Disorderly Conduct
Title: Disorderly Conduct
Author: ZanneS
Rating: PG (limited bad language)
Genre: Gen with a light dusting of Crack, Weechesters, pre-series
Characters: John, Sam, and Dean
Summary: Sam deals with his fear of raisins, Dean gets some action, and John gets accosted by horny old ladies. It's a normal day in the life of the Winchesters.
Author's Notes: Thanks to
nativestar and
astrothsknot for beta-ing! Kripke owns all of the Winchesters and the Impala, greedy bastard (said with love). This is part of the Job 'verse, which started with Everything I Needed to Know I Learned in Auto Shop. This story may induce cavities. These stories are not in order.
Disorderly Conduct
“Mr. Winchester,” came a cool voice that had been said to frost the windows in a room even in the midst of the hottest July on record.
Mr. Winchester stiffened, straightening to his full height as he casually shoved his offspring in the direction of the lounge with a pointed, “Find your grandma, boys. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Taking a deep breath, he turned, his hazel eyes meeting the steely gray gaze of the senior living center’s administrator. “Ms. Rosebach…so nice to see you again. How are you doing this fine day?”
The man managed a pained smile, trying not to lock gazes directly for too long as his eyes skirted the room for any kind of distraction. Ms. Rosebach politely hid a frown, then realized he wasn’t worth the effort and let it crawl over her face and take firm root.
This one seemed…shifty. This may be a bad idea, after all.
“I am well, Mr. Winchester. I’m still having trouble finding those records you mentioned.” She crossed her arms over her chest and leveled her shoulders, somehow making her small, bony body appear as intimidating as a brick wall.
Mr. Winchester offered her a wan grin, already itching to get out of her sight, she could tell. Interesting. This could prove useful.
“We realize how difficult it is to keep records straight with Mrs. Levin - your wife’s mother, is it, since you don’t have the same last name? - and her senility, but we really do need that information.”
The man nodded appreciatively, as if taking in every word.
“We can’t just have…” here her lip quirked, almost giving a pleasant tilt to her expression before the more familiar frown lines carved their way back around her mouth, “…strangers wandering in and claiming to be family, can we?”
She looked over the top rim of her glasses at him, her iron stare making him hunch a little as if protecting his soft underbelly.
“No, Ms. Rosebach,” he replied pleasantly, his natural good ol’ boy charm failing to put even a dent in her implacable shields. Now he delved down into his arsenal and pulled out the big guns, flashing a dimple.
Mrs. Rosebach sniffed dismissively, her look of disdain capable of making a man doubt his masculinity at fifty paces. She wasn’t so easily swayed anymore. Couldn’t get her panties in a bunch with a simple dimple.
Amateur.
“I’ve seen your boys in here quite often over the past couple of weeks,” she began. “You…not so much.”
Now the man looked worried and pulled out the entire matching dimple set, his white teeth almost blinding against the dark stubble dusting his chin.
Dammit. He was really trying now. Time to put her foot down.
She arched an eyebrow pointedly. “You know we love when our residents have visitors, but we are not a free baby-sitting service. You cannot just leave your children here all day with Mrs. Levin and go gallivanting off to do whatever it is you do.”
Undoubtedly something shiftless. Shifty eyes - and dimples - meant shifty shenanigans…most likely involving beer, pool halls, and women.
“Ms. Rosebach…” the Winchester man began feebly, realizing the dimples had been rendered inactive. She cut him off with a sharp squint. He gathered his courage, amusing her more than she would care to admit when she saw him mindfully straightening his shoulders and lifting his chin, his well-toned physique filling out his plaid workman’s shirt rather nicely.
Yes, this was a good idea. After all, it wasn’t as if anything had gone missing. She’d checked after she sniffed out the shiftiness.
“Ms. Rosebach, is this about what happened a few days ago? I told Sam that it wasn’t a candy dispenser and he wasn’t allowed to touch anything without permission.”
She stood there without showing any sign of approval or reproach, so John stumbled on. “And Dean swears he was looking for her…Bible so he could read to her. He didn’t mean to go in her underwear drawer. That was an unfortunate accident.”
“Ahh, yes. I seem to recall the little one running up and down the hallway, pretending to be Mickey Mouse with a black brassiere strapped to his head. That was the older one’s doing, I take it?”
The man gave up, sinking in on himself when he realized there was no way out of this. Right where she wanted him. He was just what she required here - strong, simple, and easily bent to her will.
Everything she appreciated most in an employee.
“We are understaffed at present and half of those who claim to actually work here - though it’s often impossible to prove considering the absolutely horrifying level of incompetence they’ve shown - seem to have trouble lifting more than a coffee cup,” Ms. Rosebach stated curtly. “You appear capable of basic lifting and carrying.”
She paused, staring at him assessingly.
“Well?” Mrs. Rosebach inquired, her mouth pressing into a firm line when he didn’t reply. “Are you capable of basic lifting and carrying?”
“Um…yes?” John answered hesitantly, not sure where this was going.
“Very well,” she replied, nodding sharply. “I am in need of an orderly. As you are obviously unemployed - the bizarre hours you skulk around here suggest that much, not to mention that shirt - I am offering you a position so there might be a legitimate reason for your presence at this institution. We might as well make use of you if you’re going to be here with your children nearly every day. You start tomorrow at 8:00. Good day, Mr. Winchester.”
She left Mr. Winchester standing in the middle of the hallway, a look of befuddlement plastered on his face as she headed to her office, her triumphant grin masked by her stiff-backed walk as she went to begin the paperwork.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This was Sam and Dean’s first legal trip outside the confines of Mrs. Levin’s room, who was a really nice - if oddly quiet and odorous, emitting an aroma of something like rotted fruit and dead leaves - old lady. After all, they’d been bunking out in her room for weeks during the day while their father was busy and she hadn’t complained even once.
Dean could appreciate anyone who didn’t narc on them.
Dad had said he didn’t trust the area they were currently living in enough to leave Dean in charge…maybe because of the drug bust last week? Or the shoot out next door the other night?
