Fic: Let it Ride
Title: Let it Ride
Author: persnickett
Recipient: jargonelle
Rating: 14+
Warnings: none, strippers who don’t strip, mild language
Author's Notes: Here are the awesome prompts I got. Try to guess which one I used. :D
1. Stanford-era. Dean and John. Doing something good.
2. AU. Dean and Jess meet under different circumstances.
3. What else Dean tries to teach Sam in the year before he goes to hell.
4. There's a case in a haunted casino.
Summary: John Winchester knew better than to make a case like this one a ride-along. A haunted casino? Hell if the whole idea wasn't just catnip to his eldest boy, and John knew well enough that Dean wasn’t one to turn down a good nip - if it was being passed around.
_______________________
Let it Ride
_______________________
Looking over at his son shifting uncomfortably in his seat, he had to admit that all of it - the scraped knuckles, one black eye, and what looked like about twelve messy stitches - was his own fault. John Winchester knew better than to make a case like this one a ride-along. A haunted casino? Hell if the whole idea wasn't just catnip to his eldest boy, and John knew well enough that Dean wasn’t one to turn down a good nip - if it was being passed around.
As they drove, John stared at the blank spot he'd set aside in his journal, thinking how to put the whole mess into as few words as possible. It was an old habit, the writing in what basically amounted to code. He knew it made him sound like a friggin’ Yoda or something, but John always figured it was safer, in case anyone who didn’t need to know better ended up with their hands on his book. Mainly little Winchester hands. Mainly Sam’s. Old habits died hard, it seemed.
He’d been in Tulsa, looking into reports on a chupacabra, when he got the call.
“John? Hi. I’m not sure if you remember me, but…”
Jessie. There was no way he could have forgotten, even if driving to into a town the size of Chicago wasn’t something he did every day. It had been about a year since the poltergeist job, and as usual, the nasty spirit had latched onto a pretty little thing - with long, soft waves of blonde hair, just like his Mary’s. Sweet girls like that seemed to draw supernatural energies more often than not, and John liked to think it was forethought, not sentiment, that led him to leave her with his cell phone number. Just in case.
As it was, it seemed she’d gotten wind of a string of unusual deaths in Vegas - which didn’t seem all too out-of-the-ordinary to John, but she thought it might have been “the kind of thing he could help people with” and John had to agree, a couple of shriveled up goats didn’t really rank when corpses were turning up with ‘strange mutilations’ - Sin City or none.
**
It took them 3 days just to make the drive to Nevada. Dean took his share of the driving shifts, when John would let him. Mostly at night. It never failed though, that John would wake up from his passenger-side napping stiff, uncomfortable and alone. It happened three separate times that he opened his eyes to the buzzing glare of gas station lights, and had to peer across the lot to find his son leaned up against the convenience mart counter, chatting with the girl behind it. He spent a good five minutes in there the first stop. The second, it was almost ten. The third time John just woke up and leaned on the horn.
Dean was quiet the rest of the time. It was unnerving. John was used to a constant flow of dialogue from the shotgun side; Dean pointing roadside oddities out, or reading any vaguely suggestive road sign out loud to Sammy, who was usually buried in some book or another in back. ‘Speed hump’ was one of Dean’s favorites.
When they finally reached the outskirts, John remembered why he never came here. They couldn’t even go to a motel without seeing slot machines. Dean, however, was transfixed. John checked them in and began walking back toward the car, before he realized he was alone again. A look over his shoulder revealed Dean feverishly feeding bills to a machine marked Quarters. That was when John made his first slip. It was never Dean who’d been the dawdler, and the words just rolled off:
“Sammy. Move out, c’mon.”
Just a trip-up, but John regretted it instantly. Dean started like he’d been stung and stared straight ahead, frozen, at the change machine. When he finally met John’s eye, he pocketed the change and grabbed up his duffel obediently, but not before John caught the kicked-hound expression.
The next forty minutes getting settled were about as much fun as a root canal. As per the new usual, Dean was his recently-discovered silent self. Only now it couldn’t be clearer what was eating him, and whose fault it was considered to be. Suddenly, John couldn’t get to the damn casino fast enough.
It didn’t take a genius to figure they weren’t going to get anywhere by hanging around the slots, though. They needed to talk to regulars. And for that, they’d have to look the part.
A couple of rented monkey-suits and a slick word or two got them in with the high rollers where - even if they weren’t buying his story, they were buying the liquor, by the bucket - and John did manage to get a few leads. Most of the victims were men, and they had strange marks - scarring around the face. Sounded like an open-and-shut to John, right in line with a succubus, and the deadly “kiss” the monster would use to literally suck the life force right out of her unsuspecting victims.
And, it was Las Vegas. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to John that the trail led him straight to the largest strip joint in the area, but none the less it was going to be more than a little awkward with his new “partner”. Who, as it happened, seemed to be missing again.
