Fic: Our Last Days as Children for faithintheboys 1/2
Type of Submission: Fiction (Cross-over with Friday Night Lights)
Title: Our Last Days as Children
Author: fleurlb
Recipient: faithintheboys
Word count: 11,000
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Spoilers for SPN: Up to and including 5.6 “I Believe the Children Are Our Future”
Spoilers for FNL: All of Season 1. Everything after that is mostly AU.
A/N 1: Thanks to faithintheboys, for providing the opportunity to combine two of my favorite shows. I’ve taken a lot of liberties with FNL, to make it fit with my timeline. I’ve also conveniently ignored pretty much everything that happened after FNL’s first season.
A/N 2: The title comes from an Explosions in the Sky song.
A/N 3: Thanks to the friendly mods for their understanding and assistance and also for running an awesome exchange. :)
Summary: From the prompt: AU, Crossover with Friday Night Lights. The one place Dean never wanted to move from was Dillon, Texas. He played football there and was good at it. He even considered playing college ball. As the world is ending, Dean and Sam are drawn to Dillon on a hunt.
---//---
Dean shifted in his seat and stretched his legs, hoping to get some pressure off his belly. The breakfast had been delicious, almost too delicious, and finishing off Sam’s extra sausages had almost certainly been a mistake. Still, at least they weren’t in a rush, and he could relax and enjoy the Sunday paper.
A real moment of normal domesticity, he thought to himself with a grin, looking around the crowded diner. It held an eclectic mix: church-going families in their Sunday best, hipster couples nursing hangovers, truck drivers, and a few, like he and Sam, who were clearly just passing through and didn’t fit in.
Sam was hunched over his laptop, his look of concentration nearly burning through the screen. Dean didn’t know if he was scouring weather data for demonic omens or just looking for the next job to pass the time. Apocalyptically, things had seemed quiet the last time they looked, so maybe the next job would be just that: a run-of-the-mill job.
Dean didn’t care, as long as it meant he didn’t have to move any time soon. He shuffled through the sections of the Sunday paper. He’d already exhausted the comics and the sports section and was looking for something entertaining to read. He fished out a thin, glossy magazine that had Lindsey Lohan and Paris Hilton on the cover. Yes, that would do nicely.
He idly flipped through the pages, enjoying the pictures and smiling to himself over the catty tone in the cover story. He was disappointed when it was over and began flipping quickly through the rest of the magazine to see if the other stories were as good. But it seemed like the rest of it was devoted to human interest stories, like jet-skiing squirrels and old women who form investing clubs.
Dean was just about to toss the magazine aside when a picture caught his eye. The hair was different, but the large, solemn, nearly creepy eyes....
“Sonuvabitch,” breathed Dean, not quite believing what he was seeing.
“What?” asked Sam without even looking up from his computer.
Dean dropped the magazine over the top of Sam’s screen and waited for the impact to hit. He watched as Sam’s eyes widened and his brain whirred to come up with a logical explanation. Sam pushed his laptop to the side and pressed the magazine on the table in front of him.
The headline proclaimed “QB1 of the Future” and was accompanied by a color photo of an unsmiling 10-year old boy dressed in a football uniform, the helmet tucked under his arm. His hair was different, a buzz cut bleached by the sun, and he had more freckles. But his eyes definitely gave him away. Dean had never seen a set of eyes like that on anyone.
“Jesse,” said Sam. “Do you really think it could be?”
Dean leaned back and held up his hands, like he was only just the messenger. “I don’t know, Sammy. Look at him, look at those eyes.”
“Did you read the article?”
“No, I hadn’t quite gotten to that yet.”
Sam half-rolled his eyes as he pulled the magazine closer and started to skim the text. Dean hoped for highlights but quickly realized he’d have to settle for a summary after the fact. He took a sip of his coffee and watched his brother’s face, trying to read it for clues of how serious it was. When Sam had finished, Dean knew that if his brother was his doctor, he’d be getting ready to buy a burial plot.
“It’s not good,” said Sam. “Says here the kid is new to town, going by the name Joey Young. And he’s phenomenal at football.....can put the ball anywhere he wants on the field, can scramble under pressure, has an unbelievable pass completion percentage.”
“Any chance at all that it’s just a coincidence?”
“No, Dean. There’s not. The article doesn’t get into the kid’s background, but I’d say it’s pretty telling that his coach is also his guardian.”
The sinking feeling in Dean’s stomach wasn’t just his breakfast settling. “Shit. Okay, so where do we have to go?”
“That’s the worst part,” replied Sam, his mouth pressed into a grim line.
They were in Oklahoma, and Dean had visions of driving to Alaska or Maine. He leaned forward and scanned the first paragraph of the article. “Texas, we only have to go to Texas. What’s with all the drama? I know it’s a big place, but c’mon Sammy, you scared me there.”
“Dillon, Texas,” said Sam, laying down his trump card.
Dean looked up and grinned. “Seriously?”
Sam just sighed in response while Dean stood up and dropped a twenty on the table. “I love that town.”
“Yeah, about that. We need to talk about it,” said Sam.
Dean shouldered past his brother, muttering about what a girl he could be sometimes. “It’s fine, Sammy, let’s get on the road. We’ll have plenty of time to talk and braid each other’s hair.”
---//--
Dean held off Sam’s heart-to-heart for several hours with loud music. The sun was just starting to set when Sam finally reached over and turned off the radio. A capital offense most days, but Dean knew his brother wouldn’t be satisfied until they’d talked.
Dean sighed and looked over at his brother. “Something on your mind, Sammy?”
“You know there is, Dean. You’ve been avoiding this talk for the last 500 miles.”
“I just don’t see what the problem is,” replied Dean, shrugging one shoulder.
“Dillon, Texas is the problem.”
“You’re just mad because you were short back then and the team would sometimes ruffle your hair for luck.”
“No, Dean,” said Sam, frustration creeping into his tone. “That’s not it. The place. There’s something wrong with it.”
“What? I liked it there.”
“It was suffocating, Dean. It’s the kind of place that holds on to people. I’m just worried it’s going to get a hold on you again.”
“First of all, Sammy, what happened had nothing to do with the town getting ‘a hold’ on me. Second, did you ever wonder why Dad left us there?”
“Yeah, he was doing a job."
“Where were we before Dillon?” asked Dean, drumming his finger on the steering wheel while his brother thought.
“Iowa, Colorado, Missouri... I don’t know. All those towns blur together after awhile.”
“Point is, we weren’t in Texas.”
“No, but wasn’t the job in Texas?” asked Sam, his eyebrows knitted together in confusion.
“I doubt it,” replied Dean with a smug smile.
“And how do you know, Dean?”
“When Dad came back, the Impala had 4,000 more miles on it than when he left. That’s a lot of driving, even for three months.”
“Texas is a big state,” said Sam, struggling to make the newly discovered facts fit his memories.
