Pikeville, Kentucky, population 5,834. Home of the Minor League Team Pikeville Cubs and the 1991 high school State Championship Pikeville Panthers, where about the only exciting thing that had happened in the past 20 years or so was when Mountain Man Hoot Gibson had come back from Somalia and had taken over his daddy's farm with the help of one of his old war buddies. Dean wondered what the hell Dad was thinking, settling them in the middle of nowhere Bluegrass country as their base of operations for the year and telling Dean that they were staying put until Dean graduated high school. Dean didn't even like Kentucky. Now, Louisiana, that was a different story. Louisiana at least had New Orleans. And New Orleans meant riverboat gambling, where he could brush up on his poker skills. New Orleans also boasted plenty of college coeds on vacation, just itching to let loose, have a good time, and there was nothing Dean liked better than girls who were out for fun. Hell, even Georgia was preferable to this hole in the wall town, and he really didn't like Georgia. Nothing but mosquitoes and chiggers and ill-tempered spirits from the damn Civil War wreaking havoc on everyone and everything just because they felt some sort of weird sense of entitlement. Sammy, typical brat that he was, loved Pikeville and every square suburban Stepford inch of it. He loved having a paper route (a paper route, Jesus), Latin club meetings (at least Latin was a useful skill), and living in one place for longer than a few months. But most of all, Sammy loved that Dad hadn't been taking them on any hunts lately. None. Nada. Ze-fucking-ro. Instead, it had been like when they were both kids – Dad just up and leaving for a few days at a time, with grocery money on the table and a terse note in tightly coiled handwriting that said where he was headed and what he was hunting. It was like Dad didn't need them – didn't need Sam's help with research or Dean to man point or drive, didn't need either of them on the team, to make a difference, didn't need their aim or brains or skills. It was like all that training over the years was now a waste and Dean and Sam were supposed to, hell, be normal or something while Dad took all the risks and hunted all the evil and it just wasn't fucking right, goddammit, Dean was going stir-crazy pretending to be a good student. He rose early like he typically did when Dad was on a hunt, to make breakfast, even though he really thought Sammy didn't need the food. Although, to be fair, Sam did seem to be losing a bit of his baby fat these days – not that Dean would ever say so in a million years. Pissing his younger brother off was about the only fun he had these days. He stumbled into the kitchen wearing only his boxers, bare feet making no noise on the wooden floor, and rubbed a hand across his face to scrub out the sleep. He should have been doing his Physics homework last night, but there'd been a Steve McQueen mini-marathon on TCM, and he'd conned Sam, because somebody had to see to it that the runt learned about the important things in life, into watching 'Bullit', 'The Great Escape' and 'The Thomas Crown Affair' with him. When Dean grew up, he was going to be as cool as Steve McQueen. Hell, he already had the car. Well, technically, Dad did, but Dean was going to buy it from him or win it from him or something as soon as he graduated. Dean turned the corner into the kitchen, and stopped. John, in a faded pair of jeans and a ripped t-shirt, looking he hadn't slept in two or three days, was making breakfast. Eggs in the hole, from the looks of it. Their favorite as kids, if only because it was the only egg dish other than scrambled that Dad could make without burning something. He fared far better with dinner. "Morning, Dean," John said without turning around. Dean knew better than to ask how he'd known it was him and not Sam. "Mind waking your brother up?" "Uh, no. No sir," Dean replied, and stumbled back down the hallway to throw a pillow at his brother's head. He was still grinning over the startled yelp when he stopped by his own room to toss on a shirt. When he came back into the kitchen, Sam was already at the table, face buried in a battered copy of 'The Tempest' by William Shakespeare. Dean could only shake his head as he made a beeline for the coffeepot. Granted, his brother was only 13 and a total helpless geek, complete with the glasses and the pocket protector, but Dean had thought he'd been making progress in turning Sam into an actual person. Kid was never, ever going to get laid. John grunted his thanks when Dean refilled his cup, but didn't say anything. Dean knew better than to ask questions now – later, after school, John would sit them both down and tell them how the hunt went down, but right now, Dean knew Dad needed to decompress. He sat at the table and was contemplating snatching the book from Sam's hands when the doorbell rang. Even Sam, eyes owlishly large behind his glasses, glanced up. Bacon sizzled and popped when Dad placed it on a pile of napkins. "Get that, would you, Dean?" When Dean opened the door – after peering out through the window, because they'd had more than their fair share of run-ins with child services and the cops – it was to find a Marine, a kid that couldn't be much older than Dean himself, in dress greens, standing on the top step of the porch, tugging on his bottom of his jacket. Dean took a moment to admire the crisp lines of the uniform, and the sharp creases that he could never get into his own clothes. Then again, he was a disaster with an iron. "Hi there." The Marine smiled, revealing a set of dazzling white teeth. "I apologize for the early call." "No problem." Dean leaned against the doorjamb, conscious of his dirty Led Zepplin t-shirt and ratty boxers. "Can I, uh, help you?" "Is this the residence of a Mr. John Winchester?" "That'd be my Dad." And, because he was military, and, more