But that was totally Dad’s fault. If he hadn’t gone over there and beat the shit out of the guy for offering Dean a job - for what, Dean wasn’t sure, but whatever had been in the little boxes he’d been told to deliver had really pissed Dad off - the cops wouldn’t have shown up at all. Dad came home with his knuckles bloody, cursing inventively - Dean added a few new phrases to his repertoire that night - just before the cops pulled in. He had sat Dean down and, looking as sad as Dean usually ever saw him, apologized for having to stay there and promised to move somewhere nicer as soon as they got a little money.
Dean knew things were tight. Dad tried to hide it, but Dean could tell. He wasn’t a baby like Sammy anymore.
To distract his father from his funk, Dean had asked what happened to the guy in the other room. Dad had smiled grimly and said not to worry about it, things were taken care of; the guy had tripped and broken his arm, and John hadn’t seen any boxes - that was the deal. Dean didn’t quite understand that, but he had nodded anyway.
“It smells funny in here, Dean,” Sam mumbled grumpily against the back of his brother’s jacket as he peered around Dean to study the room.
Dean refocused on his little brother, guessing this place might not be so bad to hang out, after all. They had cable, a games room, and working air conditioning. Not such a bad place to spend the end of summer.
“That’s old people, Sammy,” Dean said wisely, throwing his shoulders back and nearly hitting Sam in the nose with his elbow as he strutted into the room with his cocksure attitude (still under construction), his little brother tailing him like Peter Pan’s patched-on shadow. Dean vaguely remembered a lady that smelled something like this - a mix of peppermints and Vic’s Vap-O-Rub - but she was jumbled somewhere in his memories in the time before Sammy with images of his smiling mother, the feel of scratchy crocheted gloves, and the taste of snicker doodles.
The arrival of a pair of unsupervised boys sent a flurry of interest through the room, a flurry that lasted no more than twenty seconds - watch the heart monitor there, Will. My grandkids thought mine was something called a Gameboy - until the seniors realized that these weren’t their grandchildren - look at the little one’s hair! - because no one wanted to take credit for that T-shirt with the big tongue the older one was wearing. Tsk-tsk. Do they try to look like ruffians these days? Someone needs to buy that boy a nice Izod and some slacks.
“They look like raisins, Dean,” Sam insisted none-too-quietly. He tugged firmly on his big brother’s sleeve. “I don’t like raisins!” Sam looked horrified at the mere memory of the fruit.
Dean never should have told Sam that raisin story.
“If you look cute, they might give you candy or money, Sammy,” Dean informed him to side-track his easily distracted little brother, strolling over to what seemed a likely mark with a wide smile.
The old lady blinked at him fuzzily, taking in Dean’s dirty sneakers, torn jeans and overly large T-shirt with a puzzled frown. “Are the homeless children visiting today, Gladys?” she called out across the room.
Sam peeked at her from around his brother’s elbow, giving her a hesitant gap-toothed grin. “How adorable!” she cooed, her rheumy eyes focusing on the little boy’s upturned nose. “Have a butterscotch, dear.”
Dean frowned down at his little brother as Sammy greedily grabbed the treat and shoved it into his mouth before Dean could get his hands on it. Sam glanced at Dean out of the corner of his eye, watching for signs of potential ambush as he sucked loudly on the butterscotch, hunching over slightly to make access to his mouth more difficult.
Dean smirked. Kid learned fast.
“C’mon, Sammy. Let’s go find Mrs. Levin…er, Grandma.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The ladies playing gin rummy in the corner glanced over at that handsome new orderly - think he gives sponge-baths, Dolores? - crinkled eyes winking slyly when they caught John’s eye. John nodded in acknowledgement at the table - got my hair done today, Johnny…. Looks beautiful Mrs. Krauser - and he lifted Mr. Lewis from his chair to sit him in the lounge for his occupational therapy. He heard a faint whistle - Betty, don’t stare! Shut up, Wilma…I may be old, but I’m not dead - the heavy weight of the ladies’ appreciative gazes on his rear making John fidget uncomfortably. You need anything lifted, Johnny? Betty! If I do, you’ll be the first one I ask, Mrs. Krauser. The woman smiled triumphantly at her friend, wrinkling her nose as she laid out the last of her cards. Gin…and I got a bottle in my room for later if you want any, handsome.
John blinked in surprise, high-tailing it out of there for his next assignment, his virtue barely intact.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Late one afternoon, Dean sauntered into the cafeteria - good gracious! What is that young man wearing today, Fred? - hoping to snag a few free Jell-O cups to share with Sammy out on the lawn - looks like a young lady spread eagled on the hood of a car, Frannie - where the open garden gave them room to sprawl out. His father must be blind, poor dear. The grass was too irresistible for children raised confined by the asphalt and gravel of small motel parking lots - pssst, Frannie… Yes, Wilma? Johnny is the boy’s father and he’s single, you know. Isn’t your youngest in need of a husband? - the rough surfaces that skinned knees and elbows and offered only the reflected heat of the sun off the shimmering blackness instead of the cool, dewy drops that clung to every blade of grass and dampened the soil to bathe sun parched skin. Hhmmm…you’re right, Wilma. I’ll call her. Johnny’s got potential even if his children dress like street urchins. Maybe I’ll knit the boy a nice vest.
After stuffing his pockets with the small plastic packages, as well as some leftover cookies and a banana for Mrs. Levin; she really was a nice old lady, even if she smelled particularly funny and didn’t talk very clearly. Sammy kept insisting it was because her tongue had fallen out, but Dean took that for the norm around these parts and didn’t really care as long as there was free pudding cups involved.
Dean shrugged carelessly as he wandered out the French doors, used to Sam’s amusing eccentricities at this point - after all, only his little brother would perform daily burials for these imagined pieces Mrs. Levin was losing. Though, now that Dean thought about it, he did wonder what Sam was burying so industriously every time he saw him.
When he caught sight of his brother patting dirt over another hole scratched into the soil at Mrs. Levin’s feet, Dean winced, his eyes assaulted by the bright orange and green striped, pom-pommed…thing on his brother’s head. He couldn’t leave Sammy alone for a second without some kind of yarned monstrosity finding its way onto Sam’s body.
“God-da…um,” Dean cast a cautious glance at Mrs. Levin, who was staring her usual wide-eyed stare up at the tree-tops today. “Sam, what did I tell you about accepting gifts from people around here?”
