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Swing Bones and Motorbikes Prologue

  • Jul. 24th, 2012 at 10:58 PM

Title: Swing Bones and Motorbikes (Prologue)
Author: seraph05
Rating: PG
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Eventual Dean/Castiel
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Would that these marvellous ideas where all mine. Sadly they originate from and belong to Eric Kripke
Summary: 1930's Supernatural AU. "It's not that Dean. Your Dad's comin!" Earl warned before quickly shuffling off back behind the counter. Dean's eyes darted over to the door: even with the crutch his father cut an impressive figure in the dim bar lights.


There where many droughts in Kansas the year of the great spirit uprising. The water had dried up leaving nothing but the husk of the earth, which whipped unforgivingly across crops and planes alike. Liquor had been replaced by soda and near-beers which where about as far from a desperately needed stiff drink as a man could get. Then there were the souls of the people residing there thirsty, mourning a loss shared by the world and trying to make it along with the little money they had.

Sometimes John Winchester felt bad when he walked through the dusty small town and saw the faces of the townsfolk. He was a man who suffered under no lack of liquor or dying crops. He lived comfortably in a large house with his eldest son who was fit and alive, more then could be said for many young men in his country. However John was not all together exempt from misery. He had an aching limp that would never heal, memories of battle haunting him and his business had been almost unmanageably hectic of late. In many ways for his work, at least, he was grateful.

Except when his brother called.

* * *


Dean snorted awake with two hands shaking him hard.

"Jeez Earl I said I'll pay you tomorrow!" Dean grumbled shirking the bartender off. He came to his senses blinking blearily through the smoke of the only bar in town with under the counter service. He tried to remember why he was still there and not at home when the empty glass before him offered a gentle reminder. He'd been too drunk to leave.

"It's not that Dean. Your Dad's comin!" Earl warned before quickly shuffling off back behind the counter. Dean's eyes darted over to the door: even with the crutch his father cut an impressive figure in the dim bar lights.

"Dean" he had scarcely raised his voice and yet it carried all the way across the room. Some of the patrons looked over as the two regarded each other. With one staggering movement Dean slid out of his seat, picked his coat up off the back of his chair and made his way over to the door, keeping his balance the best he could. John held the door open, Dean walked out through it into the night and then they where gone.

The walk home was a mostly silent one aside from the occasional sound of Dean kicking stones loose from the road. His father had few rules and while Dean's curfew was a late one, it had always been enforced as closely as the rules of the law. Dean wondered what his punishment would be and knew it would be some time before the severe silence was lifted. It wasn't till an hour later, and after a fierce lecture, that his strange penalty would be handed down.

"What where you thinking?!" John roared and the walls of the living room shook "You have a curfew for a reason!"

"Yes sir" Dean replied, sitting on the couch with his back straight and chin high "I fell asleep-"

"That's worse! You can't be seen drunk not even in a bar," John snarled back at the reply shooting it out of the air. Dean winced at the volume his father could muster. "It doesn't take a genius to see that a mechanic shouldn't be able to afford enough liquor to get drunk. You want to drink you do it here"

"Yes sir!" Dean snapped the reply out realizing his error.

John paced for a few more moments before a shudder ran through his leg. After a half hour of walking and a full hour of reprimanding it could no longer hold out. With a weary sigh he sank into his chair rubbing his knee. Dean stared intently at the floor. There was a long silence filed in by the occasional tiny click clack of insects, the scratching of wildlife outside and the whispering wind.

"You're going to run some errands for Bobby" John said finally his tone calmer but final. Dean raised his eyes to meet John's, confused.

"Bobby's in Chicago…" Dean said slowly "What can I do for him here?"

"Come here" John gestured and Dean obeyed crossing the room. John held out a piece of paper with a list scrawled on it. Dean took it skimming the words.

"This stuff is from New Orleans" Dean said finally.

"It is. You're gonna go get them and take them to him" John said.

Dean could scarcely believe the ridiculousness of the punishment. He had been expecting to clear the gunk from the toilet not go on a cross-country grocery trip.

"Did Bobby say why he needed it?" Dean said examining the list, knowing there was more to the trip then his father was telling him.

"It's for a ritual of some kind"" John replied a thoughtful expression on his face, "He said to call him in a few days about it"

"But…" Dean said trying to think of a way to reason with him "Can't you do it? I'm halfway through fixing the Miller's gang plough-" Dean asked knowing the pay he would loose if he left but in a second John's eyes turned to steel.