John was just about to launch a search, when all the heads in the room turned to the door of the VIP salon. A scuffle had broken out in the main area by the Texas Hold-em table. John followed the gathering security guards across the floor toward the raised voices. He wasn’t completely surprised to find that one of the combatants was sporting a rented tuxedo, spiky brown-blond hair, and a shiner that already looked like it was gonna be a beauty.
“Lemme go!” Dean’s opponent growled at the three men restraining him. “He’s sharkin’ us all out of our cash. Dirty cheat!”
“Guess it just means I’m a better cheater than you are, Larry.” Dean snarked, before he spotted John.
“Dad!” Dean exclaimed, attempting self-consciously to straighten his jacket.
“Dad!? You said he was your boss!” Larry boomed.
“He is”. Dean smiled winningly, as Larry made another ineffectual attempt to get at him before he was carted off by security. All the while yelling that they were no effing oil barons, and ought to be tossed out of there.
Things like this tend to hit a man kind of sudden. As he stood there wiping blood from under his nose and cheekily adjusting his cufflinks, John noticed all at once how much his son had started to resemble a younger version of himself. Square shoulders, sturdy, with hair that just won’t seem to lie flat. He’d always thought of Dean as taking after Mary with his fair complexion and big, expressive eyes. Sam was always the darker of the two, silent and stoic for the most part, with a stubborn streak wider than a country mile. Just like his old man.
Or so John used to think. Sam had grown a good 7 inches in the last two years. John couldn’t think where he’d come by the height in the Winchester clan, but it slowly made it clear as day that Sammy - literally or otherwise - just didn’t fit. He got gangly and awkward, knocking his head on low doorframes, and upsetting everything from stacks of his schoolwork, to Dean’s ratchet set, and sometimes even one of John’s beer bottles. Those legs of his got so long, it would take him near a full minute to wind himself into the back of the Impala some days. And his temper grew with him. The quiet perseverance turned to a pent-up sort of building impatience that would bust through in surly outbursts. And then...to put it gently, September came. And Sam went.
Dean slipped away as John found himself surrounded by apologetic casino staff with clipboards making offers of various comps and reparations. When John caught up to him, waiting exactly where he should be - propped against the Impala’s hood - he tried his best to muster up some righteous anger.
“What were you thinkin’, Sam?” Damn, but he needed to stop doing that.
And that’s when John began to suspect Dean might have been drinking, because he looked back over his shoulder like he honest-to-god expected to see Sammy standing behind him, hands stuffed into his pockets as he peered petulantly out from under his bangs and prepared for a hollering match. Dean didn’t even try to avoid John’s gaze this time, he just looked miserably back at him and waited for the lecture. But John just didn’t have it.
“Get in the car.” Hell if he even knew which one of them felt worse.
When John explained where the case was leading next, they awkwardly agreed that he could handle this one alone. Dean was posted in the Impala with holy water and silver, set to help hold it off while John - somehow - got it outside the club and performed the banishing right.
That was the trick of it. The club was dark and there were at least fifty girls working there. They were everywhere, dressed in outlandish gear of any imaginable theme, all of it extremely tiny. To make matters worse, one dressed as an Egyptian slave girl tapped him on the shoulder.
“Hey. You can’t bring that in here,” she said, pointing one long fingernail at the tiny digital camera he had clutched in his hand. “You can buy pictures of all the entertainers at the gift shop.”
It meant John would have to use his flashlight to check each of their eyes for the telltale yellow flare, instead of the camera’s flash, which was considerably less subtle. But, rules were rules. Not to mention the conspicuously large and irritable-looking bouncer approaching from across the room.
“Tell you what, you keep it.”
She smiled at him appraisingly as he held the camera out for her to take, ‘accidentally’ pressing the trigger with the movement. “Sorry.” He was, too. There was nothing from the flash, her eyes were human. One down, 49 or so to go.
“This is pretty nice. You wanna come sit with me?”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll have a drink first.” She cast him a cold look before she shrugged and walked away with the large bouncer and her brand new camera.
John did head to the bar and order a scotch. It was going to be a long night. He had no idea how he was going to do what he had to, when he got lucky. This was Vegas, after all.
A new act was taking the stage, but the three buxom, long-haired beauties were approaching the microphones, not the poles.
“And now, ladies and Gentlemen, we are very proud to present, Lily LaFleur and her lovely sisters, Daisy and Rose.”
Wild applause and cheering broke out. As a sultry jazz tune began to play, Lily shook her long blonde hair off her shoulders and started to sing, and John turned to face the stage. The music was oddly relaxing, and he leaned against the bar to watch Daisy and Rose gyrate slowly as they sang backup for their ‘sister’. They were very good. He moved a little closer to watch, and noticed he wasn’t the only one. Men were crowding the stage, holding up bills and reaching out as if to touch the singers.
