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I started thinking maybe my SPN Gen was broken but I still dragged it out and dusted it off and got it going. I missed you gen. This was written for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
spn_summergen.
Title: but make allowance for their doubting too
Rating: Adult (Language)
Warnings: None
Fandom: SPN
Author's Notes: For the prompt pre-series Kick!Ass Sam.
Summary: "How bad?" his dad asks instead of any kind of greeting and Dean understands exactly what he's actually being asked.
Dean’s woken up sore before and disorientated but rarely both at the same time. Dean’s picked up the habit over the years of his dad’s, cataloging injury and trying to parse information from noise before committing to opening his eyes. Sometimes it’s prudent to play possum.
There’s cold under his cheek and a hard surface, definitely not a bed but the wrong feel for bathroom tile. Since he’s been able to pass for twenty-one Dean has indulged in more than his fair share of all-nighters but the slushiness in his head is wrong for a hangover, more akin to someone ringing his bell good for him.
Dean’s debating whether to crack an eye open when he hears footsteps approaching him and then the definite feel of something close. He works on maintaining his regular breathing while fingers brush over his cheeks and forehead before walking down the side of his neck to press into his pulse point. Dean knows this isn’t his dad or Sam because his dad would have announced himself and Sam wasn’t with them.
The fingers disappear and then what feels like a booted foot presses against Dean’s side. He chokes off the groan in his throat and merely rolls with the push, letting himself go boneless like a doll to keep up the appearance of unconsciousness. There’s a grunt from somewhere above and then the sound of feet moving away from him, pausing for a few seconds, the creak and whine of a metal door and then nothing.
Dean does crack an eye then, slitting it first to make sure that whoever palmed him is really gone. He can see a pair of prone legs that he recognizes through his narrowed vision and opens his eyes a little wider. "Dad?" Dean hisses.
There's movement in reaction to the word, the booted feet shuffle and then the legs turn over, toes pointing Dean's way. Dean opens his eyes all the way up and tilts his head so he can see the rest of his dad, who is looking about as good as he feels, worked over and scuffed up. "How bad?" his dad asks instead of any kind of greeting and Dean understands exactly what he's actually being asked.
"Concussion maybe, bunch of scrapes all over. Bruised ribs definitely."
"Not broken?" John asks, narrowing his own gaze because they've all been known to downplay their injuries a time or seven, another habit Dean's picked up from his dad.
"Nah," Dean says, trying to grin but wincing instead when his split lip stings. "Guy pushed me over with his foot. You would'a heard me yelling if they'd been broken."
John tilts his head back and Dean watches him studying something for a second, not really game to look at their surroundings just yet, still trying to decide whether the low throb in his knee is going to remain just an annoyance rather than turn into something he can't walk on. After a few silent minutes, Dean finally lets his attention wander over to the room they're in, a bare space with exposed brick walls, a faucet and drain in the corner and a metal door off to the left side. There's nothing else in the room, not so much as a chair so zero chance of making any kind of weapon.
Dean finally trains his gaze to where his dad's looking, at the metal door. No obvious lock on the inside but there's a flat black square on the piece of wall to the right which means it's probably electronic. He's been stripped of his jacket, still has some of his lock picks in the bottom cuffs of his jeans but they're useless when it comes to the less manual type of locking mechanism.
John gets up, doing it slow and careful which means he's nursing wounds Dean can't see. "You alright?" Dean asks automatically and isn't surprised to receive a curt, "Fine," as his only response. Full disclosure is always expected of he and Sam when it comes to injuries but Dean doesn't remember his dad ever complaining of so much as a headache. Unless John's broken something or bleeding like a stuck pig, it's almost impossible to tell if he's hurt.
Speaking of Sam.
"Sam know where we are?" Dean asks, not holding out much hope and not really sure where they are regardless. It's possible they're in a room inside the warehouse they were skulking around but their luck doesn't usually hold that far.
"What good would that do?" John grumbles and Dean frowns at him. Sam's been more of a pain in the ass lately than usual but Dean would still trust him with their lives if it came to it. If Sam knew where they were he'd do something about it if they were overdue. "Had his nose stuck in a book when we were leaving so I didn't bother telling him," John adds and Dean now hears the grimace is in voice. John's usually careful about someone on the outside knowing where they are when they're on a job in case the proverbial crap hits the fan but when it comes to Sam, he doesn't always think straight.
The thing is, Sam is supposed to be with them. He'd put his foot down and had a real screamer with John regarding that very subject right before Dean and John had headed out. In a small, protective way Dean's glad that Sam isn't there because his presence might not have prevented their predicament and instead it might be all three of them stuck god knows where for who knows why. Dean's starting to get a Very Bad Feeling about what's in store for them if someone has taken the trouble to keep them alive.