Sam smiled up at him cheerily, the broad brim of the knit tam bringing out the green in his eyes. “You said if I wanted to look like a pansy-ass bitch, then I should wear the stuff they give me.”
When he saw the gleam in Dean’s eye, Sam grabbed the hat by the poof ball that anchored the fashion disaster to his head. “I like this hat, Dean!” Sam insisted, his chin wibbling as his lower lip stuck out in a threatening pout. “It wobbles!” Sam demonstrated by bobbing his head back and forth, humming something that might have been the theme to Scooby-Doo, the pom-pom atop the cap swinging back and forth in a clumsy rhythm.
Dean closed his eyes and counted to ten like his dad had taught him. “Fine, look like a doofus all you want, but if anyone asks, I had nothing to do with it. OK?”
Sam nodded eagerly, that damn poof sliding forward to drape by his ear.
Dean silently swore to buy Sammy an AC/DC T-shirt the next time they were at GoodWill. Someone had to look out for the kid’s cool factor.
He squatted by his little brother, eyeing the several small mounds of dirt that had taken up the space under the yellow rose bush Mrs. Levin preferred to loiter by. Mrs. Levin made a garbled noise, smiling her crooked smile down at Dean almost as if she recognized him, clumsily patting his head with her stiff fingers.
Dean smiled up at her, unconsciously leaning into her touch like a purring kitten, absently settling his weight along the length of her shin. The smell really wasn’t that bad…like overripe plums left too long in the fridge, maybe. Her hand fell away and she went back to staring up at the skittering ravens that set up such a racket whenever they came out into the garden - damn things clustered around them like it was some kind of funeral parade.
Dean settled more comfortably against her, pulling out a deck of cards from his pocket, and dealt them all a hand for Sam’s favorite…Go Fish.
As Sam studied his cards with the intensity and focus worthy of an equation of quantum theory, Dean casually asked, “Why is our car air freshener hanging from Mrs. Levin’s ear?”
Sam shrugged, sorting his cards into uneven piles on the grass in front of him, giving Dean a full view of his hand. It was no wonder the kid never won at this game. “It makes her smell like Christmas, Dean!”
Dean gave the small, tree-shaped freshener a dubious glance. His little brother was weird. Good thing Mrs. Levin was cool and didn’t complain about it.
Unwatched by the occupied boys, a courageous raven tip-toed clumsily up by Mrs. Levin’s seat and happily pecked at the mounds of disturbed soil for a snack.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
John was a hit at the senior living center - he looks just like Tyrone Power! No, Dolores, he’s the spitting image of Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. Just look at that…. We know what you’re looking at, Betty…and it’s Rudolph Valentino. He’s got Valentino’s bedroom eyes… - especially with the ladies. They never ceased offering their daughters’ or granddaughters’ phone numbers - Johnny needs a woman’s touch. Oh, I’ve offered…. - home-cooked meals - he’s too thin and he needs to shave off that stubble…. You know what they say about hirsute men, Wilma. They’re animals in bed…. Betty! Are you overdosing on your estrogen pills again? - or, from a very forward Mrs. Krauser, hot oil massages for his back.
John decided early on it was wise never to be left alone in the same room as Mrs. Krauser.
The men were equally enthralled, appreciating John’s odd mix of knowledge about cars - Ford made a good car in his day…. Not like the Chevy! Purrs like a damn kitten and the ladies love it. Right, John? - war strategy - Patton had balls as big as watermelons…. - and baseball - Babe Ruth was the best God-damned player ever. What about Ernie Banks? Ernie Banks can go stick a baseball bat up his…. Walter! They appreciated having a man’s man around, one who would listen to them rather then dismiss what they said as outdated and unimportant.
That John Winchester…he was a real people person.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dean wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but he half-hated the senior living center on weekends.
That’s when the families came to visit.
Sam, of course, loved it.
“It’s people, Dean! Real people!” Sam was fascinated, like he was watching a documentary on some exotic tribe on PBS, usually the only channel they could get at some of the places they stayed.
While Dean tried his damnedest to coerce Sam from the lounge where everyone tended to congregate, suggesting a nice game of cards in Mrs. Levin’s room until the horror was over, Sam proved stubbornly resistant to Dean’s wiles - and freakishly wily in avoiding his older brother’s grabbing hands. Who knew the clumsy little squirt was so nimble when the need arose?
So, more often than not, Dean spent the day tailing Sammy as his little brother followed the visitors around with Mrs. Levin trailing along behind to supervise.
That old lady was cool. Didn’t utter a word of complaint when Dean told her what a pain in the ass Sammy was or how stupid family visiting day was or when he grudgingly kicked at the marigolds while waiting for Sam to lose interest and to head back for the quiet sanctuary of Mrs. Levin’s room.
One August afternoon, after catching Sam splashing in the garden fountain with another little boy, Dean exchanged glances with the boy’s obviously peeved older sister. He ambled his way over, impressed by the sheer amount of pure pissed she managed to exude with just the way her arms crossed over her chest and the way her lips pressed together.
“That one yours?” Dean asked amicably, flashing a quick smile in her direction. She looked only a couple of years older then he was, and Dean found himself fascinated by the distorted image of Zach Morris gracing the growing curves on her chest.
She thawed slightly, nodding her head in the direction of the splashing. “Yep. Name’s Carrie and the pain in my butt is Beau.” She jerked her head in Sam’s direction. “Yours?”
Dean upped the wattage on his smile. She wasn’t bad, for a girl. “I’m Dean…Winchester, like the gun.” She didn’t seem impressed by that piece of trivia so Dean continued, “The soaking wet pain in my ass is named Sam.”
They silently observed the two six-year-olds who made being an older sibling such a trial, Dean sidling a little closer to the girl when she wasn’t looking.
She really was kind of pretty. Maybe older girls were just more interesting than those his age.
A look of comprehension suddenly flashed over her face, her blue eyes lighting up with interest. “Wait…Winchester?”
Dean smirked up at her, nodding smoothly as he took one more step nearer. The gun thing must have finally sunk in.
A smile spread over her sun-pinkened cheeks as she gushed, “Your dad is awesome.”