John cursed and grabbed a napkin from the bar. Every idiot knew the legend of the beautiful Siren, luring hapless sailors to their deaths with their spellbinding voices. But every hunter knew the Siren were demonic creatures that fed off the souls of their victims. Tearing the corners off the napkin, and stuffing them in his ears, he continued to watch the stage, but this time he was focused on their eyes. He barely needed the confirmation, as the bright lights and lasers reflected from several disco balls in the room flashed over the faces of the singers, each time producing the reflective animal flare he’d been looking for. Then there were three.
It wasn’t going to be easy to get close to Lily LaFleur once she left the stage. All three sisters were surrounded by a group of at least twenty guys, all offering to buy them drinks, holding out tips with compliments on their performance, and pressing glasses of champagne into their hands. Thankfully, he realized, he wasn’t going to have to. It was only minutes before the redhead - Rose he assumed - was heading toward the door with a middle-aged tourist with a beer belly and a Hawaiian shirt. John hoped Dean was ready for round one.
It started off easy, as these things go. John followed the unlikely couple around back and Dean was already flanking him as he caught up with the pair, rounding the building.
“Excuse me.”
As they turned toward him, John was ready with his flask of holy water.
“Hey!” Shouted the man.
Rose hissed in pain and outrage. The moonlight now showed her for what she was, all glowing red eyes, and pale, green snake-like skin. The victim ran for his car, and Dean backed her up against the wall with his silver knife.
“The book, Dean.” John prompted, and he held it out dutifully without taking his gaze off the creature.
“Damn.” Dean muttered, eyeing her scaly endowments.
“Focus.” John reminded him, before he started to read, laying down salt as he went.
He never got to close the circle, before Dean was on the ground, and there was Lily, fury filling her bright red eyes. The tome he held was hefty enough, and John hit her square in her flat serpentine nose, which bought him just enough time to splash some more holy water around at the two converging fiends, while Dean struggled to his feet.
“Damn!” he swore again, and aimed a nice kick at Rose before he rounded on the blonde.
John kept reading, as fast as he could. It was a short spell, but between the two demons, Dean was pretty much getting the rag-doll treatment. As John finished up, and the succubae disappeared in clouds of sulphurous smoke, he raised his head marginally off the asphalt.
“Good work, son. But there’s one more.”
“And there she goes.” Dean croaked. John turned to see the brunette flying across the parking lot at an impossible speed in her spike heels and slit gown. Dean dropped his head back to the pavement in resignation as John tore after her, spell book in hand.
**
Morning was breaking as John slowly made his way back. For once since they left Oklahoma, he didn’t have to wonder where he could find Dean. He was sitting in the passenger side of the Impala, both feet stretched out onto the pavement, with a redhead in platform shoes and a shiny white nurse’s outfit hovering over him. John slowed his approach, but couldn’t avoid overhearing some of their conversation.
“Thanks again for patchin’ me up, you sure do make a hot nurse.” Dean grinned a teasing leer John was sure he’d never seen his son use before. “Ever consider a career change?”
“No way.” She laughed, “I am going to college in the fall, though. Pre-law. The only thing this will be good for is Halloween, at that point. I’ve always loved Halloween.”
“Justice.” Dean said, indicating the nametag pinned to her pleather uniform. “Pre-law. That’s a good one.” The grin was short lived, this time. “College, huh.” He said, quietly. “You know, I’ve got a little brother in college. Stanford.”
John didn’t want to interrupt. He lingered in back of the car, and busied himself in the trunk. Dean had managed to make a real mess of his storage system the last couple days.
“Wow, Stanford. He must be a smart guy.”
“Yep. Super smart. That’s Sammy. He’s the nerd, I’m the handsome one.” She smiled, and Dean pressed his advantage. “…So you still like Halloween after everything that’s happened the past couple weeks?”
“Yeah, seems like it. There’s just something about it.”
“Is it the costumes?” He arched a coy eyebrow.
“Maybe it’s the free candy.” She said, eyeing him sharply. Dean nodded in agreement, as she went on. “Can you believe my luck? These things - ghosts and stuff - they never happen to most people. They’re supposed to be myths. And then, two Halloweens in a row…they say things always happen in threes. But at least next time I have a run-in with a demon, I’ll be ready, right?” She gave a clear, tinkling laugh.
“Wait. You’ve had this kind of…problem before?”
“Well yeah. That’s why I called your brother.” Dean looked confused, and she clarified, “Your other brother. The older one…John.” With this, she leaned toward the Impala’s trunk, tipping her head to catch John’s eye. Dean looked by turns taken aback, and then downright disgusted.
“He saved my life last year.” By this time, she was staring intently in John’s direction. Dean coughed theatrically and gingerly drew his legs one at a time into the foot well. But she had already taken a few tentative steps toward the tail of the car, and didn’t look back. John was dumbstruck as she approached and he recognized her.
“Jessie.”