“He didn’t circumnavigate Texas for kicks, Sammy. And he didn’t leave us in Dillon by accident. I think there’s something about the place, something closed-in and protected, that he trusted. He knew we’d be safe there.”
“You’re saying Dillon has some special mo-jo that protects it from the supernatural?”
“Yeah, I guess I am.”
Dean could tell that Sam wanted to dismiss the idea out of hand, but was having difficulties with it. “Okay, maybe you have a point. I still think it’s just another small, dying town and the only illusion of safety is provided by busy-body old curtain twitchers.”
“Now ordinarily, Sammy, I’d say to-may-to, to-mah-to, but in this case, well, you’re just plain wrong. There’s more protecting Dillon than an army of old ladies.”
“Still, Dean....I’m concerned. You nearly didn’t leave the last time.”
Now it was Dean’s turn to roll his eyes. He added a grimace and a sigh for good measure. “If you’re worried that I’m going to settle down in Dillon and ride out the Apocalypse, leaving you to wade into the breach by yourself, well you can just calm yourself down. That ain’t gonna happen.”
Sam went quiet for long enough that Dean stole a look at him. His brother had his forehead pressed against the window and appeared to be watching acres of flat, dusty grassland roll by. But Dean knew better. Sammy’s brain was spinning in circles like a hamster in a wheel. A hamster hepped up on crank and Columbian coffee. Still, he knew that Sam would voice his concerns when he was good and ready, so it was best to just enjoy the silence.
“Remember last year, when we went back to Truman High School?” began Sam tentatively.
Here it comes, thought Dean. “Yeah, home of the Bombers. I remember.”
Sam paused for a few seconds and Dean knew he was trying on and discarding various phrases.
“Just spit it out, Sammy.”
“Well, it’s just that, the trip was hard for me. Brought back all kinds of memories and... regrets, I guess. I just don’t want that to happen to you. Not now. We can’t afford the loss of focus.”
“Don’t you worry about me, Sammy. I’m all about focus,” said Dean, leveling a look at his brother.
“Dean, watch out!”
Dean turned his attention back to the road in time to swerve out of the way of a long-horned steer that had somehow escaped its fenced pastureland.
“Well, except for short moments of indiscretion, I’m all about focus,” said Dean, a slight blush rising in his cheeks. “You can count on me on this one, Sam. I promise.”
---//--
Fifteen years earlier...
Dean left the stuffy high school building and headed out toward the football field, looking for some fresh air. His dad was in with the principal, trying to arrange his transfer to the school with paperwork that was even more insufficient than usual. It had flown over at the elementary school for Sammy, but this principal was a hard-ass.
Dean didn’t care if he went to Dillon High School, home of the Panthers, or any other high school for that matter. It was all a freaking waste of time, as far as he was concerned. What could he possibly learn in tenth grade that would help in the family business? He thought, sometimes, that if not for Sammy, then his dad would just let him drop out of school and hunt with him.
Dillon High School....in the middle of nowhere West Texas. They did have a sweet football field, Dean had to give them that. It stood empty now, flanked by honest-to-goodness stands that were like a smaller version of a real football stadium. No crappy collapsible bleachers for these boys, no sir.
Dean looked around, made sure the place was deserted, then stepped onto the field. His feet sunk into the lush grass and he had half a mind to take his shoes and socks off. He walked over to a pile of footballs at the 10-yard line and picked one up, testing the weight of it in his hands.
It was a good bit heavier than the Nerf football that Sammy and he had tossed around countless motel rooms and deserted country roads. Targets were set up down the field and Dean couldn’t resist. He pulled back his arm and let a Hail Mary pass rip toward the furthest target.
His aim was true but he’d put too much on it. Not used to the extra weight of a real football. He picked up another and decided to pretend he’d gotten a snap from an imaginary center. he drifted back to avoid the blitz, dodged, then let another pass rip. This one hit the target, some 70 yards down the field.
Dean smiled to himself. This football business was pretty easy, really. He picked up another ball and kept playing, a running commentary in his head in which his last minute heroics won the game. The Texas sun was bearing down on him and Dean could feel sweat soaking the back of his black Metallica t-shirt, but he didn’t care.
He didn’t care about anything. Not about the fact that something was definitely up with his father. Getting a six-month rental in some podunk Texas town was beyond out-of-character for John Winchester. Making sure they were properly enrolled in school sealed the deal. Something was wrong, seriously wrong.
Dean picked up the last ball and hefted it to an imaginary player in the end zone. In his mind, he made the play that won the big game. In reality, the ball skidded into the end zone and skipped off into the grass beyond the field. He turned, ready to find his father and maybe ask a few questions about what was going on before John left them for god-only-knew-how-long.
“Not bad, not bad at all,” said a wry voice that startled Dean a bit. He looked over to his left, his blind spot, and saw a coach-type person standing there. Early 30s maybe, wearing a baseball cap, polo shirt, khaki shorts, and mirrored shades that gave no clue what he might be thinking.
“Thanks,” said Dean uneasily, edging toward the gate.
“Now hold on a minute, son. You’re going to have to clean up after yourself, you know. Trespassing and all, it’s the least you can do. Be a good guest.”
“Leave the campsite better than you found it,” muttered Dean under his breath, parroting back one of his father’s big rules in life.
“What was that?” The spark in the man’s voice lit a fire under Dean and he trotted out to start collecting the footballs. He threw them back to the 10-yard line, aiming to put them in the same general place.
The sun and heat had edged into the unbearable category and Dean was nearly ecstatic when he found the last ball, leaning against the fence at the very back of the field. He trotted back up to the end zone and then lofted it to the growing pile. He wanted to have a leisurely walk down the field, but could feel the coach’s eyes burning holes through him.
Dean trotted back and was tidying the pile of footballs when the coach stepped up next to him.
“You got a name, son?”
“Dean.... Winchester.”
“Never seen you around before.”
“No, sir,” said Dean, since it seemed appropriate to be extra polite and demonstrate good Texas manners. “We just moved here. My dad’s getting me set up for school right now.”
“You ever play football?”
“No sir. Just tossed the ball around with my little brother.”
The man lifted his cap and ran his hand through his hair. Dean could tell he was thinking, considering something.
“Tell you what - I’m Coach Taylor, they hired me to work with the quarterbacks. Seems like you should show up to practice tomorrow, show the coaches what you got. I’m not making any promises, but you got some raw talent. Would be a damn shame to waste it.”
Dean dragged his arm across his forehead, trying to stem the sweat, struggling with an answer. He knew his dad wanted them to keep a low profile. Plus, he knew he’d be responsible for entertaining Sammy during the day until school started in two weeks. And then he’d have to watch him after school. He might want to play football, but it didn’t seem possible.
“I didn’t think it was that big of a decision,” said Coach, readjusting his hat.
“It’s just, yeah, I’d like to play, but my dad works a lot and is gone a lot. I have to watch my little brother and I don’t know...”
Coach Taylor pursed his lips and looked out past Dean for a couple of beats. “Okay, tell you what, come tomorrow, 7 am, bring your brother. We’ll figure out something to do with him if you make the team.”