"No. I've got a job lined up here" John spoke tone rough and hard "Bobby needs those things now. Pack your stuff. You're heading out tomorrow" Dean bit his tongue and heeded his father's words.

"Yes sir" Dean said and headed for the stairs leading to his room. The last glimpse he caught of his father was the man lifting a bottle of unmarked whiskey from under a floorboard.

* * *

Dean walked out to the shed bag slung over his shoulder; John was only a few minutes behind, collecting some things from the house. It was a cool morning but Dean knew before long the sun would be tanning the leather on his back. After a good night sleep he found the idea of a road trip to Chicago via New Orleans much less of a pain. He'd have a couple of weeks off work, he'd be out on his own and he'd see Bobby.

The shed doors where stiff and creaked as Dean dragged them open. The sight of the small collection of his Dad's vehicles drew a smile to his face. Every car was rare from the Chevy 2 door sedan to the LeGrande Torpedo Phaeton. John was a man with a penchant for procuring rare objects and Dean was beginning to follow in his footsteps. Dean passed his fingers reverently over the large circular lights of the Chevy and watched his reflection in the glossy painted surface. He'd tinkered with these beauties before but had yet been allowed to drive one. It seemed, in spite his anticipation, now would not be the time either.

"You'll be taking the Indian" John spoke as he reached the sheds entrance a small box in one hand and a set of saddlebags in the other.

"Are you serious?" Dean asked unable to mask a rising sense of excitement.

"Yep" John said watching his son's expression contentedly. Dean rounded behind the cars and drew the Indian out "In fact if you're careful with it I'll even let you keep it"

"Dad" The word barely escaped his mouth for the pure shock behind it. He stared at his father with wondering eyes.

"Don't get too excited, it ain't yours yet"

Dean nodded turning his fond eyes to the Indian. He dusted off the surface of the only motorcycle John owned. It's panels where dark red with gold details running down the edges and the word 'Indian' hand painted on the sides of the fuel tank. He remembered the night his father had brought it home. He'd rode up into the porch lights like some creature from the night. He and Sam had stood on the top step admiring the machine with all the commotion two teenage boys could muster. It was the same night his father's leather jacket, scarcely taken off since, was brought home.

"This bike hasn't been out much so go easy on it" John said placing the saddlebags over the back of the bike and tying them down "You got everything you need in here" he said patting the bags. Dean nodded as he secured his own bag over the back wheel "You get in trouble, you call me"

"You got it" Dean said buttoning up his own leather jacket.

"Say hi to Bobby for me, tell him he should come visit his brother some time. Oh this is for Rufus" John said handing a box to Dean "Don't drink it"

"Oh man we're working with Rufus" Dean groaned before packing the box safely into one of the saddlebags, "That old man hates me"

"He hates everybody. I'm not asking you to stay the weekend, just get the stuff and go" John said a smirk bringing warmth to his eyes.

"Fine" Dean said returning the gesture and tied a handkerchief around his neck "Anything else?"

"Yeah" John said some of the cheer fading from his face before he looked away "If you see Sam in Chicago could you tell him I wanna talk to him"

There was a moment of silence for the rarely touched upon subject.

"Yeah…sure" Dean replied rounding the bike to stand by his father's side "You two gonna patch things up?"

"Maybe" John murmured and there was a haze in his eyes as though that angry, raw memory was replaying as it had so many times before "Anyway you'd better get going"

Dean tightly embraced his father and with two firm pats on the back John took a step back. Dean slung his leg over the bike resting his right foot on the pedal. It took a few cranks of his foot up and down on the pedal before the loud burbling click clack of the engine turning over began. Slipping a pair of sunglasses on he gave his father a nod and a smile.

"And Dean?" John shouted over the sound of the engine. Dean looked over as he put the bike into gear "Pick up some money while you're out"

"YES SIR!" Dean cried with exhilaration, the wheels twisting into the dirt leaving nothing but a dust cloud behind.

* * *

The room was murky with creeping shadows.

"What is the count up to?" a deep voice asked, scratched from years of breathing brimstone smoke.

"16,563,868 worldwide" a tinny female tone replied quickly.

"And here?" he asked.

"117,465" she replied. There was a pause. The few loyal to him where already clearing his path with silent murders and cross road deals. No doubt there would be bigger fish to fry. He need only concern himself personally with the sharks.

"Is anyone going to get in our way?" He continued.

"There is one man of note who may become a problem if left unchecked" she answered diligently.

"Name" He asked.

"Bobby Singer"



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