Chapter Text
Albany, Colorado 1989
John Winchester pulled up to the slate colored Craftsman style cottage, shifted the Impala into Park, and shut off the engine. He glanced in the rearview mirror at the two boys in the backseat. Sam was sprawled across his seat, neck cranked at an awkward angle, sound asleep. Dean was on full alert, eyes darting back and forth trying to absorb his new surroundings as quickly as possible. "Where are we, Dad? Is this another job? This doesn't look like a hotel."
John turned around in his seat to look at his son, "No bud, this isn't a hotel, but this is where we're gonna stay for a while. I think we need to take a break from the road."
"Are you serious, Dad? We get to stay here? At this house? Do I- do I get my own room?" Dean's voice quivered with barely controlled eagerness.
"Yeah buddy, you and Sammy both get your own room. Now, wake up your brother, and go check out the back yard while I open up the house."
"Yes, sir! Sammy! Sammy, wake up! Look where we get to stay! It's a house! An actual house! And we each get our room! I don't have to put up with your annoying Thomas the Tank Engine crap getting mixed up with my army guys anymore!! Wooohooo!! And look we get a real backyard!" Dean crowed, dragging his half asleep little brother out of the car and around to the backyard of the house.
John shook his head. He was going to have to teach that boy how to live around other people now that they were going civilian for awhile. A couple months ago, right after the night that Shtriga had attacked Sam, he realized that it might be time to take a break from things. Give the boys a chance to be normal for a bit. He knew it wouldn't be forever because the Road would call him out again, but he had take a break for the boys. They needed it.
He had gotten a hold of Bobby, and asked him if he could find a somewhere for them to stay. Bobby being Bobby had, of course, come through. He located them a place in Northern Colorado, right smack in the middle of Rockies. The place was owned by a hunter named Bruce who, as unlikely as it was for a hunter to plan for the future, had gotten the place as an investment property. Bruce had bought it thinking he would fix it up, and sell it for a profit, but the Life being the Life never allowed him a chance to do that. So in exchange for John doing some maintenance and upkeep, he agreed to let them stay for awhile.
John looked over at the stately old Victorian next door. The house was immaculate with its bay windows and period perfect sage green paint job with cinnamon red trim, and white filigree. The yard looked like a yuppie's wet dream with its lush emerald carpet. Lavender, hydrangeas, and rose bushes gently nodded their heads along the picket fence, while rhododendron bushes embraced the rambling porch. Elm and maple trees dotted the yard and provided shade. The back yard looked like it had a couple fruit trees, and was that...a friggin' vegetable garden?!
Shit.
He ran his hand over his three day old beard. These were going to be the kind of neighbors who would want to make small talk over their shared fence, while they silently judged him for not mowing his lawn in a precise cross hatch pattern. Good god... He had a lawn. He wasn't sure he even remembered how to turn on a lawn mower much less how to mow a lawn. Was there even a lawn mower on the property?
John walked up the front steps, unlocked the door, and stepped inside the house, taking a second to let his eyes adjust to dim light. A half smile crept across his face. Bags of rock salt were piled in the entry way, and peeking out from the edge of the threadbare entry rug a faded outline of a circle could be seen. He nudged the rug aside with the toe of his boot. Was that- Ha! It was! A devil's trap right in their entry way. Definitely an old hunter's house.
He went back out to the Impala to start unloading their stuff, when he saw a car pull into their neighbor's drive, and up to the garage. Oh, you have got to be kidding me, a Volvo. He had to live next to someone who drove a damn Volvo? This was going to be even worse than he thought.
SHIT.