dudeimbatman: (Bruce Willis wants to be as cool as me)
[I know I am behaving badly, but I have every intention of behaving badly. As a matter of fact, this is exactly the kind of situation where one should behave badly--Thomas Fowler in The Quiet American]

“But Daddy says no mercy!” Mary is standing with her arms crossed over her chest with her jaw set in a way that is pure Winchester. She’s looking up at the instructor with an accusing glare that would make John proud were he still alive to see it. Next to her there’s a little boy—her sparring partner for the day—unconscious.

It’s the insolent, unforgiving, stubborn tone of Mary’s voice that makes Dean look up. Sam got him an iPhone and he still can’t figure the damn thing out so while Mary was pwning her class, he was—okay he was playing stick wars but throwing little stick figures up in the air so they smash on the ground is fun. He looks up to see the instructor lecturing Mary. He ambles over, taking his time and listening to what’s being said. It’s not until Mary’s posture changes and her eyes get teary that Dean picks up the pace.

“What’s wrong, Sweetheart?” Dean asks, ignoring the instructor and crouching down in front of Mary, his hands going to her shoulders. Her little bottom lip is quivering and her eyes are just beginning to stream tears.

“He says I can’t come back no more. Can’t help it if Uncle Cas takes longer to choke out.”

For the first time it occurs to Dean that perhaps letting Mary use Castiel as a sparring partner—and allowing her to choke him out—might have been a mistake. He stands up and puts on his ‘let’s negotiate’ face. This would be so much easier if Mary’s instructor was a woman.

“Come on, she made a mistake.”

“I’m sorry but as an instructor it’s my job to make certain that all of the students feel safe in here. He tapped her arm to be let loose and she ignored it. I can’t let that go.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake, she’s a foot shorter than him!” And they don’t give Castiel a tap out option at home.

“That’s not the point Mr. Winchester. I’m sorry but Mary can’t come back.”

Mary’s tears are becoming sobs, the kind that hitch her breath and make her whole little body jerk. Dean can’t stand that; not since the day she was born which explains why she slept exclusively on his chest for the first two months of her life. It also explains the hard right punch to the instructor’s jaw.

It’s sort of like grade school after that. Everyone circles around them yelling fight! Fight! Fight! There’s a lot of rolling around and Dean is trying to play nice. He figures it’s not really fair. This guy fights five year olds on a regular basis, Dean fights demons but then the instructor has Dean on the ground and Mary is yelling ‘GET HIM DADDY!!!’

Playing nice is over rated. Dean slams the top of his head into the instructor’s face, blood gushes and the fight is over because one of them—not Dean—is too busy holding his teeth in to worry about fighting anymore.

“Come on, Mar,” Dean says, sweeping her up off her feet. “Let’s get out of here. We’ll find another school.”

Dean can already hear the sirens when he puts Mary into the Impala and peels out of the parking lot.
“You gots blood all over you, Daddy.”

“I know Baby Girl but it’s not mine,” he assures her with a grin. “Hey, you did good out there.”

“Didn’t mean to hurt Timmy but Uncle Cas is whole lot harder to make go sleep.”

“I know,” Dean nods sagely. “When we get home, I’m gonna let you do the talking.”

“Want me to give Momma a hug?” Mary asks. They’ve run this racket before.

“And a kiss. Tell her she’s pretty.”

“Kay…you bring flowers ‘cause you’re all bloody.”

“Mary…Sweetheart, I’m going to trade Sammy in for you.”

That results in Mary giggling a lot. “Aunt Samnantha will cry.”

“Yeah…you’re right. He’s a whiny little bitch. Alright, you’ll have to be my second partner in crime.”

“Kay,” Mary beams at him. He winks at her and pulls the Impala into the parking lot at the florist shop.

“Brooke’s angry?” the florist asks when Dean walks in. She’s already putting together a dozen pink roses.

“She’s gonna be,” Dean answers.