Dean tried to keep his stunned excitement off his face. “Yes, sir. 7 am tomorrow it is.”
“All right then, get out of here,” said Coach and Dean trotted off the field, letting himself imagine what could be.
--//--
Sam and Dean arrived in Dillon too late to start looking for Jessie. They took a room at the local motel, ordered pizza, and then turned in early. Dean found himself tossing and turning, the way he would sometimes before a big game.
He was about to give up and take a walk, see what sort of trouble he could get into, when he remembered what had helped when he was QB1 of the Dillon Panthers. He used to pick a play from the playbook and then run it through in his head, picturing what could happen and imaging what how he would react.
It had been years since he’d thought about football plays, but Dean found that he just had to close his eyes, pictures the blue binder, and suddenly all the X’s and O’s fell into place. Two plays into his ritual, Dean was fast asleep.
The next morning, Sammy woke him up by dropping a duffel bag on his stomach and insisting that they had to get a move on. Dean refused to talk about the case until he had breakfast, which was how they found themselves sitting in the motel’s poor excuse for a restaurant, trying to puzzle out a game plan.
“So, I’m thinking we go to the elementary school and find out where this guardian lives, then have a talk with him,” said Sam.
Dean poured more sugar into his coffee in an ill-fated attempt to make it even marginally palatable. “No, we can’t come at him straight-on like that.”
“We wouldn’t,” said Sam, confused. “We’d be going through the guardian.”
“And the kid’s the Anti-Christ. You think he’s not going to know something’s up? No, we need something different.”
Sam huffed a sigh and looked up at the ceiling, like the answer was written up there. Dean ate a piece of toast as he considered their options.
“You remember Billy Riggins?” asked Dean.
“Not really. You want to turn this into old home week or something?”
Dean ignored the bait and jumped right to his point. “You used to go over Billy’s house when I was practicing, with his kid brother, Timmy. You remember that?”
“Yeah. The house was always a mess, his mom was nice but unstable and his dad was an asshole. Plus, little ‘Timmy’ was kind of a bully.”
“Be that as it may, you remember his best friend?”
Sam closed his eyes for a minute. Then he opened them slowly, excited, as he began to go through his backpack, eventually emerging with the Sunday magazine. “Jason....Jason Street....paralyzed in a freak accident football accident a few years ago, and now coach of the Pee Wee football team.”
“And guardian to one Joey Young, aka Jesse, aka the Anti-Christ,” said Dean with a smile.
“Where are we going to find Billy?”
“I had a look through the phone book in the motel room last night. He’s got a garage now, Riggins Rigs, on the edge of town. Figured we’d drop in, pay him a visit, then go from there.”
Sam annoyed Dean by mulling the plan over for a few seconds before deciding it was worth a try. Dean tried to shake it off though, reminding himself that his brother was just born to question and push.
“Can we go, Sammy?” asked Dean, standing up.
“Touchy,” said Sam.
Dean thought about protesting but decided it wasn’t worth it. He picked the check off the table and headed to the register to pay and get directions.
--//--
Riggins Rigs was on the edge of town, down a dusty side road and surrounded by barren land and run-down warehouses.
“Wonder how business is,” said Sam as they pulled into the lot.
Dean looked around at the cars waiting for service and could see inside the dimly lit barn-like garage, where two people were working away on cars. “Not too bad, I’d imagine.”
They got out of the car and walked into the garage, finding a bell on a paperwork-laden table that was clearly serving as a makeshift desk. Dean gave the bell two jaunty rings and then tried to lean casually against the desk to wait. When the desk moved under the unexpected weight, he hopped away and opted for standing casually with his arms crossed.
A broad-shouldered guy emerged from under the hood of the nearest car and ambled over slowly, wiping his hands on a rag.
“How can I help you.....wait a minute, you look familiar,” he said, eyeing Dean.
Dean smiled. “I played football here about a million years ago.”
The guy thought hard, until Dean was afraid that smoke might pour out of his ears. “Number 5! Winchester. State Championship game against Dunwood.”
“That’s right,” replied Dean, pride making him stand up straighter and ignore Sam, who was rolling his eyes.
The man rushed forward and shook his hand, enthusiastically remembering some of the key plays of the game. Then he turned and bellowed. “Billy! Billy! You gotta come here. Quick!”
Dean heard a thud followed by curse words, then watched as Billy Riggins crawled out from underneath an ancient Ford Escort. He rubbed his head as he walked away from the car, blinking.
“Billy, it’s 5!”
“You got to be kidding me,” grinned Billy as he stepped up and caught Dean in a back-slapping hug.
“No, it’s me. And you probably remember my little brother, Sam.”
“He’s not so little anymore. Damn but you grew, kid,” said Billy, extending a hand, which Sam shook graciously even as Dean could see the shadow of a grimace. Sam hated being reminded of his childhood, especially being reminded that he used to be short.
“And this....” said Dean, hoping he wasn’t making a colossal mistake, “must be Timmy. Who’s also all grown up.”
Billy’s wide, beaming smile assured Dean that he’d gotten right. “Yep, this is Timmy. State Champion, 2006.”
Tim ducked his head, a pleased blush rising in his cheeks. Dean tried to reconcile the man in front of him with the annoying 7-year old that he remembered always tagging after Billy. He couldn’t see it, except for maybe the general demeanor of unkempt and disheveled.
“So, what can I do for you guys?” asked Billy. “That your car? That is one sweet ride.”
Dean smiled proudly and led Billy over to the car, walking him through everything he’d done to his baby while Billy and Tim listened appreciatively.
“Doesn’t sound like it needs any work,” said Tim, pushing Billy away when he elbowed him in the ribs.
“It doesn’t. We’re just passing by and wanted to stop by, catch up with old friends,” said Dean.
“Yeah, tell you what, you going to be in town for another night?”
Dean ignored a pointed look from Sam. “We can be. In fact, we might decide to stay a few days.”
“Good, you remember where we live? Stop by around 7 for dinner. I’d love to catch up with you. I’m sure you’ve got all sorts of stories to tell,” said Billy.
“Stories,” said Sam, “yes we have plenty of those. Plenty.”
Now it was Dean’s turn to elbow his younger brother in the ribs as they said their goodbyes.
--//--
The Riggins house was in much better shape than Dean remembered, a fact that he could only attribute to the presence of Billy’s wife, Mindy. She was a firecracker too, and Dean enjoyed the dinner. The company, the food, the conversation, everything was perfect. He had to keep kicking Sam in the shins to make sure he didn’t ruin the moment.
When Mindy cleared the plates and Billy and Tim disappeared to bring in beer from the garage, Sam turned dark eyes on his brother.
“What are you doing, Dean?” he asked quietly.
“Making nice, being friendly, smoothing the way,” replied Dean in a whisper, leveling his hand in front of him to demonstrate how one smoothed the way. “You know, Sammy, not making waves and mentioning weird-ass stuff that’s going to freak people out.”