Dean blinked in surprise, this sudden outburst entirely unexpected.
“And cute.” Her gaze traveled slowly over his frame, changing topics with the speed of an over-caffeinated tengu. “My grandma thinks you dress like a gang member.”
This was even more unsettling….
“Hey, wanna go listen to some music? I’ve got some tapes in the car.” She flipped a stray curl of her long, dark hair over her shoulder, studying him with something coming close to appreciative interest.
…but he could live with it. “Sure.” Dean called over his shoulder, “Mrs. Levin, could you keep an eye on these two for us?” The old woman murmured something that sounded like an affirmative so Dean wandered off towards the parking lot with Carrie.
Later, Dean realized he owed his dad a very effusive thank you. It was good to be a Winchester.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As John turned the key in the ignition and the Impala roared to life, Sam slunk into a ball against Dean’s side, even though most of the backseat was available for him to do that ungainly Sammy sprawl that was all elbows and knees. Dean put his arm around his brother, absently rubbing Sam’s back as he did when Sammy wasn’t feeling well.
Dean was a tad concerned. His little brother never remained this quiet for this long unless he was gagged.
John had warned Dean not to do that anymore.
Dean glanced up, meeting his father’s worried gaze in the rearview mirror. At a questioning arch of the eyebrow from John, Dean shrugged carefully so as not to disturb Sammy, indicating his own confusion in the silent reflection communication code they’d unknowingly developed over the years. John’s eyes slid slightly to the right and Dean knew he was now studying what he could see of Sammy in the silvered surface of the mirror.
“Somethin’ wrong, Sammy?” John asked softly, car still in park as he waited to hear his son’s reply.
Sam just shook his head against Dean’s shoulder, not responding to the opening gambit.
OK, this was serious.
John turned off the engine, the Impala rumbling into a reluctant silence as he pocketed the keys and turned in the driver’s seat, hanging an arm over the back of the seat as he leaned over to talk to his son. Bobby was expecting them in South Dakota by tomorrow afternoon with another hunt readied, but they could make up time on the road.
“Do you need to go to the bathroom?” John asked teasingly. “You kind of look like you might need to…. Dean, make sure.”
“Yes, sir,” Dean replied, grinning slightly at their old trick. “Get ready, Sammy. 10-9-8-7….”
It had started when Sammy was three, resulting in quite a few messes until Sam realized they weren’t kidding about the go-to-the-bathroom-before-we-leave thing. Once the countdown started, Sam had 10 seconds to head for the restroom or Dean would commence tickling until Sam peed his pants.
No, Dean!” Sam squealed, wriggling away to the other side of the seat, trying to protect his ticklish underbelly by wrapping his arms over his stomach. “I don’t have to go!”
He slumped in the corner, still holding his belly. “I don’t wanna go. Do we have to?”
John guessed they weren’t talking about the bathroom anymore.
“Why do you wanna stay, Sammy?” Dean asked his little brother cajolingly. “C’mon, you can tell me.”
“I like Mrs. Levin. We were like all those other kids who came to visit! We had a family here!”
“You know she’s not really your grandma, right Sammy?” John asked carefully.
Sam nodded slowly, lower lip sticking out. “She was pretend.” He glanced covertly over at John. “Couldn’t we keep pretending? Stay here?”
John sighed, unsure of how to answer. He glared at the abandoned building down the street that had led them here in the first place. Damn poltergeists.
Dean stepped up to the plate. “You’ve already got a family, Sammy,” Dean suggested with a soft punch to his little brother’s arm. “You’ve got the coolest big brother ever. We drive an awesome car….”
“And you’ve lost the receipt for your father so you can’t trade him in,” John interjected with a smile. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with us.”
John turned to face Dean, his face smoothing out into a more serious expression. “I’m really touched that the car was listed before your father.”
Dean smirked up at John. “Sammy just really likes the car, Dad. Had to go with our strengths.”
“Brat,” John grumbled, swatting playfully at Dean’s head.
“The car is really nice!” Sam agreed, stroking his hand along the leather seat.
John tilted his head back as he laughed, the sound coming from deep in his belly and making Sam break out into a fit of giggles as Dean laughed freely, the sound filling up the car with merriment. John revved the engine, admitting with a soft chuckle, “You’re definitely my boys.”
As they pulled down the drive, John glanced in the mirror once more. “Sammy?” he asked with obvious trepidation. “Where’d you get that lovely…hat?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mrs. Levin stood on the shaded veranda under the arching branches of the palm trees, waving at the black car as it drove down the winding entrance to the senior living center. A little boy wearing an atrocious striped tam waved happily at her from the back window, the other one giving her a more subdued tilt of the head as a goodbye. She wasn’t quite sure who those boys were, but they smelled sweeter every day.
If only she weren’t so hungry, maybe she could remember their names.
A loud plop made her swing her head down clumsily, and she toed at the large swatch of flesh that had just sloughed off her forearm. Mrs. Levin absently kicked it aside into the begonias, staring at her exposed ulna with a strange kind of fascination, trying to focus her eyes on the whiteness of the bone gleaming from the large hole in her arm.
A few brave ravens settled down beside her, cocking beady black eyes up in her direction before sidling over to the discarded skin and pecking greedily at the rotting mess.
Mrs. Levin briefly wondered if the birds might satisfy her craving, but they didn’t have the same alluring scent as those chubby, pink-cheeked creatures that had been hanging around so often lately.
Delicious.
What remained of her stomach grumbled in complaint and Mrs. Levin shuffled slowly down the driveway, shedding small bits and pieces as she went. Maybe it was time to go looking for something to eat, some instinctive voice inside her urged.
Something strong and alive and…human?
After all, she was starving. All she could think about lately was taking a nice, big bite out of some plump, juicy brai-….
A flock of ravens on the power lines overhead started screeching raucously, wings fluttering as if in warning as she set foot out on the main road. As Mrs. Levin made her stumbling way down the road, following the quickly disappearing speck of black that melted into the reflected heat off the asphalt as she watched the Impala vanish in the distance, the ravens trailed behind - a bevy of black-suited scavengers pecking and gobbling whatever the zombie left behind like a rotting trail of breadcrumbs.