They’ve run this racket before too. It’s a pattern with Dean but if he were behaving, Brooke would think he was dying like the male leads in the chick movies she watches with Sam. He’s only thinking of her.

Dean Winchester best husband and father ever.
dudeimbatman: (huh)
[This image]

Sammy in the basement storyline

He’s debating the assets of one carburetor cleaner against another when his phone rings. He knows it’s Claire by the ringtone—She’s only Seventeen by Winger—and he answers it with the urgency it deserves.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, abandoning the half full basket of car care products in favor of booking it toward the exit.

“His fever has spiked. It’s up to 105,” Claire starts. Dean interrupts before she can finish what she’s saying.

“I’ll be there in five minutes.” He doesn’t say goodbye, just hangs up and shoves the phone in his pocket. The Auto Zone is fifteen minutes from the house.

Dean is in the process of breaking land speed records in the Impala when he sees the blue and red flashing lights behind him. He can hear the sirens even over Black Sabbath but he doesn’t slow down or pull over. He sticks his arm out the window and makes a come along gesture. They can ticket him for what the hell ever they want when he gets home.

By the time he gets to Brooke’s house, he’s leading three police cars and he sort of misses the drive way, taking out the grass to the right of it. He slaps a driver’s license—Ted Hendrix—on the hood of the Impala along with the insurance that matches.

“Baby brother’s sick, leave the tickets under the windshield wipers,” Dean says as he books it into the house and clatters down the stairs to the basement at speeds that might make Bruce Jenner envious…maybe.

Sam is curled up in a ball, chains still on his wrists and his ankles, soaked in sweat. His hair is plastered to his skin and Claire is standing off to the side with her hands on her hips.

“Don’t touch me! It hurts!” Sam screams when Dean gets close. Dean looks over at Claire with a questioning look because this is new.

Claire shrugs in response. “You didn’t have to run home. I can inject him and it’ll bring his fever down but I can’t get near him.”

Dean holds out his hand. “Gimme,” he says, expecting her to put the syringe of her blood in his hand.

“Dean…be careful. He knocked me across the room and broke my neck. That’s when I called you,” says Little Miss Bounce Back.

Dean’s brow furrows and he takes a step back to study Sam for a moment. “Alright, I’ll grab him from behind and hold onto him. You stick him.”
dudeimbatman: ([Sam] Got your back)
[Who do you work best with?]

The tension that runs between the two of you like a trip wire just waiting to trigger an explosion melts away in the thick of a case. Your backs against each others, guns raised and flash lights held above the guns. Tension still exists but it binds you together, tighter than wire or tape, tighter than glue or a weld. This is what you were raised for and more importantly in ways that no one will ever understand, this is what he was raised for; need and circumstance, blood and responsibility have wound you both together so that neither of you know exactly where one ends nor where the other begins. Trusting him is in your bones, protection is in your soul and that’s why you take a couple of steps in front him, your body angled just a little so that you’re in the line of fire. You like to pretend he doesn’t know what you’re doing because that’s part of protecting him; hiding all the bad things from him, even if he’s becoming one of the bad things.

There’s an unearthly scream and talons rake your shoulder.

“Sammy!”

You dropped the flashlight and you can’t see him but you can still feel him at your back and the crunch of bone against rock isn’t his. Somehow you know that because instinctively you would know what the crunch of his bone sounded like. You would know the smell of his blood because it smells like yours and the metallic scent that makes your stomach twists isn’t his blood.

Light bounces in your eyes and then angles up at the ceiling once before arcing across your eyes again to the ground. He’s crouching in front of you, the heel of his hand pressing against the deep gashes in your shoulder and it hurts and it’s right and it’s home and it’s the way everything is supposed to be.

“You okay?”

And you are because he is. Whatever wounded you is dead and you don’t want to ask how he did it because those are things about him that scare you now so you nod instead and clap your free hand to his shoulder, pushing—half pulling yourself to your feet.