“That’s me.” She laughed, pulling off the blazing red wig, and shaking out the long shiny locks he remembered, as the sounds of Master of Puppets began to drift from the car’s windows. “It’s just ‘Jess’ now.” She corrected him. “Jessie just sounds like a chubby twelve year old, you know?”
John smiled. Young people are always in far too big a hurry to stop being young people.
“Well, you’ve certainly grown up. I hope you’re doing as well as you look.” John turned back to finish up in the trunk, tucking the last shotgun into place, and then brought the trunk down gently. It was awkward. She’d turned into a stripper, for dang’s sake.
“I’m doing fine.” Her tone said she could take care of herself, thank you kindly. John hoped it was so. “I won’t be doing this long,” She clarified, like she could read his mind. “It’s good money, and I’ll have enough for college next year.”
John felt his face mirror Dean’s expressions of only moments ago at the mention of the word.
“College.” He repeated. “That’s really good for you, Jess. Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” she smiled sunnily at him, twisting the vinyl nurse’s cap between her fingers.
John picked this moment to nod a good-bye he hoped wasn't too curt. "You take care, now," He said, to soften it, and as he moved to the driver’s side and climbed stiffly in behind the wheel, he thought how fervently he meant it.
She had tucked all the blonde back up under the garish wig by the time she had rounded the car behind him. She popped her head in through the open window and dropped a kiss on his cheek.
"Thank you, John. Again. For everything." and then, "Bye, Dean."
Dean opened his eyes, looked up from where he'd been pretending to be asleep against the doorframe, and raised his fingers in a wordless sort of farewell salute.
"If I get into Stanford, I'll look your brother up. Sammy...Van Zant, right?" Suddenly the grin was back on Dean's face, and John found himself avoiding the raised eyebrow his son was aiming his way. He cleared his throat, and hastily turned the motor over.
**
John smiled to himself as they passed their first sign for the interstate.
"You know," he said, breaking through the cone of silence Dean had created around himself, staring out the passenger side window at the blank desertscape since the moment they'd pulled away from the parking lot. "We are in Nevada. The, uh, Grand Canyon... s'only a couple hours' drive."
Dean turned his head in surprise, and John watched a strange play of emotions cross his eldest's face. And this time when he looked, he saw Mary again. The delicate skin and sharpness of the features; the long-lashed, emotive eyes that always took a moment too long to veil all the secrets they were honour-bound to hide.
Dean blinked away what John had hoped was excitement, and stared thoughtfully out the windshield at the road for a moment, considering. He pasted on a smile, and looked John in the eye.
"You know Dad, that sounds great..."
John could hear the "but" coming louder than a freight train through a funeral. "It just doesn't seem like the right time...I got pretty roughed up back there. Y’know? I just don't think I would really..."
"Alright." John interrupted. He hated hearing his vibrant, cock-sure Dean flounder for listless, stumbling excuses.
"Next time. Maybe." Dean said. It wasn't a question, but he kept looking straight at John until he took a break from watching the road to meet his eyes.
“Next time.” John confirmed. Dean turned his gaze back to the road, and nobody said, “Next time, when Sam’s back.”
***
The sun gleamed off the Impala’s hood as they made their way across the deserted parking lot after what had been a late and lingering breakfast. The old girl was pushing forty. He was no spring chicken himself, come to think. He found less and less time to spend on her lately, and his boys were growing up. Hell, one was already gone. Dean needed to know he was trusted as an adult. And a car meant adult things. Freedom. Responsibility. John figured if anything could get Dean interested in a little more of the latter than the former…
“Dean.” He hadn’t meant for it to come out so gruff. “Why don’t you take the keys, son.”
“Yessir. Tired?”
“It wasn’t an order,” John smiled, pointedly, “It was an offer.”
“Y-you mean…?” Dean stammered, uncertain.
“It’s an old car, Dean. She’ll take some looking after.”
“I will! I mean, I…yeah.” Dean was laughing down at the keys in his hand, incredulous. “Wow. Thanks, Dad. I’ll take great care of her. Promise. Thanks.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Dad, I…” Dean’s eyes were still cast down awkwardly at the keys as he trailed off. John reached out for his eldest’s shoulder. He gave a squeeze, and felt his son relax under his hand.
“C’mon. Let’s head for Singer’s. Maybe he’ll have something in red for me. Like a Corvette.”
**
They didn’t pass a single ‘speed hump’ sign on the way to South Dakota, but Dean kept up a constant flow of dialogue from behind the wheel. The shifter felt good, but the brakes seemed kind of spongy, he thought maybe he’d noticed a bit of a rattle from the exhaust lately, and the wiper fluid needed filling, for sure.
John took one last look at what he’d written before he tucked his journal away, turned up the volume on Geddy Lee, and settled himself low in his seat as they made the turn for the interstate.
Thanksgiving, 2001
Nest of 3 Succubae. Found Justice in Nevada.
