Spreading Roots

I walked through Uncle Frank's driveway nearly bubbling with determination. While I tried to make sense of what exactly just happened I realized that if Frank knew anything about Dean or why he was there, he would tell me. I just about trusted him with my life, and I felt sure he wouldn't hold back any details from me. Not any important ones, at least.

Partially I was angry with my mother, too. For the past five years she'd done nothing but keep things from me—this wasn't too big of a thing when I really thought about it—but I was just pissed off with her actions in general. She didn't care about my feelings; she didn't care what even happened to me… not really. Her not so much as batting an eyelash when very nearly suffocated in front of her was more than enough proof of that.

Up until then that was just fine, Uncle Frank was always there for me, even though most times I didn't need him to be. Today however I seemed to crack just a little. She was my mother. Just because my sister died when I was ten didn't mean I had to be dead to her, too. That was what was really getting to me, and I didn't know if I could be civil around her anymore. Truthfully, I hoped I wouldn't even have to return home, that Frank could just take me in and let me stay with him for good.

Sadly, that wasn't going to work. Maybe in the past but not now. Not when he was being deployed to Afghanistan in three damned days.

In order to distract myself from the direction my thoughts were headed in, I focused mainly on the music blaring out of the all-too familiar garage as I neared. Uncle Frank was picky about his music, and that was putting it lightly. It always had to be one extreme or the other, too. Sometimes it was death metal, sometimes it was Frank Sinatra. He liked to keep you guessing, I suppose.

Today a nice classic Guns N' Roses tune was blasting from his stereo system. Upon entering the garage through the side door, I instantly got a good whiff of gasoline and liquor—a bad combination for obvious reasons—but I would forever and always prefer that over the artificial scent of my mother's house.

I welcomed the familiar scents and sounds and just the atmosphere of my surroundings. This place was pretty much my sanctuary, where I would spend every waking moment if I could.

The music was fitting today—he was working on his most prized muscle car, something he'd been doing ever since I could remember. The old '69 Mustang Mach 1 had been taken apart and put back together too many times to count. Each time it just ran a little better and faster, too, so his labors of love weren't fruitless.

I pursed my lips and eyed his legs where they stuck out from under the car. He reached his hand out just enough, presumably so I could pass him the wrench I was supposed to have retrieved from Marilyn's house.

When the tool wasn't instantaneously dropped into outstretched his hand, he wiggled his fingers as if doing so would hurry me up. If not a grease monkey or ill-tempered, Frank was an impatient man. I reached over to the stereo receiver sitting on the shelf across from me to turn the music down. There was no way I could even yell over that.

“It took you long enough, Squirt,” he said, and I scrunched my nose at the nickname. “Now where is it?”

“I don't have it,” I answered somewhat haughtily, but the last thing I wanted to do today was get into an argument with him. I had to make these last few days count.

From under the car, he stopped his movements and I could no longer hear anything mechanical going on. He used the creeper's wheels to his advantage, rolling out from under the car in less than a second and sat up. “Don't give me that look,” I said, forcing a small smile. “Marilyn has company.”

“Your mom is capable of making friends, Devon.”

Doubt it. “Not the kind of company that enjoys a little hand-to-hand combat when you first meet.” I muttered, subconsciously massaging my arm where Dean twisted it.

“What? Are you okay?” He demanded, his voice echoing in the large garage. He was on his feet as soon as he heard that I'd gotten into any sort of physical altercation.

Although he may have acted like it ninety nine percent of the time, Uncle Frank wasn't actually related to me. We weren't even some sort of distant cousins. He'd just been my sister's best friend. And after she died, he didn't just disappear from my life like a lot of people probably would have, especially if they had to deal with the likes of Marilyn.

No, he stayed around and played the role of whatever I needed him to be. Father, brother, sometimes even mother… and most other times just a friend which I so desperately needed. He never failed to be there after Kara's death, and without him I wasn't sure where I'd be today. I would never admit it, but he was more of a parent to me than Marilyn ever was.

Come to think of it, I had no clue when the whole 'Uncle' thing was brought into our situation, but it just seemed right.

“I'm fine.” I said reluctantly, not wanting to breach the subject any further than I already had. The fact that Dean was able to apprehend me in a split second wasn't something I was proud of.

His amber colored eyes narrowed, and he crossed his arms over his chest as he looked me up and down, as trying to find any sign that I wasn't in optimal physical condition. “Who'd you say it was?” Brows furrowing, Frank seemed to realize something and it was as if he got a whole lot more interested in the topic.

“I didn't,” I replied, not holding his gaze for any longer than a few seconds. “But it's some dude—I'd say he's about your age. His name's Dean. All I know is he can be pretty fucking handsy when he wants to be.”

A hard look crossed over his features when I cursed, but for the most part he seemed uninterested in reprimanding me for my less than satisfactory manners. He straightened up his posture then, standing at his full height of five foot ten. Hey may have only been in his early thirties, but with the stresses he'd undergone lately gray hairs had begun to sprout up on the edges of his widow's peak, a stark contrast to his coal black beard and short, pushed back hair.

“Dean? As in Dean Winchester?” I could only shrug in response, wilting slightly when I learned Frank knew this guy's last name. As if my half-shrug was good enough, he gave me one more side glace before marching straight out of the garage, leaving his project unfinished.

That wasn't something he did a lot, if ever.

First red flag.

Another look passed through his eyes, one I didn't recognize. I merely stayed quiet and followed after him, having to jog to keep up with him as he marched out to his beloved truck. The thing was an imposing black monster and I had to literally climb up onto its running boards just to get situated in the passenger seat.