“Me? I’m smokin’ Sammy,” you say and you know your words are too bright, too cocky, too wrong, too everything but they usually are these days.

“Let’s get out of here. I want to look at your shoulder and I need a shower.”

“Thought I smelled something. You gotta start taking those more than once a week, Sammich.” Because insults and snapbacks are easier than asking why your baby brother has blood all over him, blood that’s not his or yours and why you only heard one scream, the crunch of bone and a wet, fleshy pop. Those sounds are etched in your ears and your brain, squealing somewhere in the back like nails on a chalk board. You never heard a gun fire, never smelled burnt powder and you know Sam doesn’t have a knife. Whatever happened, however that monster died, Sam did it and you know that and it’s eating away at you faster than what was in that cave ever could.

The walk back to the Impala is slow and you lean on Sam more because you can then because you need to. Using your brother as a crutch makes some of the horror go away because no matter what happens, no matter what he becomes or what you become, he’s still the person you work best with in the world. The person you’ll stand beside against everything else. It’s what you raised for. More importantly it’s what he was raised for.
dudeimbatman: ([Matthew & Brooke] Apple Pie Life)
["Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive. But to be young was very heaven." - William Blake]

Things were shitty with Sam. They barely talked anymore and neither one of them could look the other in the eye. As a result, there was very little that made Dean smile these days. However, that very little did not include Matthew. He couldn’t help grinning at the kid, especially when said kid recognized that his dad was pretty down and did things specifically to make him grin.

Right now, Matthew was regaling him with Guitar Hero antics. He was playing ‘Rock You Like A Hurricane’ by the Scorpions. He wasn’t getting all the notes right but he was having a lot of fun doing it. Right now he was trying to play behind his back and headbang at the same time; semi-unsuccessfully. It didn’t matter, the whole point of the exercise was to make Dean smile and that part was wholly successful.

Part of it was that Matthew was so earnest about wanting Dean to be happy. Part of it was just the kid was funny. When he finished the song (just barely) he handed the guitar to Dean.

“Your turn, Dad,” he told him, a toothy, little kid grin on his face.

“Okay, you gonna stay and cheer me on?” Dean asked Matthew, one eyebrow quirking up at the little boy.

“Uh huh,” Matthew nodded as he bounced on the couch twice before plopping down next to Dean. “Kay, here it comes,” he warned him.

Dean really wanted to get out his lighter and teach Matthew how to hold up the lighter but he knew Brooke would kill him. Also, Matthew was five. He was a little young to be playing with fire. Instead, he fished his cell phone out of his pocket and flipped it open. “Go turn off the lights then stand over there with the phone up in the air.”

“Why?” Matthew asked but he was already scrambling off the couch to do as Dean had told him to.

“Just what you do at a concert,” Dean responded.

“Can I go to one?” Matthew asked as he climbed up on a chair to turn the lights out and then ran back over to the spot Dean had told him to stand, arm raised high in the air.

“Yeah, when you get a little older I’ll take you to see someone awesome,” Dean told him as he started to play the opening notes of the song.

“Who?” Matthew continues to question him.

“Don’t know who’ll be awesome and alive when you’re old enough. We gotta wait and see,” Dean told him. He looked up at Matthew and grinned. “Right now, you’re slackin’ on your cheering duties.”

Matthew giggled and let out a high pitched whooo sound.

“Now we just gotta get your Mom in here and my rockstar fantasy will be fulfilled.” So he’d altered his fantasies a bit since finding out about Matthew. They more often included Brooke and the five year old than twins.

“Momma! Dad needs a groupie!”

Dean nearly choked laughing. “I did not teach him that word!” he hollered back at the home office Brooke was working in. He could see Brooke walking into the living room with a smile on her face out of the corner of his eye. Yeah, his fantasies had changed some but he was pretty damn sure he liked them better this way.
dudeimbatman: (I taste good)
[Everyone has a motto, creed, quote, etc that they live by. What's yours and why?]

