Riding the Fence (A Supernatural FanFic)

Part Twelve

(Friday)

“How you feeling?”

Dean wandered out onto the front porch of Bobby’s house to where John had taken to spending the warm afternoons, sitting half in and half out of the sun in a rocking chair that unbeknownst to any of the Winchesters, had once belonged to Bobby’s late wife.

The first day of John’s stay, Bobby had noticed the restlessness that settled over John in the late mornings. At first he’d attributed it to the medications, but as the medications were reduced and John’s restless did not subside, Bobby had another idea. He’d sent Sam up into the attic in search of the old rocking chair and directed the boy to take it out onto the porch.

Then one afternoon when he had the boys detained with work, Bobby had coaxed John out of the house and offered him the chair.

“That’s a bit cliché, don’t you think?” John’d frowned at the rocker. “What’s next? You gonna have me whittle wood, too?”

“I didn’t call you old,” Bobby sniped back, “but now that I think about, you are getting pretty crotchety.”

John had scowled at him and tried to cross his arms, only to wince in pain.

“Just take the damned chair. It gets stifling hot inside during the day and truth be told, I need you out from under me from time to time.”

John had lowered himself into the chair and growled after the other man as he’d retreated inside, “So does that make you the wife in this ‘Odd Couple’ scenario?”

“Shut up!” Bobby’s retort had echoed through the house.

That had been four days ago and every afternoon since; John had made his way out to the porch. When Dean found him out there Friday afternoon, John was quietly reading the paper, making notes in a spiral notebook he’d found on one of Bobby’s shelves.

“There’s a whole system for that, you know?” Dean stated simply. He found a seat on the railing and leaned back against the porch column with a glass in his hand.

“What system?”

“Like a filing system. Bobby’s got this whole method for keeping track of this stuff. Has a folder for each job and all the research to go along—”

“Did you come out here to tell me how to do things? You wanna show me a new way to tie my shoestrings too?”

“I came out here to check on you. Bobby says you’re being a real dick today, but I don’t know man, I just can’t see it,” Dean added sarcastically.

“You and Bobby; like a couple old women, nagging on me. I’d be just fine if the two of you’d just leave me alone.”

“Fine. Here. This is for you.” Dean smacked the tall glass down on the side table next to John’s chair and turned for the stairs.

“What’s this?” John asked, eyeing the drink warily.

“Sun tea. Drink it, don’t drink it. I don’t care. Just let me know when you’re done acting like a three year old.”

“Dean…stop.”

Dean halted on the edge of the porch, held there by his father’s voice. In all his twenty years, he’d never been able to refuse his father; not really, not even when John was being a dick and every cell in Dean’s body screamed out for him to tell his father to go to Hell. When his words were softly spoken and his tone was laced with something frighteningly close to despair, Dean couldn’t make himself walk away.

“Please,” John added sincerely.

That certainly caught Dean’s attention. Getting John Winchester to say ‘please’ was about as difficult as pulling the teeth of a werewolf.