Author: ZanneS
Rating: PG (limited bad language)
Genre: Gen with a light dusting of Crack, Weechesters, pre-series
Characters: John, Sam, and Dean
Summary: Sam deals with his fear of raisins, Dean gets some action, and John gets accosted by horny old ladies. It's a normal day in the life of the Winchesters.
Author's Notes: Thanks to
nativestar and
astrothsknot for beta-ing! Kripke owns all of the Winchesters and the Impala, greedy bastard (said with love). This is part of the Job 'verse, which started with Everything I Needed to Know I Learned in Auto Shop. This story may induce cavities. These stories are not in order.
Disorderly Conduct
“Mr. Winchester,” came a cool voice that had been said to frost the windows in a room even in the midst of the hottest July on record.
Mr. Winchester stiffened, straightening to his full height as he casually shoved his offspring in the direction of the lounge with a pointed, “Find your grandma, boys. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Taking a deep breath, he turned, his hazel eyes meeting the steely gray gaze of the senior living center’s administrator. “Ms. Rosebach…so nice to see you again. How are you doing this fine day?”
The man managed a pained smile, trying not to lock gazes directly for too long as his eyes skirted the room for any kind of distraction. Ms. Rosebach politely hid a frown, then realized he wasn’t worth the effort and let it crawl over her face and take firm root.
This one seemed…shifty. This may be a bad idea, after all.
“I am well, Mr. Winchester. I’m still having trouble finding those records you mentioned.” She crossed her arms over her chest and leveled her shoulders, somehow making her small, bony body appear as intimidating as a brick wall.
Mr. Winchester offered her a wan grin, already itching to get out of her sight, she could tell. Interesting. This could prove useful.
“We realize how difficult it is to keep records straight with Mrs. Levin - your wife’s mother, is it, since you don’t have the same last name? - and her senility, but we really do need that information.”
The man nodded appreciatively, as if taking in every word.
“We can’t just have…” here her lip quirked, almost giving a pleasant tilt to her expression before the more familiar frown lines carved their way back around her mouth, “…strangers wandering in and claiming to be family, can we?”
She looked over the top rim of her glasses at him, her iron stare making him hunch a little as if protecting his soft underbelly.
“No, Ms. Rosebach,” he replied pleasantly, his natural good ol’ boy charm failing to put even a dent in her implacable shields. Now he delved down into his arsenal and pulled out the big guns, flashing a dimple.
Mrs. Rosebach sniffed dismissively, her look of disdain capable of making a man doubt his masculinity at fifty paces. She wasn’t so easily swayed anymore. Couldn’t get her panties in a bunch with a simple dimple.
Amateur.
“I’ve seen your boys in here quite often over the past couple of weeks,” she began. “You…not so much.”
Now the man looked worried and pulled out the entire matching dimple set, his white teeth almost blinding against the dark stubble dusting his chin.
Dammit. He was really trying now. Time to put her foot down.
She arched an eyebrow pointedly. “You know we love when our residents have visitors, but we are not a free baby-sitting service. You cannot just leave your children here all day with Mrs. Levin and go gallivanting off to do whatever it is you do.”
Undoubtedly something shiftless. Shifty eyes - and dimples - meant shifty shenanigans…most likely involving beer, pool halls, and women.
“Ms. Rosebach…” the Winchester man began feebly, realizing the dimples had been rendered inactive. She cut him off with a sharp squint. He gathered his courage, amusing her more than she would care to admit when she saw him mindfully straightening his shoulders and lifting his chin, his well-toned physique filling out his plaid workman’s shirt rather nicely.
Yes, this was a good idea. After all, it wasn’t as if anything had gone missing. She’d checked after she sniffed out the shiftiness.
“Ms. Rosebach, is this about what happened a few days ago? I told Sam that it wasn’t a candy dispenser and he wasn’t allowed to touch anything without permission.”
She stood there without showing any sign of approval or reproach, so John stumbled on. “And Dean swears he was looking for her…Bible so he could read to her. He didn’t mean to go in her underwear drawer. That was an unfortunate accident.”
“Ahh, yes. I seem to recall the little one running up and down the hallway, pretending to be Mickey Mouse with a black brassiere strapped to his head. That was the older one’s doing, I take it?”
The man gave up, sinking in on himself when he realized there was no way out of this. Right where she wanted him. He was just what she required here - strong, simple, and easily bent to her will.
Everything she appreciated most in an employee.
“We are understaffed at present and half of those who claim to actually work here - though it’s often impossible to prove considering the absolutely horrifying level of incompetence they’ve shown - seem to have trouble lifting more than a coffee cup,” Ms. Rosebach stated curtly. “You appear capable of basic lifting and carrying.”
She paused, staring at him assessingly.
“Well?” Mrs. Rosebach inquired, her mouth pressing into a firm line when he didn’t reply. “Are you capable of basic lifting and carrying?”
“Um…yes?” John answered hesitantly, not sure where this was going.
“Very well,” she replied, nodding sharply. “I am in need of an orderly. As you are obviously unemployed - the bizarre hours you skulk around here suggest that much, not to mention that shirt - I am offering you a position so there might be a legitimate reason for your presence at this institution. We might as well make use of you if you’re going to be here with your children nearly every day. You start tomorrow at 8:00. Good day, Mr. Winchester.”
She left Mr. Winchester standing in the middle of the hallway, a look of befuddlement plastered on his face as she headed to her office, her triumphant grin masked by her stiff-backed walk as she went to begin the paperwork.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This was Sam and Dean’s first legal trip outside the confines of Mrs. Levin’s room, who was a really nice - if oddly quiet and odorous, emitting an aroma of something like rotted fruit and dead leaves - old lady. After all, they’d been bunking out in her room for weeks during the day while their father was busy and she hadn’t complained even once.
Dean could appreciate anyone who didn’t narc on them.
Dad had said he didn’t trust the area they were currently living in enough to leave Dean in charge…maybe because of the drug bust last week? Or the shoot out next door the other night?