"Pastor Jim or Bobby?" Dean tries, not sure why he's poking as his dad's shoulder hunch up around his ears and he shakes his head. He gets a sort of low satisfaction out of needling his dad when John doesn't adhere to one of his own golden rules. He can't help himself, like poking a sore tooth with your tongue. "How about-?"
"Dean, Jesus Christ!" John almost shouts and Dean drops it, instead walking the perimeter of the room looking for weaknesses while John studies the door's hinges. When he reaches John, a depressingly short trip, he taps the hinges with his own hands.
"You think we can knock those out?" Dean asks and John grunts.
"Probably. Might take a while but I don't want to do that and then end up in a room full of armed guys with our pants around our ankles," John says, stepping away from the door. Dean backs up too, scuffs hands up and down his arms because he's only in a t-shirt and the room is damp and cold.
"Think it's the guys running the fighting ring that are holding us?" Dean asks, knowing if he doesn't keep his jaw busy his teeth are going to start chattering.
There'd been a series of disappearances, mostly homeless people but some students as well, enough to have an enterprising reporter link the deaths together. It'd seemed like their kind of thing and turned out it was, just not the way they were expecting it to be. Dean wonders what the world is coming to when an underground Black Dog fighting ring can exist.
"Probably. Someone knocked me out from behind. You?"
Dean thinks about it for a moment and then remembers. He'd been climbing a pile of packing crates outside the warehouse they'd been scoping out and his foot had gone straight through one that was mushy from either weather or age. He doesn't remember much past tumbling down the pile of crates but what he does remember is the racket it made. "Yeah, same," he hedges.
John just nods and then pats himself down, looking for anything useful. He then reaches out for Dean who steps away and does his own inventory. They come up with a dozen or so lock picks but no weapons. The guys that tossed them into the room were thorough. Dean winces because the knife that had been strapped to his spine had been a present for his last birthday from Sam and his favorite. It was the one he had under the pillow at night since he'd gotten it.
Dean feels weird, but his dad looks strangely naked without a dozen or so weapons within easy reach and his overly bulky jacket he wears even in the summer. He's right though, if they got out of the room and ended up in another one that was more occupied they had to have something in hand that was more threatening than their own dicks.
"You sure Sam doesn't know where we are?" Dean asks, not really meaning anything by it but John smacks a flat palm against the wall by his head.
"No goddamit! I stopped trying to involve him when he decided this was all so beneath him," John snarls and Dean backs up, holding his hands out. His dad's always had a temper but lately it seems to be a particularly volatile powder keg where Sam is concerned.
"He's going to be worried when we don't come back tonight. He'll call someone," Dean says, feeling the urge to protest against John's belief in Sam's total apathy.
"I always told you boys a day or two and you never worried when I wasn't back for weeks," John points out and Dean shakes his head.
"Yeah, I know... but it's me. I call him when we're going to be late." When John just looks at him, still glowering, Dean tries on a grin. "Besides, I told him he could use the car this weekend. He's going to hunt me down just to make sure he's got something to drive when he takes out that little red head he's been mooning over."
"Just drop it," John says, suddenly sounding tired and Dean does, at least outwardly. It's true that Sam has been particularly prickly about the hunting life of late but Dean knows he does care, at least a little. He sees Sam sometimes, thumbing through their dad's notes when he doesn't think anyone will notice. When John and Dean are stumped by a difficult case he'll often find post-its in Sam's cramped handwriting with suggestions stuck to his pillow or tucked into his shaving kit or wallet.
Then there's the look Sam gives them, every time they step out the door without him, the look John miraculously misses.
Please come back.
Dean feels his heart squeeze at the very prospect of leaving Sam alone and that brings him back to the locked door, weapons be damned. He's just passing fingers over the bolt holding the hinge in place when the door shudders. Dean scuttles backwards, John automatically moving to be between the door and Dean when there's another thump.
"Dean?"
Dean blinks at his dad for a second before looking back at the door. "Sam?" he calls, because the voice on the other side is muffled but unmistakable. There's another thump on the door, gentler this time.
"Hang on a sec, just need to see if one of these guys has a swipe key," Sam calls through the door and then there's the shuffle of his feet moving away, the sound of someone groggily protesting and then silence. Dean's gaze swings back to his dad and his eyebrows climb. He doesn't need to say it, the I told you so is implicit.
"Yeah, yeah, alright," John grumbles, but the edges of his mouth quiver like he's fighting a rare smile.
When Sam opens the door, he's got a red ring around one eye that's going to be a spectacular black in a few days, he's cradling his left arm against his chest and the knee of one leg of his jeans is torn out, showing blood underneath but he's grinning, eyes bright. "Hey."