“Dean, we need to get to the weird-ass stuff, and soon,” said Sam, biting off each word. “Honestly, I think this town is sucking you back in.”
Dean scoffed and rolled his eyes, waving a hand dismissively. He was about to refute his brother’s ridiculous claim when the Riggins brothers returned, bearing more beers than four guys should be able to drink in a week.
“Hey, it’s a nice night. Why don’t we sit outside,” suggested Billy.
The others agreed and followed him out to the patio, where they sat in comfortable wooden chairs overlooking the empty pool.
“Thanks for dinner, man, it was perfect. It’s not often that Sammy and I have such a nice meal, with such good company.”
Billy blushed and preened from the praise although he tried to make light of it. “It’s nothing. It was such a great surprise to see you guys, catch up a little.”
“Relive the glory days,” said Sam. The ironic smile on his face made Dean want to slap him.
Billy and Tim just grinned and took long pulls from their beers. Dean had a weird feeling, not deja vu, exactly, but just the understanding that this was what the Winchester brothers’ life could have been, under different circumstances. It stung a little, thinking about the happiness and easy camaraderie that Tim and Billy seemed to share.
Dean cleared his throat. “So, the team didn’t do so well last year, and it’s looking like a wash this year too. But I see there’s that young kid coming up in the ranks. How long before he’s kicking ass and taking names?”
“Yeah, Joey Young. The kid’s incredible. He’s got your street-smarts... Jason Street’s natural leadership ability... and JD McCoy’s magically talented arm. He’s going to be unstoppable,” said Billy.
“But he’s still in Pee Wee, isn’t he? Should you all really be counting your chickens before they’re hatched?” asked Sam.
“I know the kid’s like the Second Coming and all,” said Tim, picking at the label on his sweating beer bottle, “but he seriously gives me the creeps.”
Dean’s ears perked up. “Really? How’s that now?”
“This probably sounds crazy, but he’s got these eyes, like he can see right through you and know what you’re thinking,” said Tim with a shrug.
“Sometimes little kids are just creepy, you know?” offered Billy. “It’s like they gotta....grow into their features or something.”
“No, it’s not just that. There’s just something...unsettling about him,” insisted Tim.
“Now, he lives with your buddy, Jason Street, doesn’t he?” asked Sam, aiming for casual and missing by about two miles. The Riggins brothers didn’t seem to notice though.
“Yeah,” replied Tim.
“Can you expand on that at all?” asked Dean.
“Why you interested?” Billy’s tone wasn’t suspicious, yet, just curious.
“I’m just curious, you know. Catching up on town gossip.”
“I’m not really sure how it happened. Joey’s dad, I guess, contacted Jason and gave him some sob story. I don’t know, the mom died in child birth and he’s working the oil rigs on the gulf and wanted his son to have a chance to play football the way he did when he was a kid,” said Tim, completing what was, for him, quite a long speech.
Dean nodded. “And your buddy couldn’t say no?”
“He felt bad for the kid,” explained Billy. “Plus, Jay managed to father a son a few years ago, and then his babymomma took off with the kid. Jay only sees him once in a blue moon, so I think having Joey around is good for him.”
“So, what is it you guys said you did?” asked Tim suddenly, a subject change that did not endear him to either Winchester.
“Pest control,” said Sam quickly.
“Yeah, is business any good?” asked Billy.
“These days, it’s a real growth industry,” said Dean with a tight, uncomfortable smile.
The conversation unspooled from there, wobbling between remembrances of their high school football careers and the Winchesters’ skilled attempts to try to learn more information about Jesse. When they finally decided it was time to leave, it was after midnight and Dean was exhausted, his head full of football and old friends.
--//--
Fifteen years earlier...
It took Dean two days to memorize the playbook and another two weeks to unseat two seniors to win the coveted role of QB1 for the Dillon Panthers. Coach Taylor was proud of him, Dean thought, when he wasn’t busy being frustrated or grumpy. The head coach, a fat man called Coach Dunphy, loved Dean and Coach Taylor seemed to think it was his God-given duty to ensure that Dunphy’s praise didn’t swell Dean’s head.
He didn’t mind so much, the gruff ways of Coach Taylor. In a way, it was familiar and comforting, since it wasn’t too far off from how his own dad acted. Although Coach Taylor was never going to give him a .45 to protect himself or send him into a warehouse to act as bait for a werewolf.
What really surprised Dean was how much he loved football. He loved the way the guys looked at him in the huddle, like he had all the answers. He loved scrambling and finding ways to complete the plays. He loved the roar of the crowd and the smiles from the cheerleaders.
But most of all, he loved the way playing shut down his mind and made him focus on simple things: moving his feet, keeping his arm up, seeing the field, making the pass, completing the hand-off. He didn’t think about demons or vampires or werewolves or his father or anything else when he was on the football field. And it felt awesome.
In Dean’s first game as QB1, he passed for 200 yards and completed 3 touchdown passes. The Dillon Panther won, 42-7. Dean walked Sammy home to their apartment, feeling like his feet were barely touching the concrete.
Shortly after they arrived home, as Dean was making popcorn for Sam and they were discussing the game, the phone rang.
“Dean! Thank god. Where have you been?” said John when Dean answered the phone.
“At a game. It’s Friday,” replied Dean.
“A game?” John’s tone was incredulous.
“Yeah. I told you, Dad, I was trying out for the Dillon Panthers. Well, I made it!”
“Dean, I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”
“Dad, I was awesome in the game tonight. I threw 3 touchdown passes.”
Dean could hear some scrambling in the background and then his father cursed and told someone he would be with them in a minute. He really wanted his father to share in his joy, to understand that this was important to him.
“Dean, I don’t think football’s such a good idea. Your main responsibility is to take care of your brother.”
“Yeah, Dad, I am.”
“What does he do while you’re at practice?” demanded John loudly enough that Dean had to hold the phone away from his ear.
“I’m not a baby,” said Sam with a pout. Ordinarily, Dean would’ve laughed and pointed out that a pout like that made him either a baby or a girl, but he had bigger fish to fry.
“One of my teammate’s mothers looks after him. It’s fine, Dad. My QB coach set it all up. Dad, I’m telling you, I’m good at this. I could have a shot at --”
“Dean, we’ll talk about this later. Just watch your brother,” barked John before unceremoniously disconnecting the call.
“Yes, sir,” said Dean to the dial tone. “Good-bye.”
“Hey! I wanted to talk to Dad,” whined Sam.
“I know, champ, but he’s working a job, had to rush off. Now go put on your pajamas and we’ll watch the Creature Double Feature.”
Sam rolled his eyes but grinned. “Those vampires are SO fake.”
“I know, right?” replied Dean, shooing Sam off toward his room. He was looking forward to the movie, to zoning out. He had a bad feeling about the call from his father. He couldn’t help but feel that sooner or later, his dad was going to insist that he quit football. And he wasn’t sure, after the taste he’d gotten, that he could do it.