But that was totally Dad’s fault. If he hadn’t gone over there and beat the shit out of the guy for offering Dean a job - for what, Dean wasn’t sure, but whatever had been in the little boxes he’d been told to deliver had really pissed Dad off - the cops wouldn’t have shown up at all. Dad came home with his knuckles bloody, cursing inventively - Dean added a few new phrases to his repertoire that night - just before the cops pulled in. He had sat Dean down and, looking as sad as Dean usually ever saw him, apologized for having to stay there and promised to move somewhere nicer as soon as they got a little money.
Dean knew things were tight. Dad tried to hide it, but Dean could tell. He wasn’t a baby like Sammy anymore.
To distract his father from his funk, Dean had asked what happened to the guy in the other room. Dad had smiled grimly and said not to worry about it, things were taken care of; the guy had tripped and broken his arm, and John hadn’t seen any boxes - that was the deal. Dean didn’t quite understand that, but he had nodded anyway.
“It smells funny in here, Dean,” Sam mumbled grumpily against the back of his brother’s jacket as he peered around Dean to study the room.
Dean refocused on his little brother, guessing this place might not be so bad to hang out, after all. They had cable, a games room, and working air conditioning. Not such a bad place to spend the end of summer.
“That’s old people, Sammy,” Dean said wisely, throwing his shoulders back and nearly hitting Sam in the nose with his elbow as he strutted into the room with his cocksure attitude (still under construction), his little brother tailing him like Peter Pan’s patched-on shadow. Dean vaguely remembered a lady that smelled something like this - a mix of peppermints and Vic’s Vap-O-Rub - but she was jumbled somewhere in his memories in the time before Sammy with images of his smiling mother, the feel of scratchy crocheted gloves, and the taste of snicker doodles.
The arrival of a pair of unsupervised boys sent a flurry of interest through the room, a flurry that lasted no more than twenty seconds - watch the heart monitor there, Will. My grandkids thought mine was something called a Gameboy - until the seniors realized that these weren’t their grandchildren - look at the little one’s hair! - because no one wanted to take credit for that T-shirt with the big tongue the older one was wearing. Tsk-tsk. Do they try to look like ruffians these days? Someone needs to buy that boy a nice Izod and some slacks.
“They look like raisins, Dean,” Sam insisted none-too-quietly. He tugged firmly on his big brother’s sleeve. “I don’t like raisins!” Sam looked horrified at the mere memory of the fruit.
Dean never should have told Sam that raisin story.
“If you look cute, they might give you candy or money, Sammy,” Dean informed him to side-track his easily distracted little brother, strolling over to what seemed a likely mark with a wide smile.
The old lady blinked at him fuzzily, taking in Dean’s dirty sneakers, torn jeans and overly large T-shirt with a puzzled frown. “Are the homeless children visiting today, Gladys?” she called out across the room.
Sam peeked at her from around his brother’s elbow, giving her a hesitant gap-toothed grin. “How adorable!” she cooed, her rheumy eyes focusing on the little boy’s upturned nose. “Have a butterscotch, dear.”
Dean frowned down at his little brother as Sammy greedily grabbed the treat and shoved it into his mouth before Dean could get his hands on it. Sam glanced at Dean out of the corner of his eye, watching for signs of potential ambush as he sucked loudly on the butterscotch, hunching over slightly to make access to his mouth more difficult.
Dean smirked. Kid learned fast.
“C’mon, Sammy. Let’s go find Mrs. Levin…er, Grandma.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The ladies playing gin rummy in the corner glanced over at that handsome new orderly - think he gives sponge-baths, Dolores? - crinkled eyes winking slyly when they caught John’s eye. John nodded in acknowledgement at the table - got my hair done today, Johnny…. Looks beautiful Mrs. Krauser - and he lifted Mr. Lewis from his chair to sit him in the lounge for his occupational therapy. He heard a faint whistle - Betty, don’t stare! Shut up, Wilma…I may be old, but I’m not dead - the heavy weight of the ladies’ appreciative gazes on his rear making John fidget uncomfortably. You need anything lifted, Johnny? Betty! If I do, you’ll be the first one I ask, Mrs. Krauser. The woman smiled triumphantly at her friend, wrinkling her nose as she laid out the last of her cards. Gin…and I got a bottle in my room for later if you want any, handsome.
John blinked in surprise, high-tailing it out of there for his next assignment, his virtue barely intact.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Late one afternoon, Dean sauntered into the cafeteria - good gracious! What is that young man wearing today, Fred? - hoping to snag a few free Jell-O cups to share with Sammy out on the lawn - looks like a young lady spread eagled on the hood of a car, Frannie - where the open garden gave them room to sprawl out. His father must be blind, poor dear. The grass was too irresistible for children raised confined by the asphalt and gravel of small motel parking lots - pssst, Frannie… Yes, Wilma? Johnny is the boy’s father and he’s single, you know. Isn’t your youngest in need of a husband? - the rough surfaces that skinned knees and elbows and offered only the reflected heat of the sun off the shimmering blackness instead of the cool, dewy drops that clung to every blade of grass and dampened the soil to bathe sun parched skin. Hhmmm…you’re right, Wilma. I’ll call her. Johnny’s got potential even if his children dress like street urchins. Maybe I’ll knit the boy a nice vest.
After stuffing his pockets with the small plastic packages, as well as some leftover cookies and a banana for Mrs. Levin; she really was a nice old lady, even if she smelled particularly funny and didn’t talk very clearly. Sammy kept insisting it was because her tongue had fallen out, but Dean took that for the norm around these parts and didn’t really care as long as there was free pudding cups involved.
Dean shrugged carelessly as he wandered out the French doors, used to Sam’s amusing eccentricities at this point - after all, only his little brother would perform daily burials for these imagined pieces Mrs. Levin was losing. Though, now that Dean thought about it, he did wonder what Sam was burying so industriously every time he saw him.
When he caught sight of his brother patting dirt over another hole scratched into the soil at Mrs. Levin’s feet, Dean winced, his eyes assaulted by the bright orange and green striped, pom-pommed…thing on his brother’s head. He couldn’t leave Sammy alone for a second without some kind of yarned monstrosity finding its way onto Sam’s body.
“God-da…um,” Dean cast a cautious glance at Mrs. Levin, who was staring her usual wide-eyed stare up at the tree-tops today. “Sam, what did I tell you about accepting gifts from people around here?”
