"I hear that." Sam tilted his head just a little, eyes lively and a little wild behind the strands of his hair. "I think they're lying, though."
"Funny...I do too," Dean said. His chin came down a little – his fingers flexed around the shaft of the cue and his voice dropped a whole register, growling snarl that made Ellen jerk in reaction halfway across the bar. "Which one of you motherfuckers is gonna be first?"
"Oh, shit," Ash hissed, half-falling off his stool in his haste to stand up and Ellen jerked the rifle free of its scabbard. Brought it up and around, leveling it at the boys. Just needed a clear shot, clear shot – fuck. If she shot one of the Wolfpack they'd burn this place down around her ears.
"Getting late, boys." John's rumbling voice cut across the tension like a hot knife. About half the hunters in the room turned at least their heads to look at him. Wisely, the three facing the boys didn't, but Ellen could see their shoulders tense – their feet shuffle just a little on the floor. Threat from two sides, even though the casual onlooker would say it was the Winchesters who were outnumbered. "Best be moving on."
"Didn't get a chance to finish our game," Dean said, his grin sharp-edged and glinting.
"Maybe some other time."
And if it weren't for John, they'd have killed everyone in the damn bar, except maybe Ellen, and if she didn't drop the shotgun, her, too. John's the closest they've got to common sense. When he dies, what the hell's gonna happen to them, then? When they run up against trouble with more guns than them? The first thing people do when the monster is dead is get rid of the monster-killers.
John plucked his jacket from the back of his chair and shrugged it on – slid his journal and the papers into the leather satchel that was lying on the table. He turned his head slowly, watching the crowd – smiled when his gaze finally rested on Ellen. "You plannin' on using that weapon, Ellen?"
"Only if somebody starts something," Ellen said, but she let the barrel slew down and left, eyes on John.
"Oh, I don't think anybody's gonna start anything." John moved toward the door and suddenly Sam and Dean did, too, making the hunters closest to them startle back. Clearing a path. Dean laid his cue on a bottle-littered table and sauntered onward. Sam tossed his to a staring hunter who caught it out of pure reflex.
John knows nobody's gonna start anything, because Sam and Dean are his puppets, and none of the other hunters has the balls to take them all on. Jeebus, it's like John's showing off his bright, shiny, fantabulous weapon, reminding them all who's top-dog is, though no one was really disputing the fact.
And Sam, of all people, so ready to fight and kill--Dean's rowdy enough to picks fights (fights, not bloodbaths), but Sam strikes me as someone who'd fight out of necessity, or maybe if you pushed him a lot.
But then, this is a the Winchester-bizzaro 'verse. ::shivers::
The three of them ended up together not five feet from the door and they were nearly there... Until somebody – looked like Doug Pheeny – stepped up and put his hand on John Winchester's shoulder, pulling at him.
"Listen, Winchester –"
And they know there's no reasoning with Dean or Sam. of course not, that'd be like reasoining with a knife just before it plunges into your gut. It's John who wields them.
That was all he got out. A moment later his voice ended in a pained squawk as the blade of a knife – a strangely curved, wickedly pointed knife – pressed into his throat, Sam Winchester right there behind it. Look of utter fury in his fox-canted eyes, fist doubling up in the man's worn sweatshirt. Voice like the hissing sigh of a blade being drawn.
"Do not ever... touch my dad."
They're like attack dogs. Especially Sam. It makes me sad . . . all his ideals, his heart, his humanity don't exist in this 'verse. Or they don't exist for anyone who isn't John or Dean.
no subject
"I hear that." Sam tilted his head just a little, eyes lively and a little wild behind the strands of his hair. "I think they're lying, though."
"Funny...I do too," Dean said. His chin came down a little – his fingers flexed around the shaft of the cue and his voice dropped a whole register, growling snarl that made Ellen jerk in reaction halfway across the bar. "Which one of you motherfuckers is gonna be first?"
"Oh, shit," Ash hissed, half-falling off his stool in his haste to stand up and Ellen jerked the rifle free of its scabbard. Brought it up and around, leveling it at the boys. Just needed a clear shot, clear shot – fuck. If she shot one of the Wolfpack they'd burn this place down around her ears.
"Getting late, boys." John's rumbling voice cut across the tension like a hot knife. About half the hunters in the room turned at least their heads to look at him. Wisely, the three facing the boys didn't, but Ellen could see their shoulders tense – their feet shuffle just a little on the floor. Threat from two sides, even though the casual onlooker would say it was the Winchesters who were outnumbered. "Best be moving on."
"Didn't get a chance to finish our game," Dean said, his grin sharp-edged and glinting.
"Maybe some other time."
And if it weren't for John, they'd have killed everyone in the damn bar, except maybe Ellen, and if she didn't drop the shotgun, her, too. John's the closest they've got to common sense. When he dies, what the hell's gonna happen to them, then? When they run up against trouble with more guns than them? The first thing people do when the monster is dead is get rid of the monster-killers.
John plucked his jacket from the back of his chair and shrugged it on – slid his journal and the papers into the leather satchel that was lying on the table. He turned his head slowly, watching the crowd – smiled when his gaze finally rested on Ellen. "You plannin' on using that weapon, Ellen?"
"Only if somebody starts something," Ellen said, but she let the barrel slew down and left, eyes on John.
"Oh, I don't think anybody's gonna start anything." John moved toward the door and suddenly Sam and Dean did, too, making the hunters closest to them startle back. Clearing a path. Dean laid his cue on a bottle-littered table and sauntered onward. Sam tossed his to a staring hunter who caught it out of pure reflex.
John knows nobody's gonna start anything, because Sam and Dean are his puppets, and none of the other hunters has the balls to take them all on. Jeebus, it's like John's showing off his bright, shiny, fantabulous weapon, reminding them all who's top-dog is, though no one was really disputing the fact.
And Sam, of all people, so ready to fight and kill--Dean's rowdy enough to picks fights (fights, not bloodbaths), but Sam strikes me as someone who'd fight out of necessity, or maybe if you pushed him a lot.
But then, this is a the Winchester-bizzaro 'verse.
::shivers::
The three of them ended up together not five feet from the door and they were nearly there... Until somebody – looked like Doug Pheeny – stepped up and put his hand on John Winchester's shoulder, pulling at him.
"Listen, Winchester –"
And they know there's no reasoning with Dean or Sam. of course not, that'd be like reasoining with a knife just before it plunges into your gut. It's John who wields them.
That was all he got out. A moment later his voice ended in a pained squawk as the blade of a knife – a strangely curved, wickedly pointed knife – pressed into his throat, Sam Winchester right there behind it. Look of utter fury in his fox-canted eyes, fist doubling up in the man's worn sweatshirt. Voice like the hissing sigh of a blade being drawn.
"Do not ever... touch my dad."
They're like attack dogs. Especially Sam. It makes me sad . . . all his ideals, his heart, his humanity don't exist in this 'verse. Or they don't exist for anyone who isn't John or Dean.