Who: John and Sam Winchester Where/When: The house in St Louis, this afternoon. Why: Stupid ass TV show can certainly ruin a good Saturday. Warning: Language, WIP.
Most of the day John had given over to working on his latest project, some nearly worthless shell of a two-door Chevy Impala, brought around the back of the house and put up on blocks. The morning had been nothing but grease and losing himself in the puzzle of cars, and the random thought of maybe seeing if Karen was free, and her lipgloss. Gen spent some time with him, playing by herself in a playpen set up next to the car, and when she napped the baby monitor sat next to John's tools.
Thursday night John had ruthlessly ignored the tv, and Friday had found him downloading it from Itunes. Watched Bobby kick Dean's ass, and by proxy his own, with a few well-placed words. There was some truth to Bobby's words, John couldn't deny it, but he found solace in the fact that HIS Sam and Dean hadn't walked that road that John had glimpsed.
And here was Sam, winding himself up over it. John had always thought Azazel had warped abilities the "special" children had naturally possessed, and had thought if of Sam. And now the kid was using it to beat himself up. Son of a bitch. John was setting on the porch, had placed two beers on the step next to him. Waited to see if his son would show up.