importantly, a Marine, Dean held the door open. C'mon in." The Marine took off his hat when he stepped inside, placing it under one arm. Dean led him into the kitchen. Sam sat up straight, book sliding face-first to the table, and John turned, wiping his hands on a towel before holding one out. The handshake was brisk and brief. "Private First Class," John said by way of greeting, gaze flickering towards the Marine's rank insignia on his jacket. "Master Sergeant," the Marine replied. Dean wondered how he knew about Dad's old rank, but decided, whoever this guy was, he'd done his homework. "Can I get you a cup of coffee?" "Thanks, that'd be great." Sam looked at Dean, who shrugged, the motion minute – but enough to catch the Marine's attention. "I take it you're Dean, then." "Yes sir." He straightened before he was even aware of having done so. John placed the coffee cup on the table and gave the Marine a piercing look. "How do you know my son?" "You don't know?" An incredulous gaze flickered from John to Dean. "Mr. Winchester, your son broke the state record in the Junior Air Rifle State Championship meet last week." "I thought that'd been cancelled," John said mildly, but Dean could feel the weight of those eyes on him. "Yeah, me, too," Sam chimed in, with his own accusing stare. Busted. Dean shrugged again, shoulders hunched, and scuffed his toe on the linoleum. "Didn't want you guys making me nervous." Sam chortled. "Afraid we'd mess with your precious aim, Dean-o?" "Afraid I'd shoot you by accident, you little twerp." "You shoot blanks, you dork, even I know that." Dean took a step forward, then jerked to a halt when John said his name. When he looked over at John, after a look for his brother that promised retaliation, he was surprised to see Dad smiling at him. An honest to God genuine smile that crinkled his eyes and made him look at least ten years younger. "I'm proud of you, son." Dean ducked his head, and let out a little, and, much to his embarrassment, high-pitched, laugh. "Uh, thanks, Dad." "We're all proud," the Marine said. He put down his cup, turning that earnest, football-star smile back to Dean. "Who taught you to shoot like that?" Dean jerked his head in John's direction. "He did." Not that John had much use for his skill these days, but Dean wasn't going to let himself get rusty just because the old man had decided not to use them anymore. "He's a fine teacher. And we would like nothing better than for you to apply that skill as a U.S. Marine, just like your Daddy was." "Me? A Marine?" Dean pursed his lips in thought. Chicks dug a guy in uniform. Watching the local girls chase after Mountain Man Gibson and his friend was proof enough of that. And it'd be a chance to see more of the world than Pikeville, maybe gain some more skills (not that he'd need them or anything at the rate he was going). Maybe, hell, Dad might start to treat him different, like an adult, if he had a little experience under his belt. "Your ASVAB scores in the top 99th percentile. In all categories." "Dean? In the top percentile of anything?" Dean cuffed Sam across the back of the head. "Shut up, freakazoid, just cause I'm not a teacher's pet like you..." "Boys." The word was soft, but both immediately straightened up, even though Sam did it munitiously. "We're honored, but he's not interested." "He's not?" "I'm not?" "No. You're not." The tone brooked no argument. When John turned back to the Marine, his nod was cool, short. "Thank you for the news and the visit." "Mr. Winchester, sir, I've seen your record –" "Then you understand why I'm saying no." Dean and Sam exchanged a silent, wide-eyed glance. Dean thought this might be the first time he'd ever heard their father talk about his time in the military. "Your son has a chance to make a difference. Become a hero." "My son already is making a difference. And only fools believe that heroes are made on the battlefield." "Sir, with all due respect..." "With all due respect, you seem like a nice kid. And you probably believe everything you say. And I wish you well. But I need my son here. Both of them. So, if you don't mind..." "If you change your mind." The Marine slid his business card across the table when he stood. John didn't even glance down at it. "He won't." "He'll be 18 in a few months." The Marine untucked his hat and placed it back on his head, tugging the brim down. "I'll leave you to your breakfast." The second they heard the front door close, Dean and Sam stared at each other again, then John. "What was that all about?" Dean finally asked, wondering how he could have missed something while standing in the same room. John placed two plates full of food on the table. When he looked up at Dean, his eyes looked tired again. Old. "The Marines don't need you, Dean. Sammy and I do." "You do?" "Of course we do," John replied, like it was the most obvious statement in the world. "Eat your eggs before they get cold." Dean knew better than to argue. Or to ask. He sat and bent over his eggs, then felt the kick to his foot when John's back was turned. When he looked up, Sam smirked at him from under too-long bangs. Suck up, he mouthed, and Dean reached out to grab Sam's book. John smacked Dean's hand when he sat down with his own plate. Dean shook off the sting, and met his father's stare with a sheepish grin. It relieved him when John returned it. "When you're done, before you drop Sammy off, I'd like to talk to you about a job out in Louisville." "A job?" Dean's fork clattered to the plate. He thought his eyes might bug out of his head. "For real? You're sending me on a job?" "Unless you think it's gonna interfere with your schoolwork..." "Nono, no. No, it won't. At all. Sir." "Good," John replied, with a satisfied nod over the rim of his mug. Sam eyed them both with disgust and, muttering in his usual way, went back to reading. Everything normal, just like it should be.
|