Author: persnickett
Recipient: jargonelle
Rating: 14+
Warnings: none, strippers who don’t strip, mild language
Author's Notes: Here are the awesome prompts I got. Try to guess which one I used. :D
1. Stanford-era. Dean and John. Doing something good.
2. AU. Dean and Jess meet under different circumstances.
3. What else Dean tries to teach Sam in the year before he goes to hell.
4. There's a case in a haunted casino.
Summary: John Winchester knew better than to make a case like this one a ride-along. A haunted casino? Hell if the whole idea wasn't just catnip to his eldest boy, and John knew well enough that Dean wasn’t one to turn down a good nip - if it was being passed around.
_______________________
Let it Ride
_______________________
Looking over at his son shifting uncomfortably in his seat, he had to admit that all of it - the scraped knuckles, one black eye, and what looked like about twelve messy stitches - was his own fault. John Winchester knew better than to make a case like this one a ride-along. A haunted casino? Hell if the whole idea wasn't just catnip to his eldest boy, and John knew well enough that Dean wasn’t one to turn down a good nip - if it was being passed around.
As they drove, John stared at the blank spot he'd set aside in his journal, thinking how to put the whole mess into as few words as possible. It was an old habit, the writing in what basically amounted to code. He knew it made him sound like a friggin’ Yoda or something, but John always figured it was safer, in case anyone who didn’t need to know better ended up with their hands on his book. Mainly little Winchester hands. Mainly Sam’s. Old habits died hard, it seemed.
He’d been in Tulsa, looking into reports on a chupacabra, when he got the call.
“John? Hi. I’m not sure if you remember me, but…”
Jessie. There was no way he could have forgotten, even if driving to into a town the size of Chicago wasn’t something he did every day. It had been about a year since the poltergeist job, and as usual, the nasty spirit had latched onto a pretty little thing - with long, soft waves of blonde hair, just like his Mary’s. Sweet girls like that seemed to draw supernatural energies more often than not, and John liked to think it was forethought, not sentiment, that led him to leave her with his cell phone number. Just in case.
As it was, it seemed she’d gotten wind of a string of unusual deaths in Vegas - which didn’t seem all too out-of-the-ordinary to John, but she thought it might have been “the kind of thing he could help people with” and John had to agree, a couple of shriveled up goats didn’t really rank when corpses were turning up with ‘strange mutilations’ - Sin City or none.
**
It took them 3 days just to make the drive to Nevada. Dean took his share of the driving shifts, when John would let him. Mostly at night. It never failed though, that John would wake up from his passenger-side napping stiff, uncomfortable and alone. It happened three separate times that he opened his eyes to the buzzing glare of gas station lights, and had to peer across the lot to find his son leaned up against the convenience mart counter, chatting with the girl behind it. He spent a good five minutes in there the first stop. The second, it was almost ten. The third time John just woke up and leaned on the horn.
Dean was quiet the rest of the time. It was unnerving. John was used to a constant flow of dialogue from the shotgun side; Dean pointing roadside oddities out, or reading any vaguely suggestive road sign out loud to Sammy, who was usually buried in some book or another in back. ‘Speed hump’ was one of Dean’s favorites.
When they finally reached the outskirts, John remembered why he never came here. They couldn’t even go to a motel without seeing slot machines. Dean, however, was transfixed. John checked them in and began walking back toward the car, before he realized he was alone again. A look over his shoulder revealed Dean feverishly feeding bills to a machine marked Quarters. That was when John made his first slip. It was never Dean who’d been the dawdler, and the words just rolled off:
“Sammy. Move out, c’mon.”
Just a trip-up, but John regretted it instantly. Dean started like he’d been stung and stared straight ahead, frozen, at the change machine. When he finally met John’s eye, he pocketed the change and grabbed up his duffel obediently, but not before John caught the kicked-hound expression.
The next forty minutes getting settled were about as much fun as a root canal. As per the new usual, Dean was his recently-discovered silent self. Only now it couldn’t be clearer what was eating him, and whose fault it was considered to be. Suddenly, John couldn’t get to the damn casino fast enough.
It didn’t take a genius to figure they weren’t going to get anywhere by hanging around the slots, though. They needed to talk to regulars. And for that, they’d have to look the part.
A couple of rented monkey-suits and a slick word or two got them in with the high rollers where - even if they weren’t buying his story, they were buying the liquor, by the bucket - and John did manage to get a few leads. Most of the victims were men, and they had strange marks - scarring around the face. Sounded like an open-and-shut to John, right in line with a succubus, and the deadly “kiss” the monster would use to literally suck the life force right out of her unsuspecting victims.
And, it was Las Vegas. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to John that the trail led him straight to the largest strip joint in the area, but none the less it was going to be more than a little awkward with his new “partner”. Who, as it happened, seemed to be missing again.