Dean grins back, jostling his dad with a shoulder. "Hey yourself. What took you so long?"
spn_summergen.Title: but make allowance for their doubting too
Rating: Adult (Language)
Warnings: None
Fandom: SPN
Author's Notes: For the prompt pre-series Kick!Ass Sam.
Summary: "How bad?" his dad asks instead of any kind of greeting and Dean understands exactly what he's actually being asked.
Dean’s woken up sore before and disorientated but rarely both at the same time. Dean’s picked up the habit over the years of his dad’s, cataloging injury and trying to parse information from noise before committing to opening his eyes. Sometimes it’s prudent to play possum.
There’s cold under his cheek and a hard surface, definitely not a bed but the wrong feel for bathroom tile. Since he’s been able to pass for twenty-one Dean has indulged in more than his fair share of all-nighters but the slushiness in his head is wrong for a hangover, more akin to someone ringing his bell good for him.
Dean’s debating whether to crack an eye open when he hears footsteps approaching him and then the definite feel of something close. He works on maintaining his regular breathing while fingers brush over his cheeks and forehead before walking down the side of his neck to press into his pulse point. Dean knows this isn’t his dad or Sam because his dad would have announced himself and Sam wasn’t with them.
The fingers disappear and then what feels like a booted foot presses against Dean’s side. He chokes off the groan in his throat and merely rolls with the push, letting himself go boneless like a doll to keep up the appearance of unconsciousness. There’s a grunt from somewhere above and then the sound of feet moving away from him, pausing for a few seconds, the creak and whine of a metal door and then nothing.
Dean does crack an eye then, slitting it first to make sure that whoever palmed him is really gone. He can see a pair of prone legs that he recognizes through his narrowed vision and opens his eyes a little wider. "Dad?" Dean hisses.
There's movement in reaction to the word, the booted feet shuffle and then the legs turn over, toes pointing Dean's way. Dean opens his eyes all the way up and tilts his head so he can see the rest of his dad, who is looking about as good as he feels, worked over and scuffed up. "How bad?" his dad asks instead of any kind of greeting and Dean understands exactly what he's actually being asked.
"Concussion maybe, bunch of scrapes all over. Bruised ribs definitely."
"Not broken?" John asks, narrowing his own gaze because they've all been known to downplay their injuries a time or seven, another habit Dean's picked up from his dad.
"Nah," Dean says, trying to grin but wincing instead when his split lip stings. "Guy pushed me over with his foot. You would'a heard me yelling if they'd been broken."
John tilts his head back and Dean watches him studying something for a second, not really game to look at their surroundings just yet, still trying to decide whether the low throb in his knee is going to remain just an annoyance rather than turn into something he can't walk on. After a few silent minutes, Dean finally lets his attention wander over to the room they're in, a bare space with exposed brick walls, a faucet and drain in the corner and a metal door off to the left side. There's nothing else in the room, not so much as a chair so zero chance of making any kind of weapon.
Dean finally trains his gaze to where his dad's looking, at the metal door. No obvious lock on the inside but there's a flat black square on the piece of wall to the right which means it's probably electronic. He's been stripped of his jacket, still has some of his lock picks in the bottom cuffs of his jeans but they're useless when it comes to the less manual type of locking mechanism.
John gets up, doing it slow and careful which means he's nursing wounds Dean can't see. "You alright?" Dean asks automatically and isn't surprised to receive a curt, "Fine," as his only response. Full disclosure is always expected of he and Sam when it comes to injuries but Dean doesn't remember his dad ever complaining of so much as a headache. Unless John's broken something or bleeding like a stuck pig, it's almost impossible to tell if he's hurt.
Speaking of Sam.
"Sam know where we are?" Dean asks, not holding out much hope and not really sure where they are regardless. It's possible they're in a room inside the warehouse they were skulking around but their luck doesn't usually hold that far.
"What good would that do?" John grumbles and Dean frowns at him. Sam's been more of a pain in the ass lately than usual but Dean would still trust him with their lives if it came to it. If Sam knew where they were he'd do something about it if they were overdue. "Had his nose stuck in a book when we were leaving so I didn't bother telling him," John adds and Dean now hears the grimace is in voice. John's usually careful about someone on the outside knowing where they are when they're on a job in case the proverbial crap hits the fan but when it comes to Sam, he doesn't always think straight.
The thing is, Sam is supposed to be with them. He'd put his foot down and had a real screamer with John regarding that very subject right before Dean and John had headed out. In a small, protective way Dean's glad that Sam isn't there because his presence might not have prevented their predicament and instead it might be all three of them stuck god knows where for who knows why. Dean's starting to get a Very Bad Feeling about what's in store for them if someone has taken the trouble to keep them alive.