Part Two
Title: Our Last Days as Children
Author: fleurlb
Recipient: faithintheboys
Word count: 11,000
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Spoilers for SPN: Up to and including 5.6 “I Believe the Children Are Our Future”
Spoilers for FNL: All of Season 1. Everything after that is mostly AU.
A/N 1: Thanks to faithintheboys, for providing the opportunity to combine two of my favorite shows. I’ve taken a lot of liberties with FNL, to make it fit with my timeline. I’ve also conveniently ignored pretty much everything that happened after FNL’s first season.
A/N 2: The title comes from an Explosions in the Sky song.
A/N 3: Thanks to the friendly mods for their understanding and assistance and also for running an awesome exchange. :)
Summary: From the prompt: AU, Crossover with Friday Night Lights. The one place Dean never wanted to move from was Dillon, Texas. He played football there and was good at it. He even considered playing college ball. As the world is ending, Dean and Sam are drawn to Dillon on a hunt.
---//---
Dean shifted in his seat and stretched his legs, hoping to get some pressure off his belly. The breakfast had been delicious, almost too delicious, and finishing off Sam’s extra sausages had almost certainly been a mistake. Still, at least they weren’t in a rush, and he could relax and enjoy the Sunday paper.
A real moment of normal domesticity, he thought to himself with a grin, looking around the crowded diner. It held an eclectic mix: church-going families in their Sunday best, hipster couples nursing hangovers, truck drivers, and a few, like he and Sam, who were clearly just passing through and didn’t fit in.
Sam was hunched over his laptop, his look of concentration nearly burning through the screen. Dean didn’t know if he was scouring weather data for demonic omens or just looking for the next job to pass the time. Apocalyptically, things had seemed quiet the last time they looked, so maybe the next job would be just that: a run-of-the-mill job.
Dean didn’t care, as long as it meant he didn’t have to move any time soon. He shuffled through the sections of the Sunday paper. He’d already exhausted the comics and the sports section and was looking for something entertaining to read. He fished out a thin, glossy magazine that had Lindsey Lohan and Paris Hilton on the cover. Yes, that would do nicely.
He idly flipped through the pages, enjoying the pictures and smiling to himself over the catty tone in the cover story. He was disappointed when it was over and began flipping quickly through the rest of the magazine to see if the other stories were as good. But it seemed like the rest of it was devoted to human interest stories, like jet-skiing squirrels and old women who form investing clubs.
Dean was just about to toss the magazine aside when a picture caught his eye. The hair was different, but the large, solemn, nearly creepy eyes....
“Sonuvabitch,” breathed Dean, not quite believing what he was seeing.
“What?” asked Sam without even looking up from his computer.
Dean dropped the magazine over the top of Sam’s screen and waited for the impact to hit. He watched as Sam’s eyes widened and his brain whirred to come up with a logical explanation. Sam pushed his laptop to the side and pressed the magazine on the table in front of him.
The headline proclaimed “QB1 of the Future” and was accompanied by a color photo of an unsmiling 10-year old boy dressed in a football uniform, the helmet tucked under his arm. His hair was different, a buzz cut bleached by the sun, and he had more freckles. But his eyes definitely gave him away. Dean had never seen a set of eyes like that on anyone.
“Jesse,” said Sam. “Do you really think it could be?”
Dean leaned back and held up his hands, like he was only just the messenger. “I don’t know, Sammy. Look at him, look at those eyes.”
“Did you read the article?”
“No, I hadn’t quite gotten to that yet.”
Sam half-rolled his eyes as he pulled the magazine closer and started to skim the text. Dean hoped for highlights but quickly realized he’d have to settle for a summary after the fact. He took a sip of his coffee and watched his brother’s face, trying to read it for clues of how serious it was. When Sam had finished, Dean knew that if his brother was his doctor, he’d be getting ready to buy a burial plot.
“It’s not good,” said Sam. “Says here the kid is new to town, going by the name Joey Young. And he’s phenomenal at football.....can put the ball anywhere he wants on the field, can scramble under pressure, has an unbelievable pass completion percentage.”
“Any chance at all that it’s just a coincidence?”
“No, Dean. There’s not. The article doesn’t get into the kid’s background, but I’d say it’s pretty telling that his coach is also his guardian.”
The sinking feeling in Dean’s stomach wasn’t just his breakfast settling. “Shit. Okay, so where do we have to go?”
“That’s the worst part,” replied Sam, his mouth pressed into a grim line.
They were in Oklahoma, and Dean had visions of driving to Alaska or Maine. He leaned forward and scanned the first paragraph of the article. “Texas, we only have to go to Texas. What’s with all the drama? I know it’s a big place, but c’mon Sammy, you scared me there.”
“Dillon, Texas,” said Sam, laying down his trump card.
Dean looked up and grinned. “Seriously?”
Sam just sighed in response while Dean stood up and dropped a twenty on the table. “I love that town.”
“Yeah, about that. We need to talk about it,” said Sam.
Dean shouldered past his brother, muttering about what a girl he could be sometimes. “It’s fine, Sammy, let’s get on the road. We’ll have plenty of time to talk and braid each other’s hair.”
---//--
Dean held off Sam’s heart-to-heart for several hours with loud music. The sun was just starting to set when Sam finally reached over and turned off the radio. A capital offense most days, but Dean knew his brother wouldn’t be satisfied until they’d talked.
Dean sighed and looked over at his brother. “Something on your mind, Sammy?”
“You know there is, Dean. You’ve been avoiding this talk for the last 500 miles.”
“I just don’t see what the problem is,” replied Dean, shrugging one shoulder.
“Dillon, Texas is the problem.”
“You’re just mad because you were short back then and the team would sometimes ruffle your hair for luck.”
“No, Dean,” said Sam, frustration creeping into his tone. “That’s not it. The place. There’s something wrong with it.”
“What? I liked it there.”
“It was suffocating, Dean. It’s the kind of place that holds on to people. I’m just worried it’s going to get a hold on you again.”
“First of all, Sammy, what happened had nothing to do with the town getting ‘a hold’ on me. Second, did you ever wonder why Dad left us there?”
“Yeah, he was doing a job."
“Where were we before Dillon?” asked Dean, drumming his finger on the steering wheel while his brother thought.
“Iowa, Colorado, Missouri... I don’t know. All those towns blur together after awhile.”
“Point is, we weren’t in Texas.”
“No, but wasn’t the job in Texas?” asked Sam, his eyebrows knitted together in confusion.
“I doubt it,” replied Dean with a smug smile.
“And how do you know, Dean?”
“When Dad came back, the Impala had 4,000 more miles on it than when he left. That’s a lot of driving, even for three months.”
“Texas is a big state,” said Sam, struggling to make the newly discovered facts fit his memories.
“He didn’t circumnavigate Texas for kicks, Sammy. And he didn’t leave us in Dillon by accident. I think there’s something about the place, something closed-in and protected, that he trusted. He knew we’d be safe there.”
