Fic: The Dins of the Fathers, Chapter 1
SUMMARY: John Winchester winds up in a strange alternative place in Hell reserved for not so great Dads. There he meets many other famous fathers, both good and bad, while he ponders all the mistakes he made in raising Sam and Dean.
Takes place immediately after Season 2's "In My Time of Dying" and follows through to "All Hell Breaks Loose Pt.2" (with a nod to "Jump the Shark" at the end)
Warnings: Some cuss words. Nothing you wouldn't hear on the show.
Disclaimer: I don't own and didn't create these guys. ANY of these guys.
This is a comedy for the most part. But there is also plenty of angst and sentimental moments as John thinks back on his life. It's also a Crossover with so many different movies and TV Shows, it's practically a Cross-Overkill. I won't list all the Shows and Movies here, but most of the characters will be instantly recognizable. It's John centric naturally, but Sam and Dean make an appearance in later Chapters
My original idea came at a time when lots of people were debating whether or not John Winchester was a good father or had irredeemably damaged his sons. My take on it was that he had good traits and bad traits like most folks. He wasn't the best father ever to be sure, but he wasn't the worst either. I started mentally stacking him up against other fictional fathers and then it hit me- What if he met these characters and had to defend himself against the standard of a Ward Cleaver or a Cliff Huxtable. The more I thought about the Winchesters' story as seen through the eyes of a regular sit-com Dad, the more I giggled. And then I started writing this story. Before I finished, however, the episode "Jump the Shark" aired. That shook my ideas about John so much that I actually put the story aside for a long while. But after dusting it off and making a few adjustments to include the "Jump the Shark" factor, it was finished.
So without further ado.
THE DINS OF THE FATHERS
The deal was made. His soul was damned. But John Winchester had no fear of Hell.
After a lifetime of horrors, what torments could the Powers of Darkness possibly subject him to that he hadn't faced a thousand times before? Fully accepting his fate, he released his final breath, ready to take on anything he might encounter in the fiery abyss.
"Do your worst, you bastards!" was his last mortal thought…
"Eww! What smells like wet dog?" was his first immortal thought.
He found himself laying facedown on an under stuffed and over stained mattress- probably the most uncomfortable thing he had laid on since Marine Boot Camp. Blinking with confusion, he pushed himself up to take in his surroundings.
He was in a tiny aluminum trailer. It was smaller than most of the motel rooms he'd frequented throughout his life and much more claustrophobic. Even the nights he'd spent sleeping in the Impala with both his sons and all their weapons hadn't felt as stifling as this space did.
He stood up from the smelly mattress and instantly found himself in the kitchen. There was a hot plate and a rusty toaster oven, neither of which looked operational.
The shoebox sized sink was close to overflowing from its leaky, lime stained faucet. John automatically rolled up his sleeve to try and unclog the drain, but then thought better about plunging his hand into the alarmingly brown water.
A miniature counter top fridge caught his attention next. The handle fell off when he attempted to open it the first time. His efforts to pry the door away rewarded him with only a bottle of mustard and some moldy ice trays.
Shaking his head in dismay he turned to explore the back end of the trailer.
There he pulled aside a tattered curtain to find a dripping shower head standing a few inches too short for his height. A quick glance through the mud spattered window to the Port-A-Potty outside answered his next question.
John struggled against the panic threatening to overtake the very core of his being. A Lake of Fire and the eternal stench of Brimstone he'd been prepared for. But this?
"Hell is worse than I ever imagined!" he shuddered.
Winchester tenacity soon overcame trepidation and he ventured outside to explore his terrifying new world.
His circumstances didn't improve once he had left the decrepit trailer. The view wasn't much better and the smell was much worse. He saw other trailers, similar to his own situated along a muddy dirt road dotted with patches of dead grass. Dense, decaying trees blocked out the sunlight casting a deep gloom over the entire area.
Down the road to the left, he saw a broken down fence, across which seemed to be a swamp land. No doubt the source of the foul odor. He could make out several dilapidated shacks in this swampy area, but couldn't tell if they were occupied or not. There were also a few structures made out of mud- or at least what he hoped was mud. He thought he could hear a light tapping sound coming from the mud house closest to the fence, but it was difficult to tell over the buzz of swarming insects and croaking frogs.
To the right was a sturdy chain-linked fence. Beyond this he could see rolling hills of lush green grass beneath a clear blue sky. Sunlight was beaming down upon the inhabitants on the other side of the fence. There were large stately houses, mansions and what looked like a castle off in the distance. A cool breeze blew past him from this direction, and the scent of fresh lilac and newly blooming jasmine briefly overwhelmed the stench from the swamp.
John cautiously approached the barrier separating the two worlds. If that was Heaven, they needed a better security system. The fence didn't look that hard to scale.
Just as he was about to stage an ethereal break in, a huge ball of mud flew through the air and struck him in the back of the head.
"HA HA HA!" he heard his assailant bellow, "Eat mud, Flanders!"
He whirled around to see an overweight, middle aged bald man with bright yellow skin bending down to scoop up another ball of mud.
"The name's Winchester!" he announced, slowly fuming as mud dripped down from his hair.
"Winchester?" the bright yellow man looked up with his tongue sticking half out of his mouth, "Like the hot dog sauce?"
"Like the rifle!" John glowered.
"Oh!" the man grinned sheepishly, "Sorry, Mr. Winchester. Sometimes when I get bored, I like to hock mud at Flanders's House."
He hurled another mud ball, this time striking the trailer and denting its flimsy aluminum door.
"Yes! Take that, Flanders!... oh no wait! This is the Winchester Residence! I keep forgetting I'm in a new neighborhood."
"Neighborhood?" John struggled to absorb this information, "What's going on? Where am I, anyway? I thought I died and crossed over to my Eternal resting place."