Sam smiled up at him cheerily, the broad brim of the knit tam bringing out the green in his eyes. “You said if I wanted to look like a pansy-ass bitch, then I should wear the stuff they give me.”
When he saw the gleam in Dean’s eye, Sam grabbed the hat by the poof ball that anchored the fashion disaster to his head. “I like this hat, Dean!” Sam insisted, his chin wibbling as his lower lip stuck out in a threatening pout. “It wobbles!” Sam demonstrated by bobbing his head back and forth, humming something that might have been the theme to Scooby-Doo, the pom-pom atop the cap swinging back and forth in a clumsy rhythm.
Dean closed his eyes and counted to ten like his dad had taught him. “Fine, look like a doofus all you want, but if anyone asks, I had nothing to do with it. OK?”
Sam nodded eagerly, that damn poof sliding forward to drape by his ear.
Dean silently swore to buy Sammy an AC/DC T-shirt the next time they were at GoodWill. Someone had to look out for the kid’s cool factor.
He squatted by his little brother, eyeing the several small mounds of dirt that had taken up the space under the yellow rose bush Mrs. Levin preferred to loiter by. Mrs. Levin made a garbled noise, smiling her crooked smile down at Dean almost as if she recognized him, clumsily patting his head with her stiff fingers.
Dean smiled up at her, unconsciously leaning into her touch like a purring kitten, absently settling his weight along the length of her shin. The smell really wasn’t that bad…like overripe plums left too long in the fridge, maybe. Her hand fell away and she went back to staring up at the skittering ravens that set up such a racket whenever they came out into the garden - damn things clustered around them like it was some kind of funeral parade.
Dean settled more comfortably against her, pulling out a deck of cards from his pocket, and dealt them all a hand for Sam’s favorite…Go Fish.
As Sam studied his cards with the intensity and focus worthy of an equation of quantum theory, Dean casually asked, “Why is our car air freshener hanging from Mrs. Levin’s ear?”
Sam shrugged, sorting his cards into uneven piles on the grass in front of him, giving Dean a full view of his hand. It was no wonder the kid never won at this game. “It makes her smell like Christmas, Dean!”
Dean gave the small, tree-shaped freshener a dubious glance. His little brother was weird. Good thing Mrs. Levin was cool and didn’t complain about it.
Unwatched by the occupied boys, a courageous raven tip-toed clumsily up by Mrs. Levin’s seat and happily pecked at the mounds of disturbed soil for a snack.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
John was a hit at the senior living center - he looks just like Tyrone Power! No, Dolores, he’s the spitting image of Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. Just look at that…. We know what you’re looking at, Betty…and it’s Rudolph Valentino. He’s got Valentino’s bedroom eyes… - especially with the ladies. They never ceased offering their daughters’ or granddaughters’ phone numbers - Johnny needs a woman’s touch. Oh, I’ve offered…. - home-cooked meals - he’s too thin and he needs to shave off that stubble…. You know what they say about hirsute men, Wilma. They’re animals in bed…. Betty! Are you overdosing on your estrogen pills again? - or, from a very forward Mrs. Krauser, hot oil massages for his back.
John decided early on it was wise never to be left alone in the same room as Mrs. Krauser.
The men were equally enthralled, appreciating John’s odd mix of knowledge about cars - Ford made a good car in his day…. Not like the Chevy! Purrs like a damn kitten and the ladies love it. Right, John? - war strategy - Patton had balls as big as watermelons…. - and baseball - Babe Ruth was the best God-damned player ever. What about Ernie Banks? Ernie Banks can go stick a baseball bat up his…. Walter! They appreciated having a man’s man around, one who would listen to them rather then dismiss what they said as outdated and unimportant.
That John Winchester…he was a real people person.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dean wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but he half-hated the senior living center on weekends.
That’s when the families came to visit.
Sam, of course, loved it.
“It’s people, Dean! Real people!” Sam was fascinated, like he was watching a documentary on some exotic tribe on PBS, usually the only channel they could get at some of the places they stayed.
While Dean tried his damnedest to coerce Sam from the lounge where everyone tended to congregate, suggesting a nice game of cards in Mrs. Levin’s room until the horror was over, Sam proved stubbornly resistant to Dean’s wiles - and freakishly wily in avoiding his older brother’s grabbing hands. Who knew the clumsy little squirt was so nimble when the need arose?
So, more often than not, Dean spent the day tailing Sammy as his little brother followed the visitors around with Mrs. Levin trailing along behind to supervise.
That old lady was cool. Didn’t utter a word of complaint when Dean told her what a pain in the ass Sammy was or how stupid family visiting day was or when he grudgingly kicked at the marigolds while waiting for Sam to lose interest and to head back for the quiet sanctuary of Mrs. Levin’s room.
One August afternoon, after catching Sam splashing in the garden fountain with another little boy, Dean exchanged glances with the boy’s obviously peeved older sister. He ambled his way over, impressed by the sheer amount of pure pissed she managed to exude with just the way her arms crossed over her chest and the way her lips pressed together.
“That one yours?” Dean asked amicably, flashing a quick smile in her direction. She looked only a couple of years older then he was, and Dean found himself fascinated by the distorted image of Zach Morris gracing the growing curves on her chest.
She thawed slightly, nodding her head in the direction of the splashing. “Yep. Name’s Carrie and the pain in my butt is Beau.” She jerked her head in Sam’s direction. “Yours?”
Dean upped the wattage on his smile. She wasn’t bad, for a girl. “I’m Dean…Winchester, like the gun.” She didn’t seem impressed by that piece of trivia so Dean continued, “The soaking wet pain in my ass is named Sam.”
They silently observed the two six-year-olds who made being an older sibling such a trial, Dean sidling a little closer to the girl when she wasn’t looking.
She really was kind of pretty. Maybe older girls were just more interesting than those his age.
A look of comprehension suddenly flashed over her face, her blue eyes lighting up with interest. “Wait…Winchester?”
Dean smirked up at her, nodding smoothly as he took one more step nearer. The gun thing must have finally sunk in.
A smile spread over her sun-pinkened cheeks as she gushed, “Your dad is awesome.”