“You’re saying Dillon has some special mo-jo that protects it from the supernatural?”
“Yeah, I guess I am.”
Dean could tell that Sam wanted to dismiss the idea out of hand, but was having difficulties with it. “Okay, maybe you have a point. I still think it’s just another small, dying town and the only illusion of safety is provided by busy-body old curtain twitchers.”
“Now ordinarily, Sammy, I’d say to-may-to, to-mah-to, but in this case, well, you’re just plain wrong. There’s more protecting Dillon than an army of old ladies.”
“Still, Dean....I’m concerned. You nearly didn’t leave the last time.”
Now it was Dean’s turn to roll his eyes. He added a grimace and a sigh for good measure. “If you’re worried that I’m going to settle down in Dillon and ride out the Apocalypse, leaving you to wade into the breach by yourself, well you can just calm yourself down. That ain’t gonna happen.”
Sam went quiet for long enough that Dean stole a look at him. His brother had his forehead pressed against the window and appeared to be watching acres of flat, dusty grassland roll by. But Dean knew better. Sammy’s brain was spinning in circles like a hamster in a wheel. A hamster hepped up on crank and Columbian coffee. Still, he knew that Sam would voice his concerns when he was good and ready, so it was best to just enjoy the silence.
“Remember last year, when we went back to Truman High School?” began Sam tentatively.
Here it comes, thought Dean. “Yeah, home of the Bombers. I remember.”
Sam paused for a few seconds and Dean knew he was trying on and discarding various phrases.
“Just spit it out, Sammy.”
“Well, it’s just that, the trip was hard for me. Brought back all kinds of memories and... regrets, I guess. I just don’t want that to happen to you. Not now. We can’t afford the loss of focus.”
“Don’t you worry about me, Sammy. I’m all about focus,” said Dean, leveling a look at his brother.
“Dean, watch out!”
Dean turned his attention back to the road in time to swerve out of the way of a long-horned steer that had somehow escaped its fenced pastureland.
“Well, except for short moments of indiscretion, I’m all about focus,” said Dean, a slight blush rising in his cheeks. “You can count on me on this one, Sam. I promise.”
---//--
Fifteen years earlier...
Dean left the stuffy high school building and headed out toward the football field, looking for some fresh air. His dad was in with the principal, trying to arrange his transfer to the school with paperwork that was even more insufficient than usual. It had flown over at the elementary school for Sammy, but this principal was a hard-ass.
Dean didn’t care if he went to Dillon High School, home of the Panthers, or any other high school for that matter. It was all a freaking waste of time, as far as he was concerned. What could he possibly learn in tenth grade that would help in the family business? He thought, sometimes, that if not for Sammy, then his dad would just let him drop out of school and hunt with him.
Dillon High School....in the middle of nowhere West Texas. They did have a sweet football field, Dean had to give them that. It stood empty now, flanked by honest-to-goodness stands that were like a smaller version of a real football stadium. No crappy collapsible bleachers for these boys, no sir.
Dean looked around, made sure the place was deserted, then stepped onto the field. His feet sunk into the lush grass and he had half a mind to take his shoes and socks off. He walked over to a pile of footballs at the 10-yard line and picked one up, testing the weight of it in his hands.
It was a good bit heavier than the Nerf football that Sammy and he had tossed around countless motel rooms and deserted country roads. Targets were set up down the field and Dean couldn’t resist. He pulled back his arm and let a Hail Mary pass rip toward the furthest target.
His aim was true but he’d put too much on it. Not used to the extra weight of a real football. He picked up another and decided to pretend he’d gotten a snap from an imaginary center. he drifted back to avoid the blitz, dodged, then let another pass rip. This one hit the target, some 70 yards down the field.
Dean smiled to himself. This football business was pretty easy, really. He picked up another ball and kept playing, a running commentary in his head in which his last minute heroics won the game. The Texas sun was bearing down on him and Dean could feel sweat soaking the back of his black Metallica t-shirt, but he didn’t care.
He didn’t care about anything. Not about the fact that something was definitely up with his father. Getting a six-month rental in some podunk Texas town was beyond out-of-character for John Winchester. Making sure they were properly enrolled in school sealed the deal. Something was wrong, seriously wrong.
Dean picked up the last ball and hefted it to an imaginary player in the end zone. In his mind, he made the play that won the big game. In reality, the ball skidded into the end zone and skipped off into the grass beyond the field. He turned, ready to find his father and maybe ask a few questions about what was going on before John left them for god-only-knew-how-long.
“Not bad, not bad at all,” said a wry voice that startled Dean a bit. He looked over to his left, his blind spot, and saw a coach-type person standing there. Early 30s maybe, wearing a baseball cap, polo shirt, khaki shorts, and mirrored shades that gave no clue what he might be thinking.
“Thanks,” said Dean uneasily, edging toward the gate.
“Now hold on a minute, son. You’re going to have to clean up after yourself, you know. Trespassing and all, it’s the least you can do. Be a good guest.”
“Leave the campsite better than you found it,” muttered Dean under his breath, parroting back one of his father’s big rules in life.
“What was that?” The spark in the man’s voice lit a fire under Dean and he trotted out to start collecting the footballs. He threw them back to the 10-yard line, aiming to put them in the same general place.
The sun and heat had edged into the unbearable category and Dean was nearly ecstatic when he found the last ball, leaning against the fence at the very back of the field. He trotted back up to the end zone and then lofted it to the growing pile. He wanted to have a leisurely walk down the field, but could feel the coach’s eyes burning holes through him.
Dean trotted back and was tidying the pile of footballs when the coach stepped up next to him.
“You got a name, son?”
“Dean.... Winchester.”
“Never seen you around before.”
“No, sir,” said Dean, since it seemed appropriate to be extra polite and demonstrate good Texas manners. “We just moved here. My dad’s getting me set up for school right now.”
“You ever play football?”
“No sir. Just tossed the ball around with my little brother.”
The man lifted his cap and ran his hand through his hair. Dean could tell he was thinking, considering something.
“Tell you what - I’m Coach Taylor, they hired me to work with the quarterbacks. Seems like you should show up to practice tomorrow, show the coaches what you got. I’m not making any promises, but you got some raw talent. Would be a damn shame to waste it.”
Dean dragged his arm across his forehead, trying to stem the sweat, struggling with an answer. He knew his dad wanted them to keep a low profile. Plus, he knew he’d be responsible for entertaining Sammy during the day until school started in two weeks. And then he’d have to watch him after school. He might want to play football, but it didn’t seem possible.
“I didn’t think it was that big of a decision,” said Coach, readjusting his hat.
“It’s just, yeah, I’d like to play, but my dad works a lot and is gone a lot. I have to watch my little brother and I don’t know...”
Coach Taylor pursed his lips and looked out past Dean for a couple of beats. “Okay, tell you what, come tomorrow, 7 am, bring your brother. We’ll figure out something to do with him if you make the team.”