He’s nearly thirty. Nearly nothing, in five days he will be thirty and he’s been to Hell once. Almost dead more than that. Thirty isn’t a number Dean Winchester ever planned for. Sixteen? Oh hell yeah. He’d known since he was five that sixteen was the magic number. That was when John handed him the keys to his baby. Eighteen wasn’t that big a deal. He already had all the freedom he was ever gonna get. A fake ID, dad who wasn’t around and a little brother that was all added up to eighteen not being that special. Twenty-one made a big impression for obvious reasons. He could use his actual driver’s license to buy a girl a drink. Although by twenty-one, Dean had learned that with the right smile and a wink, girls would buy him the drinks.

Thirty is a number, a birthday that he never contemplated ever having. Unlike most people who push their definition of old back further and further, Dean hasn’t. Thirty is old but then he’s a hunter and he knows a lot of them who’ve died before they ever reached thirty. It’s not a business with a lot of longevity and Dean’s comfortable with that. He always has been.

And that’s why he’s running for the Impala with a Wendigo hot on his ass. “SAMMY! Where the fuck is the damn flame thrower I asked you for five minutes ago?”

In reality, it was about 30 seconds ago but Sam pops up from the trunk, flame thrower in hand, Dean ducks just in time for the flame to gout over his head, drenching the Wendigo in fire. The creature falls back with an inhuman scream and Dean rolls into the passenger side of the Impala laughing his ass off. Sam’s wearing his bitch face when he gets into the driver’s seat.

“Oh come on, Sammich, you know that was fun,” Dean’s still laughing when Sam pulls onto the highway leaving nothing but Wendigo ash behind.

“Dean…you used yourself as bait….again.”

“Live fast, die young, leave a pretty corpse behind,” Dean says as he sits a little straighter in the passenger seat, shifting through the box of tapes in the center. It’s a motto he’s lived by since Sammy turned eighteen, ‘cause by then at least in theory, kid could take care of himself.

“Your hair got singed nearly off,” Sam responds straight faced. “Spot in the back.”

That sends Dean scrambling for the visor mirror. He can’t find anything wrong but Sam’s still wearing a poker face.

“Dude, you’re like twelve feet tall, couldn’t you have aimed a little higher?” Dean asks, hands combing through his hair. He can’t find anything burned or singed and the car doesn’t smell like burnt hair.

Sam’s poker face breaks and he’s the one laughing while Dean wears the bitch face. Turnabout is always fair play in the Winchester house.
dudeimbatman: (needs more pie)
[An apple a day keeps the doctor away]

“Dude, pull over. I want some pie,” Dean smacked Sam in the arm with the back of his hand. It was well past midnight but the diner ahead had their lights shining brightly. The sign promised they were open twenty four hours a day.

“Dean, it’s nearly one in the morning. Brooke’s asleep…you don’t need pie,” Sam said, his fingers curling tighter around the steering wheel.

“We’ve been driving for hours. I need friggin’ apple pie,” Dean insisted. He wasn’t two, really.

Sam sighed and rolled his eyes because there was no use in arguing with Dean. Particularly over apple pie. “You do remember what happened last time you insisted you needed pie?”

Dean glared at him. “Your bitch ass is staying in the car with Brooke. I’m going in to get the pie.”

“Good. Get me a hot dog with extra onions,” Sam smirked as he pulled the Impala into the parking lot.

Dean muttered under his breath, got out of the car and went inside to get the pie. He came out a few minutes later with two large coffees, two pieces of apple pie and a hot dog with extra onions. He passed out the food and Sam pulled out of the parking lot while Dean shoveled down pie. Once he was done, they’d switch drivers and Sam would eat his hot dog and pie.

“Apple pie good?”

“Oh hell yeah,” Dean answered, his mouth still half full. “You know what they say, Sammy. An apple a day keeps the doctor away.”

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