John drove
out of the salvage yard. His son watched
him as the man pulled out on the highway.
John was grimacing and biting his lower lip. Dean was concerned.
“Dad, we
need to get a motel room and let me take care of you,” the boy urged.
“I’m gonna
drive awhile,” John answered.
“You need
to let me take a look at you and get those pellets out. You’re not gonna feel any better until we do,
Dad.”
“I said I’m
gonna drive. I’m sure as hell not going
to let you anywhere near my ass,” the older man responded sarcastically.
Dean was
surprised by his Dad’s remarks. He
couldn’t think of any reason why his Father would be afraid of him.
Castiel,
sitting in the back seat with Sam, smiled.
He wanted John Winchester to beware of his son. His charge ought to hate his father, not
worship him. If the older man was afraid
of his son, maybe he would back off and let the boy be a boy.
Fifty
miles out of town, Dean saw a motel.
“Dad? Can we stop for the night? There’s a store next to the place. I can pick up what’s not in the first aid
kit.”
Swearing,
violently, John pulled into the motel parking lot. He got out of the car, slamming the
door. Dean turned pale, but got out of
the car, telling Sam to help him grab the duffels. When John walked back out, the boys were waiting.
“We’re in
127,” he said, throwing the keys at Dean.
“Where are
you going,” his son asked, grabbing the keys.
“I’ll get what’s
needed, some food, and some whiskey.”
“Dad, you
don’t need the whiskey,” Dean said softly.
“You’re
not touching my ass unless I’m drunk,” John yelled at his son as he pulled out
of the parking lot.
Castiel
laughed, looking towards Heaven in hopes that Father was not offended.
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