John was just about to launch a search, when all the heads in the room turned to the door of the VIP salon. A scuffle had broken out in the main area by the Texas Hold-em table. John followed the gathering security guards across the floor toward the raised voices. He wasn’t completely surprised to find that one of the combatants was sporting a rented tuxedo, spiky brown-blond hair, and a shiner that already looked like it was gonna be a beauty.
“Lemme go!” Dean’s opponent growled at the three men restraining him. “He’s sharkin’ us all out of our cash. Dirty cheat!”
“Guess it just means I’m a better cheater than you are, Larry.” Dean snarked, before he spotted John.
“Dad!” Dean exclaimed, attempting self-consciously to straighten his jacket.
“Dad!? You said he was your boss!” Larry boomed.
“He is”. Dean smiled winningly, as Larry made another ineffectual attempt to get at him before he was carted off by security. All the while yelling that they were no effing oil barons, and ought to be tossed out of there.
Things like this tend to hit a man kind of sudden. As he stood there wiping blood from under his nose and cheekily adjusting his cufflinks, John noticed all at once how much his son had started to resemble a younger version of himself. Square shoulders, sturdy, with hair that just won’t seem to lie flat. He’d always thought of Dean as taking after Mary with his fair complexion and big, expressive eyes. Sam was always the darker of the two, silent and stoic for the most part, with a stubborn streak wider than a country mile. Just like his old man.
Or so John used to think. Sam had grown a good 7 inches in the last two years. John couldn’t think where he’d come by the height in the Winchester clan, but it slowly made it clear as day that Sammy - literally or otherwise - just didn’t fit. He got gangly and awkward, knocking his head on low doorframes, and upsetting everything from stacks of his schoolwork, to Dean’s ratchet set, and sometimes even one of John’s beer bottles. Those legs of his got so long, it would take him near a full minute to wind himself into the back of the Impala some days. And his temper grew with him. The quiet perseverance turned to a pent-up sort of building impatience that would bust through in surly outbursts. And then...to put it gently, September came. And Sam went.
Dean slipped away as John found himself surrounded by apologetic casino staff with clipboards making offers of various comps and reparations. When John caught up to him, waiting exactly where he should be - propped against the Impala’s hood - he tried his best to muster up some righteous anger.
“What were you thinkin’, Sam?” Damn, but he needed to stop doing that.
And that’s when John began to suspect Dean might have been drinking, because he looked back over his shoulder like he honest-to-god expected to see Sammy standing behind him, hands stuffed into his pockets as he peered petulantly out from under his bangs and prepared for a hollering match. Dean didn’t even try to avoid John’s gaze this time, he just looked miserably back at him and waited for the lecture. But John just didn’t have it.
“Get in the car.” Hell if he even knew which one of them felt worse.
When John explained where the case was leading next, they awkwardly agreed that he could handle this one alone. Dean was posted in the Impala with holy water and silver, set to help hold it off while John - somehow - got it outside the club and performed the banishing right.
That was the trick of it. The club was dark and there were at least fifty girls working there. They were everywhere, dressed in outlandish gear of any imaginable theme, all of it extremely tiny. To make matters worse, one dressed as an Egyptian slave girl tapped him on the shoulder.
“Hey. You can’t bring that in here,” she said, pointing one long fingernail at the tiny digital camera he had clutched in his hand. “You can buy pictures of all the entertainers at the gift shop.”
It meant John would have to use his flashlight to check each of their eyes for the telltale yellow flare, instead of the camera’s flash, which was considerably less subtle. But, rules were rules. Not to mention the conspicuously large and irritable-looking bouncer approaching from across the room.
“Tell you what, you keep it.”
She smiled at him appraisingly as he held the camera out for her to take, ‘accidentally’ pressing the trigger with the movement. “Sorry.” He was, too. There was nothing from the flash, her eyes were human. One down, 49 or so to go.
“This is pretty nice. You wanna come sit with me?”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll have a drink first.” She cast him a cold look before she shrugged and walked away with the large bouncer and her brand new camera.
John did head to the bar and order a scotch. It was going to be a long night. He had no idea how he was going to do what he had to, when he got lucky. This was Vegas, after all.
A new act was taking the stage, but the three buxom, long-haired beauties were approaching the microphones, not the poles.
“And now, ladies and Gentlemen, we are very proud to present, Lily LaFleur and her lovely sisters, Daisy and Rose.”
Wild applause and cheering broke out. As a sultry jazz tune began to play, Lily shook her long blonde hair off her shoulders and started to sing, and John turned to face the stage. The music was oddly relaxing, and he leaned against the bar to watch Daisy and Rose gyrate slowly as they sang backup for their ‘sister’. They were very good. He moved a little closer to watch, and noticed he wasn’t the only one. Men were crowding the stage, holding up bills and reaching out as if to touch the singers.