"Pastor Jim or Bobby?" Dean tries, not sure why he's poking as his dad's shoulder hunch up around his ears and he shakes his head. He gets a sort of low satisfaction out of needling his dad when John doesn't adhere to one of his own golden rules. He can't help himself, like poking a sore tooth with your tongue. "How about-?"
"Dean, Jesus Christ!" John almost shouts and Dean drops it, instead walking the perimeter of the room looking for weaknesses while John studies the door's hinges. When he reaches John, a depressingly short trip, he taps the hinges with his own hands.
"You think we can knock those out?" Dean asks and John grunts.
"Probably. Might take a while but I don't want to do that and then end up in a room full of armed guys with our pants around our ankles," John says, stepping away from the door. Dean backs up too, scuffs hands up and down his arms because he's only in a t-shirt and the room is damp and cold.
"Think it's the guys running the fighting ring that are holding us?" Dean asks, knowing if he doesn't keep his jaw busy his teeth are going to start chattering.
There'd been a series of disappearances, mostly homeless people but some students as well, enough to have an enterprising reporter link the deaths together. It'd seemed like their kind of thing and turned out it was, just not the way they were expecting it to be. Dean wonders what the world is coming to when an underground Black Dog fighting ring can exist.
"Probably. Someone knocked me out from behind. You?"
Dean thinks about it for a moment and then remembers. He'd been climbing a pile of packing crates outside the warehouse they'd been scoping out and his foot had gone straight through one that was mushy from either weather or age. He doesn't remember much past tumbling down the pile of crates but what he does remember is the racket it made. "Yeah, same," he hedges.
John just nods and then pats himself down, looking for anything useful. He then reaches out for Dean who steps away and does his own inventory. They come up with a dozen or so lock picks but no weapons. The guys that tossed them into the room were thorough. Dean winces because the knife that had been strapped to his spine had been a present for his last birthday from Sam and his favorite. It was the one he had under the pillow at night since he'd gotten it.
Dean feels weird, but his dad looks strangely naked without a dozen or so weapons within easy reach and his overly bulky jacket he wears even in the summer. He's right though, if they got out of the room and ended up in another one that was more occupied they had to have something in hand that was more threatening than their own dicks.
"You sure Sam doesn't know where we are?" Dean asks, not really meaning anything by it but John smacks a flat palm against the wall by his head.
"No goddamit! I stopped trying to involve him when he decided this was all so beneath him," John snarls and Dean backs up, holding his hands out. His dad's always had a temper but lately it seems to be a particularly volatile powder keg where Sam is concerned.
"He's going to be worried when we don't come back tonight. He'll call someone," Dean says, feeling the urge to protest against John's belief in Sam's total apathy.
"I always told you boys a day or two and you never worried when I wasn't back for weeks," John points out and Dean shakes his head.
"Yeah, I know... but it's me. I call him when we're going to be late." When John just looks at him, still glowering, Dean tries on a grin. "Besides, I told him he could use the car this weekend. He's going to hunt me down just to make sure he's got something to drive when he takes out that little red head he's been mooning over."
"Just drop it," John says, suddenly sounding tired and Dean does, at least outwardly. It's true that Sam has been particularly prickly about the hunting life of late but Dean knows he does care, at least a little. He sees Sam sometimes, thumbing through their dad's notes when he doesn't think anyone will notice. When John and Dean are stumped by a difficult case he'll often find post-its in Sam's cramped handwriting with suggestions stuck to his pillow or tucked into his shaving kit or wallet.
Then there's the look Sam gives them, every time they step out the door without him, the look John miraculously misses.
Please come back.
Dean feels his heart squeeze at the very prospect of leaving Sam alone and that brings him back to the locked door, weapons be damned. He's just passing fingers over the bolt holding the hinge in place when the door shudders. Dean scuttles backwards, John automatically moving to be between the door and Dean when there's another thump.
"Dean?"
Dean blinks at his dad for a second before looking back at the door. "Sam?" he calls, because the voice on the other side is muffled but unmistakable. There's another thump on the door, gentler this time.
"Hang on a sec, just need to see if one of these guys has a swipe key," Sam calls through the door and then there's the shuffle of his feet moving away, the sound of someone groggily protesting and then silence. Dean's gaze swings back to his dad and his eyebrows climb. He doesn't need to say it, the I told you so is implicit.
"Yeah, yeah, alright," John grumbles, but the edges of his mouth quiver like he's fighting a rare smile.
When Sam opens the door, he's got a red ring around one eye that's going to be a spectacular black in a few days, he's cradling his left arm against his chest and the knee of one leg of his jeans is torn out, showing blood underneath but he's grinning, eyes bright. "Hey."
Dean grins back, jostling his dad with a shoulder. "Hey yourself. What took you so long?"