I trusted he could handle this, but the man was practically self-combusting beside me. He shifted the truck into its correct gear before pulling haphazardly out of his long drive way, in reverse the entire time. “So—you know this guy?”

My impatient tone did nothing to faze him; in fact he didn't so much as even acknowledge my question. “How?” I finally demanded, realizing that this was probably pointless. I hadn't seen Uncle Frank like this in years, and like then such a mood was never directed toward me; but I did loathe it when he ignored me.

It wasn't something he did often either, that's for sure.

Second red flag—things aren't looking too good then.

“It's not important,” he said after about thirty seconds passed. While his answer was useless in every sense, I decided not to push it any further; crossing my arms over my chest when he pulled onto the street Mom's house was on. Figuring all I could do was ignore him back, I turned away and stared out the slightly dirty window, watching as we passed the large park I usually tore through with my dirt bike.

Uncle Frank wasn't a confrontational guy. From his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, I could tell that once he got to the house he was going to, in all probability, flip his shit.

Third red flag. It's about to hit the fan now.

No more than a minute later we arrived at our destination. Before Frank could park, however, he stopped the truck clean in the street, staring intently at something on the other side of the road. I followed his line of vision, my eyes widening when I caught sight of a '67 Chevy Impala in Frank's usual parking space.

I sure as hell didn’t notice that when I left, and one could assume I was too busy with my puffer. It was a good thing that hadn't been brought up; it would have opened a whole new can of worms neither of us wanted to get into. And besides, he was worried enough then as it was. I didn't want to put more stress on him, not when I didn't have to.

He reversed the truck yet again, and pulled up so close behind the Impala I almost thought Uncle Frank was trying to hit it. “Stay here,” he commanded after he killed the engine, pulling his seat belt off.

“What? You have to be kidding me,” oh, I know for sure it's serious now. “You're seriously going to make me miss out on all the action?”

As drama filled as it may have been, I quite enjoyed witnessing him stand up to my mother. Even though I didn't know what it was over this time, my mother thought she could get her way and no one would so much as squeak a protest. I desperately wanted to see her proved wrong, even if it was over a stranger I knew nothing about.

“I mean it, Devon. Stay put.” I felt resentment rise up like bile in my throat, getting to the point where I couldn't look at him without glaring. “Promise me.”

Mentally, I cursed. He knew all too well that once I said I was going to do (or not do, in this case) something, I would always follow through on it no matter what it was or whatever I had to go through to get it right. “Whatever.”

It wasn't just some snotty backtalk, my reply. No, it was very much deliberate. He might have thought I agreed, but it was really neutral. I would stay in the truck if I wanted to. I could feel Frank's eyes on me, trying to find a find a fault in the way I was talking or even sitting that would lead him to believe I was 'lying' to something I hadn't even agreed with.

Unlike mother dearest, Uncle Frank usually composed himself very well around me, or at least tried his best to. I wanted to know what was really going on… without it being sugar-coated after the fact. And that was exactly what Frank would do if I just outright refused to go along with him. So I waited. No more than a minute or two, as I didn't want to miss anything. It should have given him just enough time to get his shoes off.

Feeling more like a ninja than a teenager, I crept out of the passenger side of the truck and ducked my way up to the front door, which I opened and closed soundlessly behind me. But not before tripping over a pair of heavy combat boots I'd never seen before, of course. I did my best to conceal my cursing over the shoes, thankful for the small wall that separated me from the people in the living room.

And then I listened. Intently.

Nothing was said for a long time. I almost thought no one was even in the next room, but Mom hated her kitchen because it was so tiny and would never think of inviting a guest into it. So the living room was always her first choice for her sparse company.

“You wanna tell me why you brought him here, Marilyn? Bringing him here, after what happened,” Frank’s booming voice quite sufficiently cut through the silence, forcing me to use the wall to steady myself from nearly jumping out of my own skin. He sounded disgusted with my mother; it made me choke on my own saliva just from the tone he was using with her. Okay… I thought it was bad… this was ten million times worse. World War III was about to break out, I was sure of it.

What was interesting however was not that Frank knew Dean, but the fact that he knew him very well. Enough to think 'bringing him here' was a bad idea, too.

An unfamiliar laugh rang through the room and I could only guess it was Dean. It didn't sound like he was at all pleased, however, and he was just laughing himself out of the situation so to speak. “Well it if isn't little Frankie Thompson, in the flesh. Looks like you lost all your baby fat too, huh Frankie Boy?”

Poor choice of words, Dean. Very, very poor choice indeed. He would have been better off keeping his mouth shut.

Uncle Frank's rebuttal was silent. A silent Uncle Frank was never good under any circumstances. Still, I had no clue as to what was going on, just that the two men disliked each other. That wasn't good enough for me. I wanted to know why they did, and why the hell I hadn't heard about either their apparent feud or Dean until only then.

For a moment, I could imagine Frank's jaw jumping as he tried to control himself, too angry to even speak. I knew that look all too well, unfortunately. It was the same one I got whenever I did something especially offensive. “You got a lotta nerve coming back here, Win—”

“Frank,” Mom let out a nervous laugh, cutting him off. “Frank, dear. I think we need to have a talk. In the kitchen.”

Two sets of footsteps could be heard thumping all the way across the house, and I nearly let out a groan. I couldn't hear them all the way down the hall, especially if Marilyn forced my uncle to be quiet about things.

“You can come out now, you know. I assume you were trying to hide.”

Oh, shit.