Dean tried to keep his stunned excitement off his face. “Yes, sir. 7 am tomorrow it is.”
“All right then, get out of here,” said Coach and Dean trotted off the field, letting himself imagine what could be.
--//--
Sam and Dean arrived in Dillon too late to start looking for Jessie. They took a room at the local motel, ordered pizza, and then turned in early. Dean found himself tossing and turning, the way he would sometimes before a big game.
He was about to give up and take a walk, see what sort of trouble he could get into, when he remembered what had helped when he was QB1 of the Dillon Panthers. He used to pick a play from the playbook and then run it through in his head, picturing what could happen and imaging what how he would react.
It had been years since he’d thought about football plays, but Dean found that he just had to close his eyes, pictures the blue binder, and suddenly all the X’s and O’s fell into place. Two plays into his ritual, Dean was fast asleep.
The next morning, Sammy woke him up by dropping a duffel bag on his stomach and insisting that they had to get a move on. Dean refused to talk about the case until he had breakfast, which was how they found themselves sitting in the motel’s poor excuse for a restaurant, trying to puzzle out a game plan.
“So, I’m thinking we go to the elementary school and find out where this guardian lives, then have a talk with him,” said Sam.
Dean poured more sugar into his coffee in an ill-fated attempt to make it even marginally palatable. “No, we can’t come at him straight-on like that.”
“We wouldn’t,” said Sam, confused. “We’d be going through the guardian.”
“And the kid’s the Anti-Christ. You think he’s not going to know something’s up? No, we need something different.”
Sam huffed a sigh and looked up at the ceiling, like the answer was written up there. Dean ate a piece of toast as he considered their options.
“You remember Billy Riggins?” asked Dean.
“Not really. You want to turn this into old home week or something?”
Dean ignored the bait and jumped right to his point. “You used to go over Billy’s house when I was practicing, with his kid brother, Timmy. You remember that?”
“Yeah. The house was always a mess, his mom was nice but unstable and his dad was an asshole. Plus, little ‘Timmy’ was kind of a bully.”
“Be that as it may, you remember his best friend?”
Sam closed his eyes for a minute. Then he opened them slowly, excited, as he began to go through his backpack, eventually emerging with the Sunday magazine. “Jason....Jason Street....paralyzed in a freak accident football accident a few years ago, and now coach of the Pee Wee football team.”
“And guardian to one Joey Young, aka Jesse, aka the Anti-Christ,” said Dean with a smile.
“Where are we going to find Billy?”
“I had a look through the phone book in the motel room last night. He’s got a garage now, Riggins Rigs, on the edge of town. Figured we’d drop in, pay him a visit, then go from there.”
Sam annoyed Dean by mulling the plan over for a few seconds before deciding it was worth a try. Dean tried to shake it off though, reminding himself that his brother was just born to question and push.
“Can we go, Sammy?” asked Dean, standing up.
“Touchy,” said Sam.
Dean thought about protesting but decided it wasn’t worth it. He picked the check off the table and headed to the register to pay and get directions.
--//--
Riggins Rigs was on the edge of town, down a dusty side road and surrounded by barren land and run-down warehouses.
“Wonder how business is,” said Sam as they pulled into the lot.
Dean looked around at the cars waiting for service and could see inside the dimly lit barn-like garage, where two people were working away on cars. “Not too bad, I’d imagine.”
They got out of the car and walked into the garage, finding a bell on a paperwork-laden table that was clearly serving as a makeshift desk. Dean gave the bell two jaunty rings and then tried to lean casually against the desk to wait. When the desk moved under the unexpected weight, he hopped away and opted for standing casually with his arms crossed.
A broad-shouldered guy emerged from under the hood of the nearest car and ambled over slowly, wiping his hands on a rag.
“How can I help you.....wait a minute, you look familiar,” he said, eyeing Dean.
Dean smiled. “I played football here about a million years ago.”
The guy thought hard, until Dean was afraid that smoke might pour out of his ears. “Number 5! Winchester. State Championship game against Dunwood.”
“That’s right,” replied Dean, pride making him stand up straighter and ignore Sam, who was rolling his eyes.
The man rushed forward and shook his hand, enthusiastically remembering some of the key plays of the game. Then he turned and bellowed. “Billy! Billy! You gotta come here. Quick!”
Dean heard a thud followed by curse words, then watched as Billy Riggins crawled out from underneath an ancient Ford Escort. He rubbed his head as he walked away from the car, blinking.
“Billy, it’s 5!”
“You got to be kidding me,” grinned Billy as he stepped up and caught Dean in a back-slapping hug.
“No, it’s me. And you probably remember my little brother, Sam.”
“He’s not so little anymore. Damn but you grew, kid,” said Billy, extending a hand, which Sam shook graciously even as Dean could see the shadow of a grimace. Sam hated being reminded of his childhood, especially being reminded that he used to be short.
“And this....” said Dean, hoping he wasn’t making a colossal mistake, “must be Timmy. Who’s also all grown up.”
Billy’s wide, beaming smile assured Dean that he’d gotten right. “Yep, this is Timmy. State Champion, 2006.”
Tim ducked his head, a pleased blush rising in his cheeks. Dean tried to reconcile the man in front of him with the annoying 7-year old that he remembered always tagging after Billy. He couldn’t see it, except for maybe the general demeanor of unkempt and disheveled.
“So, what can I do for you guys?” asked Billy. “That your car? That is one sweet ride.”
Dean smiled proudly and led Billy over to the car, walking him through everything he’d done to his baby while Billy and Tim listened appreciatively.
“Doesn’t sound like it needs any work,” said Tim, pushing Billy away when he elbowed him in the ribs.
“It doesn’t. We’re just passing by and wanted to stop by, catch up with old friends,” said Dean.
“Yeah, tell you what, you going to be in town for another night?”
Dean ignored a pointed look from Sam. “We can be. In fact, we might decide to stay a few days.”
“Good, you remember where we live? Stop by around 7 for dinner. I’d love to catch up with you. I’m sure you’ve got all sorts of stories to tell,” said Billy.
“Stories,” said Sam, “yes we have plenty of those. Plenty.”
Now it was Dean’s turn to elbow his younger brother in the ribs as they said their goodbyes.
--//--
The Riggins house was in much better shape than Dean remembered, a fact that he could only attribute to the presence of Billy’s wife, Mindy. She was a firecracker too, and Dean enjoyed the dinner. The company, the food, the conversation, everything was perfect. He had to keep kicking Sam in the shins to make sure he didn’t ruin the moment.
When Mindy cleared the plates and Billy and Tim disappeared to bring in beer from the garage, Sam turned dark eyes on his brother.
“What are you doing, Dean?” he asked quietly.
“Making nice, being friendly, smoothing the way,” replied Dean in a whisper, leveling his hand in front of him to demonstrate how one smoothed the way. “You know, Sammy, not making waves and mentioning weird-ass stuff that’s going to freak people out.”
