Someday Never Comes

Notes: written for the poorboyshuffle Challenge. Song used is CCR's Someday Never Comes.


First thing I remember was askin' papa, "Why?", For there were many things I didn't know. And Daddy always smiled; took me by the hand, Sayin', "Someday you'll understand."

CHORUS: Well, I'm here to tell you now each and ev'ry mother's son You better learn it fast; you better learn it young, 'Cause, "Someday" Never Comes."

Well, time and tears went by and I collected dust, For there were many things I didn't know. When Daddy went away, he said, "Try to be a man, And, Someday you'll understand."

And then, one day in April, I wasn't even there, For there were many things I didn't know. A son was born to me; Mama held his hand, Sayin' "Someday you'll understand."

Think it was September, the year I went away, For there were many things I didn't know. And I still see him standing, try'n' to be a man; I said, "Someday you'll understand."

Someday Never Comes

John knew it was probably a mistake as soon as he bought her a drink. That didn't stop him; hell, he'd had a rough hunt and despite getting the son of a bitch, innocent people had been hurt -- one had died. He'd been home for a day and had been in this bar for...he wasn't sure. A couple hours, maybe, when she'd walked up and let him buy her a drink.

They didn't bother going back to her place. Out in her car, back seat big enough for what they wanted to do. When it was done she said call me, handed over her number. He smiled like he would, tucking the slip of paper into his front pocket.

He tried not to think about Mary. She'd been gone six years now and the pain hadn't ever gone away. John had managed somehow to move on.

More or less. Mostly he'd just accepted the fact that sometimes a man needed things and he couldn't honestly be expected to put everything in his life on hold. As he walked away from the woman's car, he knew he'd told himself that before. Knew himself well enough to know he'd be saying it again. Another town, another seedy bar, another pretty face that was willing to not make more of it than what it was.

He didn't know if Mary would blame him, or understand.

The beer had worn off enough he could drive himself home. When he unlocked the front door he found Dean standing in the living room with the shotgun in hand, at ease. John gave him a nod and locked the door behind him; a glance showed him everything was as it should be. Salt lines unbroken, the living room picked up from whatever the boys might have strewn across it. He'd only had to trip over Sam's toys once.

"Everything all right?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," Dean said, nodding once.

Returning the nod, John stumbled a little as he dropped his keys and his jacket on the chair before heading towards the small bedroom. The door was open; he could see Sammy, sound asleep in bed. He'd kicked the blankets off again -- they were tangled around one foot, and he was lying sprawled out with arms and legs going everywhere.

"He brushed his teeth and went to bed at eight p.m.," Dean reported quietly from behind him. John nodded; bedtime hadn't ever been something he'd had to enforce, not since they'd figured out the trick of letting Sammy take a comic book to bed with him. So far he still fell asleep within ten minutes of crawling into bed no matter how hard he tried to read the whole thing.

For a moment he watched his youngest boy sleeping, and thought about how Mary would have snuck in and re-arranged the blankets, taken the crumpled comic book and smoothed it out, setting it on the dresser. John took half a step forward to do just that when he stopped himself. He didn't want to wake Sammy, and it wasn't like the comic wasn't old and worn already.

He turned away and headed for the kitchen, with Dean still following. He glanced down at his oldest, wondering if there was something else. "Anything wrong?" he asked, knowing surely it would have first thing out of Dean's mouth if something had happened.

Dean shook his head, but was frowning slightly. John only had to wait a second before Dean said, "I gave my book report at school today."

John stepped into the kitchen and fumbled for the light switch. He was tired, wanted nothing more than to curl up in bed and sleep for a week. Dinner, a beer, and maybe he'd do just that.

"I got a ninety five percent," Dean continued, standing behind him in the doorway.

John blinked at the kitchen. At the sheer mess/. "Dean, what the hell is this?"

There was only a slight pause before Dean said quickly, "Sammy wanted to help me make dinner."

He had his mouth open to ask what the hell they'd been making that they'd apparently used every dish and pan they owned. And why 'cooking' had meant leaving everything everywhere. "Get this cleaned up before you go to bed," John said sharply. Whatever the hell Dean had been thinking, John had no intention of facing this mess come morning, not when everything would have had a chance to congeal.

"Yes, sir."

John abandoned his idea of having a sandwich before bed, and turned, moving past Dean and heading down the short hallway towards his own bedroom. He heard the sound of metal clanging softly from the kitchen.

As he laid down on the bed, he had an image: Mary, standing in their kitchen back home. Sammy standing on a kitchen chair beside her, stirring something in a bowl. Making cookies, maybe, or maybe she'd let him help spread peanut butter on the bread. She'd be smiling.

She'd be beautiful.

John rolled onto his side, catching sight of the clock. Nearly eleven p.m., and he had to be up at five to get to the garage. Matthews had said he'd have work for John, tomorrow and the next day after. Not much, but it was cash under the table and a chance for John to make a good impression. Dan Matthews knew people John was trying to find, hunters who might have a lead on the demon.

Trouble was, Matthews wasn't the trusting type, nor were the people John wanted to meet. So he'd have to go in, do a damn good job on whatever Matthews gave him, for as long as it took, and hopefully he could find someone who could give him a lead. Any lead at all.

He closed his eyes and thought about Mary. He missed her, missed her all the time but some days it was harder, cut a little deeper. When the hunts were hard and he felt worn out, all he could think about was what he was missing, what his boys were missing with their mother gone.

John closed his eyes and fell asleep, and when he woke up there was the smell of coffee and for a moment Mary's name was on his lips.

the end