I need to bring bail money?"
Dean sighed again.
Oh, for fucks sake.
"I'll be there in twenty minutes."
Of course waking Sam up and explaining to him that SuperBrother was now a criminal, and as such a completely unsuitable role model simply magnified the headache.
"Dean's been arrested?" Sam repeated for the umpteenth time, rather dumbfounded and a little shocked. He blinked, dressed in slacks and one of John's sweaters, drowning under the many folds of fabric. "Dean got caught?"
On a better day John might have processed the worrying fact that his youngest was less concerned about the actual crime, just that Dean got caught at it.
Barrelling through the precinct doors, Sam in tow, John almost sent a young deputy flying.
"Jonathan Winchester." he barked across the counter at the bland looking woman chewing on a pencil end. She tapped at her computer. "I'm here to see my son, Dean."
"Mister Winchester?" John spun. A tall officer in a pressed uniform held out a hand for John to shake. "My name is Harry Nataf. I'm Dean's arresting officer."
John obliged him. Squeezing a tad harder than was strictly polite.
"Where is my son?"
"I'll take you to him." Nataf led the way down a corridor, through a locked partition and check point. "Dean's refused a lawyer, but as he is a minor, that decision is left to you."
"What did you arrest him for?" Sam asked before John could silence him with a glare.
Nataf's gaze was hard and distant. "Possession with intent to sell."
And John's bad day hit rock bottom.
Officer Nataf stopped them before a white door, an incident room, and turned to John.
"I'm going to have to ask your son to remain in the waiting room." He at least sounded apologetic.
John naturally wanted to hit him for even thinking about it, but he knew that to protest might make things more difficult for Dean. Dean, who had been arrested for the possession of drugs. God almighty.
"S'okay." Sam said quickly. "I'll go." The kid obviously knew how difficult his old man would find the call. John didn't like to let Sam out of his sight. "Kick Dean's ass for me." The kid said brightly, obviously not considering the charges the least bit credible. The teen followed a female officer to the family waiting room. John watched him until the boy turned a corner, then he stepped into the room to face his eldest.
Dean looked about to win a staring contest with a man twice his age. The social worker was obviously trying to look serious, but when he blinked, Dean smirked and the attempt fell ass over.
Dean looked up as John entered the room. "Hi, dad." He sounded nervous, but offered a hint of a smile.
Though he hated the fact that he had even harboured the possibility, any question as to Dean's guilt flew out of the window. Now to find out what had happened.
John shook his head wearily. Dean winced as the social worker introduced himself and John refrained from breaking a hand for the second time that night.
"Okay, Dean." Nataf took a seat opposite, and John sat besides his son. "Why don't you explain to us what happened?" A cassette tape whirled noisily in the background.
Nataf had introduced the interview with patience as Dean rolled his eyes.
The boy shrugged. "I told you. Bad case of mistaken identity."
"Care to elaborate?" John growled.
"Please, Mister Winchester, I'll have to ask you to remain silent." Damn, John hated social workers.
"Okay." Dean shrugged again. "I was coming back from Rob's place."
"Robert Jordan?"
"Yeah."
John coughed.
"Yes. Joanne, Joanne Lee, she lives on my way home, so I walked her back." Dean didn't even have to roll his eyes. "We were passing down South Clarke Street when I heard someone screaming."
Oh god. The damsel in distress. John didn't need to know that it had been a woman in trouble. When Dean landed himself in shit like this, there was always a woman involved. Two, this time.
Sampson. Remember Sampson? Orpheus? Hercules? All good men, then a chick got involved.
Continuing his story, blissfully unaware of his father's plans to have him join the Church and remain chaste for life, Dean pulled a face. "I told Joanne to stay under the streetlamp, and went to investigate."
Because Dean was exactly the type of noble, heroic, idiotic bastard who did things like that. He had been armed, right?
Oh fuck. He had been armed. Try explaining that to Sonny and Rico.
"So anyway," Dean gestured wildly with his arms. "This girl, Megan, was getting roughed up by some creep." The boy's eyes darkened slightly. "I sent him packing."
"You scared him away?"
"Something like that." Dean's inflection was as dark and cold as his father's on a bad day.
John wondered if he'd have to spend the weekend burying a body. Not the ideal father-son bonding he'd been hoping for, but aptly fitting given the given.
Bright as the sunshine in June once again, Dean perked up. "Yeah, so the pussy ran away," he looked up as if to say, who in their right mind would be afraid of sweet, innocent little me? John didn't even correct the language. "Megan was as appreciative of a guy as you can get when he's walking another chick home."
So that explained the lipstick on the collar. Dean enjoyed the perks of his job far, far too much.
"And she's wearing her boyfriend's jacket, right?"
He said the last part to John, who nodded, not getting the reference.
"What happened next?" Nataf pushed, his face unreadable.
Dean shrugged with one shoulder. "I walked them both home. Dropped Megan off at her parent's dinner, and she gave me her boyfriend's jacket."
"Why?"
Dean rolled his eyes as if the answer was obvious. "Well for one, it's fucking freezing outside, and I left my jacket at Rob's."
Okay, fair enough.
A wicked gleam entered Dean's bright eyes. "And for the other, it was a nice jacket. You've seen it. I dropped Jo off, then that's where you come in."
Nataf nodded thoughtfully.
"So you're saying the jacket doesn't belong to you?"
"Do I look like I can afford a seven hundred dollar jacket?"
Okay, good point. Dean at least had good taste in the girls he saved.
"And the heroin in the pocket?"
Dean jerked a thumb in John's direction. "Does you think for a second he'd allow me to do diesel?"
Jesus, Dean. Who's 'he'?
"And the switchblade magically attached itself to your ankle?"
"Nope." Dean said brightly. "That's mine. Am I gonna get it back?"
And it had been going so very fucking well until then...
"You gonna go back for the jacket?" Sam asked curiously as the pulled into drive.
Dean frowned. "I dunno. Maybe. If we're still here in sixty days."
"We'd better be." Sam growled. "I still can't believe they let you off with a warning."
"I still can't believe Joanne came through for me like that." Dean said dreamily, reliving the moment when Nataf reluctantly told them that the young lady had vouched for Dean, and the ownership of the jacket. Officers were currently looking for Megan and her boyfriend. John strongly suspected that he was the guy Dean scared off. The blade had earned him a slapped wrist and a warning never to be so fucking stupid again.
"I still can't believe you. Got. Caught." John emphasised firmly. "I think this calls for a step up in training. If you can't out wit the cast of Police Academy, what chance do you stand against a demon?"
Both boy's shuddered at the prospect of more time under their father's gruelling program. Still, Dean had to learn, when wandering the streets armed, you don't stop to light a cop's cigarette. And you sure as hell don't knock a bag of illegal drugs onto the hood of a police car in the process. "Dean, you realise that it's almost time for you to get up and go to school, right?"
The look on Dean's face was almost comical. "What about Sam?"
"Reading day." The boy said smugly.
"Not fucking fair!"
Sam simply grinned. "I'll go put the kettle on."
End.