John cursed and grabbed a napkin from the bar. Every idiot knew the legend of the beautiful Siren, luring hapless sailors to their deaths with their spellbinding voices. But every hunter knew the Siren were demonic creatures that fed off the souls of their victims. Tearing the corners off the napkin, and stuffing them in his ears, he continued to watch the stage, but this time he was focused on their eyes. He barely needed the confirmation, as the bright lights and lasers reflected from several disco balls in the room flashed over the faces of the singers, each time producing the reflective animal flare he’d been looking for. Then there were three.
It wasn’t going to be easy to get close to Lily LaFleur once she left the stage. All three sisters were surrounded by a group of at least twenty guys, all offering to buy them drinks, holding out tips with compliments on their performance, and pressing glasses of champagne into their hands. Thankfully, he realized, he wasn’t going to have to. It was only minutes before the redhead - Rose he assumed - was heading toward the door with a middle-aged tourist with a beer belly and a Hawaiian shirt. John hoped Dean was ready for round one.
It started off easy, as these things go. John followed the unlikely couple around back and Dean was already flanking him as he caught up with the pair, rounding the building.
“Excuse me.”
As they turned toward him, John was ready with his flask of holy water.
“Hey!” Shouted the man.
Rose hissed in pain and outrage. The moonlight now showed her for what she was, all glowing red eyes, and pale, green snake-like skin. The victim ran for his car, and Dean backed her up against the wall with his silver knife.
“The book, Dean.” John prompted, and he held it out dutifully without taking his gaze off the creature.
“Damn.” Dean muttered, eyeing her scaly endowments.
“Focus.” John reminded him, before he started to read, laying down salt as he went.
He never got to close the circle, before Dean was on the ground, and there was Lily, fury filling her bright red eyes. The tome he held was hefty enough, and John hit her square in her flat serpentine nose, which bought him just enough time to splash some more holy water around at the two converging fiends, while Dean struggled to his feet.
“Damn!” he swore again, and aimed a nice kick at Rose before he rounded on the blonde.
John kept reading, as fast as he could. It was a short spell, but between the two demons, Dean was pretty much getting the rag-doll treatment. As John finished up, and the succubae disappeared in clouds of sulphurous smoke, he raised his head marginally off the asphalt.
“Good work, son. But there’s one more.”
“And there she goes.” Dean croaked. John turned to see the brunette flying across the parking lot at an impossible speed in her spike heels and slit gown. Dean dropped his head back to the pavement in resignation as John tore after her, spell book in hand.
**
Morning was breaking as John slowly made his way back. For once since they left Oklahoma, he didn’t have to wonder where he could find Dean. He was sitting in the passenger side of the Impala, both feet stretched out onto the pavement, with a redhead in platform shoes and a shiny white nurse’s outfit hovering over him. John slowed his approach, but couldn’t avoid overhearing some of their conversation.
“Thanks again for patchin’ me up, you sure do make a hot nurse.” Dean grinned a teasing leer John was sure he’d never seen his son use before. “Ever consider a career change?”
“No way.” She laughed, “I am going to college in the fall, though. Pre-law. The only thing this will be good for is Halloween, at that point. I’ve always loved Halloween.”
“Justice.” Dean said, indicating the nametag pinned to her pleather uniform. “Pre-law. That’s a good one.” The grin was short lived, this time. “College, huh.” He said, quietly. “You know, I’ve got a little brother in college. Stanford.”
John didn’t want to interrupt. He lingered in back of the car, and busied himself in the trunk. Dean had managed to make a real mess of his storage system the last couple days.
“Wow, Stanford. He must be a smart guy.”
“Yep. Super smart. That’s Sammy. He’s the nerd, I’m the handsome one.” She smiled, and Dean pressed his advantage. “…So you still like Halloween after everything that’s happened the past couple weeks?”
“Yeah, seems like it. There’s just something about it.”
“Is it the costumes?” He arched a coy eyebrow.
“Maybe it’s the free candy.” She said, eyeing him sharply. Dean nodded in agreement, as she went on. “Can you believe my luck? These things - ghosts and stuff - they never happen to most people. They’re supposed to be myths. And then, two Halloweens in a row…they say things always happen in threes. But at least next time I have a run-in with a demon, I’ll be ready, right?” She gave a clear, tinkling laugh.
“Wait. You’ve had this kind of…problem before?”
“Well yeah. That’s why I called your brother.” Dean looked confused, and she clarified, “Your other brother. The older one…John.” With this, she leaned toward the Impala’s trunk, tipping her head to catch John’s eye. Dean looked by turns taken aback, and then downright disgusted.
“He saved my life last year.” By this time, she was staring intently in John’s direction. Dean coughed theatrically and gingerly drew his legs one at a time into the foot well. But she had already taken a few tentative steps toward the tail of the car, and didn’t look back. John was dumbstruck as she approached and he recognized her.
“Jessie.”