"Oh you did," someone spoke up from behind him, "You're pretty much stuck here for Eternity."
John turned to see a trio of men walking up to him.
One was about his age, sloppily dressed and sporting a pained, almost constipated expression. The other two were older: a grey haired black man with a barreled chest that strained against his worn suspenders and a pudgy faced white fellow with a receding hairline and a cigar fixed firmly in his smirking lips.
They eyed John with casual indifference as he tried to make sense his situation.
"Welcome to the Father Land, Sonny," the black man said, shaking his hand, "I'm Fred Sanford. This here's Al Bundy, Archie Bunker, and that ignoramus who just now broke your window is Homer Simpson."
John looked back to see that the portly yellow man had indeed just hurled a mud ball straight through the trailer's only window.
"Stupid Flanders! Think you're so much better than me with your fancy trailer and your snooty doormat that says 'Winchester' instead of 'Flanders'!"
John decided to ignore the damage for the time being and turned his attention back to the seemingly saner men.
"I'm John Winchester," he said.
"Yeah, we know," Bundy said, idly picking at his teeth.
"We heard all about dem ghosts and bugaboos and demons you been huntin' and that deal you made that got you sent down here," Bunker said, puffing on his cigar, "Kind of a pansy assed way to go out, doncha think? Just handing yourself over to the one guy you been after all dem years."
"I had my reasons," John gritted his teeth, "But... you called this place 'The Father Land'. Are you telling me I'm not in Hell?"
"I don't know that I'd call it Hell exactly," Sanford said, "But I ain't gonna lie to you. This place is a dump! Have a seat and we'll try to explain."
He motioned to a set of lawn chairs arranged near a neighboring trailer. They each took a seat and John had to stifle his irritation as Simpson joined them.
"We call this place 'The Father Land' 'cause that's what all the folks around here are," Sanford continued.
"No women in other words," Bunker interjected.
"Yeah and no sonsabitches lucky enough not to have kids," Bundy snorted.
"Hee. No fat chicks!" Simpson said randomly, and then realized everyone was glaring at him, "Sorry…"
"Also, all that matters around here is what kind of father you were," Sanford went on, "The Powers that Be…whoever they are…either reward you or punish you all depending on how you treated your kids."
"Ain't it a kick in the teeth," Bundy groused, "It's because of your rotten kids that you can't enjoy your life. And then when you finally kick the bucket and get away from them, it turns out you can't even enjoy your death!"
"I'm sorry," John shook his head, "But none of this explains how I wound up here."
"Well, you're a father, ain't ya?" Bunker sneered.
"Yes..."
"And not a very good one either or else you wouldn't be down here with us!"
"What's that supposed to mean?" John snapped.
"The good fathers wind up over there," Bunker jerked his thumb at the enticing landscape beyond the chain linked fence, "That's where you got your Cleavers, your Huxtables, your Ingles, your Andy Griffiths..."
"Atticus Finch lives in that big castle at the top of the hill," Sanford added, then motioned to the swamp, "Over there you got the real scum bags: The Tony Sopranos, Lionel Luthers, Huck Finn's 'Pap', and such. The ones that really made a mess of their kids' lives."
"Then you got us poor schlubs here," Bundy leaned back, resting his hand in the front of his pants, "The ones who busted their humps and suffered all their miserable lives but just didn't cut the mustard in the 'Daddy' Department."
"Mmmmm... mustard..." Simpson drooled.
John found himself even more confused. He'd come to realize that it was never part of the Yellow Eyed Demon's plan for him to wind up in this strange place. But whoever or whatever had blessedly spared him from the Demon's true intentions had still made a grievous error in judgment.
"If what you're telling me is true," he began, "Then there's been a mistake. I was a good father! I loved my sons! My entire existence revolved around protecting them from the forces of Evil! There was nothing I wouldn't do for them, even at the cost of my very soul!"
"None of that matters," Bundy shrugged, "The standards are too high. They take points off for every little mistake you make."
"How so?"
"Like get this," Bunker spat, "I loved my little girl, Gloria. I worked hard, I provided for her. But I call that Liberal windbag husband of hers 'Meathead' one too many times and now they got me livin' in a van down by the river!"
"Yeah, and they get mad at you for stuff like if you sit on your kids' dollhouse or strangle them or spend their college fund on donuts." Simpson said, "That's how I wound up in The Simpson Chateau."
He pointed to the structure beside John's trailer.
"That's a dog house!" John observed.
"Dog Chateau!" Simpson corrected.
"But I never did anything like what you're describing," John stated honestly, "I never called my sons names or broke their toys or physically harmed them… wait… being possessed at the time doesn't count does it?"
"Probably."
"Damn!" John winced, "And ok, so maybe I did spend their college funds on ammo, but it didn't make a difference in the long run. My Sam still managed to get in on full scholarship and his brother Dean was content to stay in the family business."
"Trust me," Sanford said, "The Powers that Be don't like that 'staying in the family business' crap. That's exactly what got me here. Every time my son wanted to quit the junk dealership, I'd fake a heart attack and guilt him into staying put… Actually, you should have tried that, Winchester. If you'd just grabbed your chest a couple times and said: "I'm comin', Mary! It's the Big One!" your boy never woulda left for Stanford!"
"But that's the whole point, Dingus," Bunker sassed, "You ain't supposed to do stuff like that. Yer supposed to support your kids' wishes and dreams and all."
"You're right! You're right!" Sanford broke down sobbing, "Oh, Lamont! What have I done! The Big One came and it landed me here!"
"I choked on a Gummy Bear," Simpson mused as the other men tried to comfort Sanford.
Continued in Chapter 2
Comments and feedback greatly appreciated.