“Dean, we need to get to the weird-ass stuff, and soon,” said Sam, biting off each word. “Honestly, I think this town is sucking you back in.”
Dean scoffed and rolled his eyes, waving a hand dismissively. He was about to refute his brother’s ridiculous claim when the Riggins brothers returned, bearing more beers than four guys should be able to drink in a week.
“Hey, it’s a nice night. Why don’t we sit outside,” suggested Billy.
The others agreed and followed him out to the patio, where they sat in comfortable wooden chairs overlooking the empty pool.
“Thanks for dinner, man, it was perfect. It’s not often that Sammy and I have such a nice meal, with such good company.”
Billy blushed and preened from the praise although he tried to make light of it. “It’s nothing. It was such a great surprise to see you guys, catch up a little.”
“Relive the glory days,” said Sam. The ironic smile on his face made Dean want to slap him.
Billy and Tim just grinned and took long pulls from their beers. Dean had a weird feeling, not deja vu, exactly, but just the understanding that this was what the Winchester brothers’ life could have been, under different circumstances. It stung a little, thinking about the happiness and easy camaraderie that Tim and Billy seemed to share.
Dean cleared his throat. “So, the team didn’t do so well last year, and it’s looking like a wash this year too. But I see there’s that young kid coming up in the ranks. How long before he’s kicking ass and taking names?”
“Yeah, Joey Young. The kid’s incredible. He’s got your street-smarts... Jason Street’s natural leadership ability... and JD McCoy’s magically talented arm. He’s going to be unstoppable,” said Billy.
“But he’s still in Pee Wee, isn’t he? Should you all really be counting your chickens before they’re hatched?” asked Sam.
“I know the kid’s like the Second Coming and all,” said Tim, picking at the label on his sweating beer bottle, “but he seriously gives me the creeps.”
Dean’s ears perked up. “Really? How’s that now?”
“This probably sounds crazy, but he’s got these eyes, like he can see right through you and know what you’re thinking,” said Tim with a shrug.
“Sometimes little kids are just creepy, you know?” offered Billy. “It’s like they gotta....grow into their features or something.”
“No, it’s not just that. There’s just something...unsettling about him,” insisted Tim.
“Now, he lives with your buddy, Jason Street, doesn’t he?” asked Sam, aiming for casual and missing by about two miles. The Riggins brothers didn’t seem to notice though.
“Yeah,” replied Tim.
“Can you expand on that at all?” asked Dean.
“Why you interested?” Billy’s tone wasn’t suspicious, yet, just curious.
“I’m just curious, you know. Catching up on town gossip.”
“I’m not really sure how it happened. Joey’s dad, I guess, contacted Jason and gave him some sob story. I don’t know, the mom died in child birth and he’s working the oil rigs on the gulf and wanted his son to have a chance to play football the way he did when he was a kid,” said Tim, completing what was, for him, quite a long speech.
Dean nodded. “And your buddy couldn’t say no?”
“He felt bad for the kid,” explained Billy. “Plus, Jay managed to father a son a few years ago, and then his babymomma took off with the kid. Jay only sees him once in a blue moon, so I think having Joey around is good for him.”
“So, what is it you guys said you did?” asked Tim suddenly, a subject change that did not endear him to either Winchester.
“Pest control,” said Sam quickly.
“Yeah, is business any good?” asked Billy.
“These days, it’s a real growth industry,” said Dean with a tight, uncomfortable smile.
The conversation unspooled from there, wobbling between remembrances of their high school football careers and the Winchesters’ skilled attempts to try to learn more information about Jesse. When they finally decided it was time to leave, it was after midnight and Dean was exhausted, his head full of football and old friends.
--//--
Fifteen years earlier...
It took Dean two days to memorize the playbook and another two weeks to unseat two seniors to win the coveted role of QB1 for the Dillon Panthers. Coach Taylor was proud of him, Dean thought, when he wasn’t busy being frustrated or grumpy. The head coach, a fat man called Coach Dunphy, loved Dean and Coach Taylor seemed to think it was his God-given duty to ensure that Dunphy’s praise didn’t swell Dean’s head.
He didn’t mind so much, the gruff ways of Coach Taylor. In a way, it was familiar and comforting, since it wasn’t too far off from how his own dad acted. Although Coach Taylor was never going to give him a .45 to protect himself or send him into a warehouse to act as bait for a werewolf.
What really surprised Dean was how much he loved football. He loved the way the guys looked at him in the huddle, like he had all the answers. He loved scrambling and finding ways to complete the plays. He loved the roar of the crowd and the smiles from the cheerleaders.
But most of all, he loved the way playing shut down his mind and made him focus on simple things: moving his feet, keeping his arm up, seeing the field, making the pass, completing the hand-off. He didn’t think about demons or vampires or werewolves or his father or anything else when he was on the football field. And it felt awesome.
In Dean’s first game as QB1, he passed for 200 yards and completed 3 touchdown passes. The Dillon Panther won, 42-7. Dean walked Sammy home to their apartment, feeling like his feet were barely touching the concrete.
Shortly after they arrived home, as Dean was making popcorn for Sam and they were discussing the game, the phone rang.
“Dean! Thank god. Where have you been?” said John when Dean answered the phone.
“At a game. It’s Friday,” replied Dean.
“A game?” John’s tone was incredulous.
“Yeah. I told you, Dad, I was trying out for the Dillon Panthers. Well, I made it!”
“Dean, I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”
“Dad, I was awesome in the game tonight. I threw 3 touchdown passes.”
Dean could hear some scrambling in the background and then his father cursed and told someone he would be with them in a minute. He really wanted his father to share in his joy, to understand that this was important to him.
“Dean, I don’t think football’s such a good idea. Your main responsibility is to take care of your brother.”
“Yeah, Dad, I am.”
“What does he do while you’re at practice?” demanded John loudly enough that Dean had to hold the phone away from his ear.
“I’m not a baby,” said Sam with a pout. Ordinarily, Dean would’ve laughed and pointed out that a pout like that made him either a baby or a girl, but he had bigger fish to fry.
“One of my teammate’s mothers looks after him. It’s fine, Dad. My QB coach set it all up. Dad, I’m telling you, I’m good at this. I could have a shot at --”
“Dean, we’ll talk about this later. Just watch your brother,” barked John before unceremoniously disconnecting the call.
“Yes, sir,” said Dean to the dial tone. “Good-bye.”
“Hey! I wanted to talk to Dad,” whined Sam.
“I know, champ, but he’s working a job, had to rush off. Now go put on your pajamas and we’ll watch the Creature Double Feature.”
Sam rolled his eyes but grinned. “Those vampires are SO fake.”
“I know, right?” replied Dean, shooing Sam off toward his room. He was looking forward to the movie, to zoning out. He had a bad feeling about the call from his father. He couldn’t help but feel that sooner or later, his dad was going to insist that he quit football. And he wasn’t sure, after the taste he’d gotten, that he could do it.
Part Two