Dean blinked in surprise, this sudden outburst entirely unexpected.
“And cute.” Her gaze traveled slowly over his frame, changing topics with the speed of an over-caffeinated tengu. “My grandma thinks you dress like a gang member.”
This was even more unsettling….
“Hey, wanna go listen to some music? I’ve got some tapes in the car.” She flipped a stray curl of her long, dark hair over her shoulder, studying him with something coming close to appreciative interest.
…but he could live with it. “Sure.” Dean called over his shoulder, “Mrs. Levin, could you keep an eye on these two for us?” The old woman murmured something that sounded like an affirmative so Dean wandered off towards the parking lot with Carrie.
Later, Dean realized he owed his dad a very effusive thank you. It was good to be a Winchester.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As John turned the key in the ignition and the Impala roared to life, Sam slunk into a ball against Dean’s side, even though most of the backseat was available for him to do that ungainly Sammy sprawl that was all elbows and knees. Dean put his arm around his brother, absently rubbing Sam’s back as he did when Sammy wasn’t feeling well.
Dean was a tad concerned. His little brother never remained this quiet for this long unless he was gagged.
John had warned Dean not to do that anymore.
Dean glanced up, meeting his father’s worried gaze in the rearview mirror. At a questioning arch of the eyebrow from John, Dean shrugged carefully so as not to disturb Sammy, indicating his own confusion in the silent reflection communication code they’d unknowingly developed over the years. John’s eyes slid slightly to the right and Dean knew he was now studying what he could see of Sammy in the silvered surface of the mirror.
“Somethin’ wrong, Sammy?” John asked softly, car still in park as he waited to hear his son’s reply.
Sam just shook his head against Dean’s shoulder, not responding to the opening gambit.
OK, this was serious.
John turned off the engine, the Impala rumbling into a reluctant silence as he pocketed the keys and turned in the driver’s seat, hanging an arm over the back of the seat as he leaned over to talk to his son. Bobby was expecting them in South Dakota by tomorrow afternoon with another hunt readied, but they could make up time on the road.
“Do you need to go to the bathroom?” John asked teasingly. “You kind of look like you might need to…. Dean, make sure.”
“Yes, sir,” Dean replied, grinning slightly at their old trick. “Get ready, Sammy. 10-9-8-7….”
It had started when Sammy was three, resulting in quite a few messes until Sam realized they weren’t kidding about the go-to-the-bathroom-before-we-leave thing. Once the countdown started, Sam had 10 seconds to head for the restroom or Dean would commence tickling until Sam peed his pants.
No, Dean!” Sam squealed, wriggling away to the other side of the seat, trying to protect his ticklish underbelly by wrapping his arms over his stomach. “I don’t have to go!”
He slumped in the corner, still holding his belly. “I don’t wanna go. Do we have to?”
John guessed they weren’t talking about the bathroom anymore.
“Why do you wanna stay, Sammy?” Dean asked his little brother cajolingly. “C’mon, you can tell me.”
“I like Mrs. Levin. We were like all those other kids who came to visit! We had a family here!”
“You know she’s not really your grandma, right Sammy?” John asked carefully.
Sam nodded slowly, lower lip sticking out. “She was pretend.” He glanced covertly over at John. “Couldn’t we keep pretending? Stay here?”
John sighed, unsure of how to answer. He glared at the abandoned building down the street that had led them here in the first place. Damn poltergeists.
Dean stepped up to the plate. “You’ve already got a family, Sammy,” Dean suggested with a soft punch to his little brother’s arm. “You’ve got the coolest big brother ever. We drive an awesome car….”
“And you’ve lost the receipt for your father so you can’t trade him in,” John interjected with a smile. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with us.”
John turned to face Dean, his face smoothing out into a more serious expression. “I’m really touched that the car was listed before your father.”
Dean smirked up at John. “Sammy just really likes the car, Dad. Had to go with our strengths.”
“Brat,” John grumbled, swatting playfully at Dean’s head.
“The car is really nice!” Sam agreed, stroking his hand along the leather seat.
John tilted his head back as he laughed, the sound coming from deep in his belly and making Sam break out into a fit of giggles as Dean laughed freely, the sound filling up the car with merriment. John revved the engine, admitting with a soft chuckle, “You’re definitely my boys.”
As they pulled down the drive, John glanced in the mirror once more. “Sammy?” he asked with obvious trepidation. “Where’d you get that lovely…hat?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mrs. Levin stood on the shaded veranda under the arching branches of the palm trees, waving at the black car as it drove down the winding entrance to the senior living center. A little boy wearing an atrocious striped tam waved happily at her from the back window, the other one giving her a more subdued tilt of the head as a goodbye. She wasn’t quite sure who those boys were, but they smelled sweeter every day.
If only she weren’t so hungry, maybe she could remember their names.
A loud plop made her swing her head down clumsily, and she toed at the large swatch of flesh that had just sloughed off her forearm. Mrs. Levin absently kicked it aside into the begonias, staring at her exposed ulna with a strange kind of fascination, trying to focus her eyes on the whiteness of the bone gleaming from the large hole in her arm.
A few brave ravens settled down beside her, cocking beady black eyes up in her direction before sidling over to the discarded skin and pecking greedily at the rotting mess.
Mrs. Levin briefly wondered if the birds might satisfy her craving, but they didn’t have the same alluring scent as those chubby, pink-cheeked creatures that had been hanging around so often lately.
Delicious.
What remained of her stomach grumbled in complaint and Mrs. Levin shuffled slowly down the driveway, shedding small bits and pieces as she went. Maybe it was time to go looking for something to eat, some instinctive voice inside her urged.
Something strong and alive and…human?
After all, she was starving. All she could think about lately was taking a nice, big bite out of some plump, juicy brai-….
A flock of ravens on the power lines overhead started screeching raucously, wings fluttering as if in warning as she set foot out on the main road. As Mrs. Levin made her stumbling way down the road, following the quickly disappearing speck of black that melted into the reflected heat off the asphalt as she watched the Impala vanish in the distance, the ravens trailed behind - a bevy of black-suited scavengers pecking and gobbling whatever the zombie left behind like a rotting trail of breadcrumbs.