“That’s me.” She laughed, pulling off the blazing red wig, and shaking out the long shiny locks he remembered, as the sounds of Master of Puppets began to drift from the car’s windows. “It’s just ‘Jess’ now.” She corrected him. “Jessie just sounds like a chubby twelve year old, you know?”
John smiled. Young people are always in far too big a hurry to stop being young people.
“Well, you’ve certainly grown up. I hope you’re doing as well as you look.” John turned back to finish up in the trunk, tucking the last shotgun into place, and then brought the trunk down gently. It was awkward. She’d turned into a stripper, for dang’s sake.
“I’m doing fine.” Her tone said she could take care of herself, thank you kindly. John hoped it was so. “I won’t be doing this long,” She clarified, like she could read his mind. “It’s good money, and I’ll have enough for college next year.”
John felt his face mirror Dean’s expressions of only moments ago at the mention of the word.
“College.” He repeated. “That’s really good for you, Jess. Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” she smiled sunnily at him, twisting the vinyl nurse’s cap between her fingers.
John picked this moment to nod a good-bye he hoped wasn't too curt. "You take care, now," He said, to soften it, and as he moved to the driver’s side and climbed stiffly in behind the wheel, he thought how fervently he meant it.
She had tucked all the blonde back up under the garish wig by the time she had rounded the car behind him. She popped her head in through the open window and dropped a kiss on his cheek.
"Thank you, John. Again. For everything." and then, "Bye, Dean."
Dean opened his eyes, looked up from where he'd been pretending to be asleep against the doorframe, and raised his fingers in a wordless sort of farewell salute.
"If I get into Stanford, I'll look your brother up. Sammy...Van Zant, right?" Suddenly the grin was back on Dean's face, and John found himself avoiding the raised eyebrow his son was aiming his way. He cleared his throat, and hastily turned the motor over.
**
John smiled to himself as they passed their first sign for the interstate.
"You know," he said, breaking through the cone of silence Dean had created around himself, staring out the passenger side window at the blank desertscape since the moment they'd pulled away from the parking lot. "We are in Nevada. The, uh, Grand Canyon... s'only a couple hours' drive."
Dean turned his head in surprise, and John watched a strange play of emotions cross his eldest's face. And this time when he looked, he saw Mary again. The delicate skin and sharpness of the features; the long-lashed, emotive eyes that always took a moment too long to veil all the secrets they were honour-bound to hide.
Dean blinked away what John had hoped was excitement, and stared thoughtfully out the windshield at the road for a moment, considering. He pasted on a smile, and looked John in the eye.
"You know Dad, that sounds great..."
John could hear the "but" coming louder than a freight train through a funeral. "It just doesn't seem like the right time...I got pretty roughed up back there. Y’know? I just don't think I would really..."
"Alright." John interrupted. He hated hearing his vibrant, cock-sure Dean flounder for listless, stumbling excuses.
"Next time. Maybe." Dean said. It wasn't a question, but he kept looking straight at John until he took a break from watching the road to meet his eyes.
“Next time.” John confirmed. Dean turned his gaze back to the road, and nobody said, “Next time, when Sam’s back.”
***
The sun gleamed off the Impala’s hood as they made their way across the deserted parking lot after what had been a late and lingering breakfast. The old girl was pushing forty. He was no spring chicken himself, come to think. He found less and less time to spend on her lately, and his boys were growing up. Hell, one was already gone. Dean needed to know he was trusted as an adult. And a car meant adult things. Freedom. Responsibility. John figured if anything could get Dean interested in a little more of the latter than the former…
“Dean.” He hadn’t meant for it to come out so gruff. “Why don’t you take the keys, son.”
“Yessir. Tired?”
“It wasn’t an order,” John smiled, pointedly, “It was an offer.”
“Y-you mean…?” Dean stammered, uncertain.
“It’s an old car, Dean. She’ll take some looking after.”
“I will! I mean, I…yeah.” Dean was laughing down at the keys in his hand, incredulous. “Wow. Thanks, Dad. I’ll take great care of her. Promise. Thanks.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Dad, I…” Dean’s eyes were still cast down awkwardly at the keys as he trailed off. John reached out for his eldest’s shoulder. He gave a squeeze, and felt his son relax under his hand.
“C’mon. Let’s head for Singer’s. Maybe he’ll have something in red for me. Like a Corvette.”
**
They didn’t pass a single ‘speed hump’ sign on the way to South Dakota, but Dean kept up a constant flow of dialogue from behind the wheel. The shifter felt good, but the brakes seemed kind of spongy, he thought maybe he’d noticed a bit of a rattle from the exhaust lately, and the wiper fluid needed filling, for sure.
John took one last look at what he’d written before he tucked his journal away, turned up the volume on Geddy Lee, and settled himself low in his seat as they made the turn for the interstate.
Thanksgiving, 2001
Nest of 3 Succubae. Found Justice in Nevada.