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krisomniacI should so be studying...
Title: Wind, Promises, Beer, and Dust
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
krisomniac
Rating, warning, pairing: PG, almost-cussing, gen
Disclaimer: not mine. They belong to Kripke and CW network. No profit nor copyright infringement intended.
A/N, Summary: Thanks toignipes for the beta. Apparently, I really like writing minor character POV pieces. ~1900 words.
Reflections on an empty road and an old friend.
Wind, Promises, Beer, and Dust
Ellen watches the dust settle on the road long after the Volkswagen is gone back to Bobby's. She leans back against the rough wooden door and listens to the sound of Ash setting his beer on the bar, the rapid clicking of his fingers on the keyboard, Jo moving the chairs and tables aside as she sweeps. The afternoon sun is shining. The leaves are changing from golden red to faded brown.
And John Winchester is dead.
She closes her eyes and imagines him answering the phone, the smile and greeting she could always count on, even when he was a thousand miles away. The memories are so vivid she doesn't quite believe they're all that's left of him. Death is something that happens to other people, normal people.
She almost smiles at the irony. The first time she met John, she wouldn't have picked him out of the crowd.
~
Benji Horn is telling lewd jokes again, his booming laughter louder than every other voice in the room. He grabs at her ass as she spins away.
"Gotta move faster than that, Benj," she says, smacking his hand with her towel.
The phone is ringing, but she takes her time walking back and misses the call. The music is fast, Bill is home, and the company is pleasantly rowdy tonight. She wipes down the bar and sets out four bottles from the fridge. The phone starts to ring again.
"Be right back." She winks at the guys waiting for their beer. "Hullo?"
The voice on the other end of the line is barely loud enough to be heard over the noise in the saloon.
"Come again?"
"Can I speak to my dad?" the caller asks a second time.
Ellen walks into the hallway beside the bathrooms, stretching the cord around the corner where she can hear better. "Your what?"
"My dad." He has a child's voice, she thinks, high and determined and a little too used to making this call.
"There's a lot of people's daddies here, kid. He have a name?"
"John."
"A lot of Johns, too."
There's a long pause. Ellen twists the cord around her little finger. "You still there?" she asks.
When he speaks again, his voice is louder, panic hidden under little-kid bravado. "He gave me this number, and he told me to call. He said he'd be there, so--" He takes a deep breath. "He has to be."
"Alright, I'll take a look." She walks back into the main room, glancing past the locals at the bar, trying to find her husband in the crowd. Bill knows everyone in town, everyone just passing through, and everyone who's ever been here before. He's bound to know what John has a son who's waiting to speak to his dad.
He's sitting at a table in the back, talking quietly with an unfamiliar man. The stranger is scruffy but alert, nursing his beer and glancing nervously around the room. Even from here, she can see Bill's efforts to make him laugh are falling on deaf ears.
"Your dad," she asks the boy on the line. "He a hunter?"
"Um. I guess so." She can barely hear him over the music now. "His name's John Winchester."
~
They broke into her place, she muses, almost smiling. Of course they did.
She'd never seen them before, but the moment Dean spoke, she suspected. When she heard their names, she knew.
Like family, she told them. And they'd stared at her like she was crazy.
~
She locks the door behind her. They're not expecting anyone else and--she looks at the piles of dirty dishes from today's well-wishers--she isn't entirely sure she wants to see them anyway.
Her eyes are dry and tired, her skin feels caked in dust from the bonfire, hands sore from shaking, shoulders all hugged out.
Jo is passed out cold on the bench in her daddy's favorite booth, curled into the tiniest space by the wall, only her shock of white-blonde hair visible to the rest of the room. She's exhausted from showing everyone in town her new shoes and stuffed bear. She doesn't understand what's happening, not really. Her daddy's been away for this long before. He's always come back.
Ellen pulls out a bar stool and rests her head in the crook of her arm. She doesn't think about it. She doesn't think about anything at all, just inhales the bitter scent of stale beer that's soaked so deep in this wood no amount of scrubbing will ever wash it out. Dwelling on what happened is about as useful as poking a bruise to see if it's still there. She's got the business to worry about and Jo, always Jo.
There's a faint click across the room, shifting pins in the rusty old lock. At least, she thinks,it's good for something.
Her gun is cocked and trained on the intruder before he even opens the door. She doesn't lift her head.
"Ellen," he says quietly.
She looks up. John is standing just inside the doorway, framed by the summer night. He doesn't move. Doesn't come in or retreat.
"I just heard."
She shrugs. "Happens to all of them, I guess. Sooner or later." Then she remembers who she's talking to and swallows.
He nods and steps inside. A cool breeze follows and he seems hesitant to come any closer. "I'm so--" He can't even say the word.
She smiles ruefully and tucks the gun back into her belt; no need to worry about hugs or casseroles from this one. "John," she says, "you'd better not be going soft on me."
"No ma'am." He exhales, and some of the tension in the room eases. Then he points at the dishes piled up. "Lot of people come by?"
Ellen nods. "Everybody."
"Good," he says and begins to wash up. He knows where everything is and moves quickly, clearly relieved to have something to do with his hands. He's neat and efficient with this as with everything else, and she's more grateful for the silent companionship than she can say. The minutes pass as she watches him work, notes the slight bulge at his side, where he's hidden his gun, the concealed knife sheath just visible under the cuff of his sleeve. She's come to trust him over the past few years, nearly as much as Bill does.
Did.
He finishes washing and rolls his sleeves back down, wiping his hands on his worn-out jeans. "Care for a beer?"
"Thought you'd never ask."
John goes quickly behind the bar. He pops the cap with a flourish and sets the bottle down in front of her, opens another for himself. Droplets of condensation bead on the outside of the glass.
"Now, little miss," he begins, forcing a smile; it's a game they've played before, after everyone else has gone home: he's the bartender and she has to tell him what's wrong. He mixes the most creatively horrible drinks and usually spills something. She almost always laughs. "What seems to be troubling you?"
His face falls the moment the words leave his lips, his expression tinged with memory and regret.
She stares at her drink and doesn't answer for a long time. "Do you know--" She isn't entirely sure she wants to. "Do you know any more about what happened?"
He closes his eyes and shakes his head. "No." His knuckles are white on the glass, jaw tight as he stares out the door. "I owe you and William--you know you've been like family, right?" He won't meet her eyes. "Always wanted you two to meet my boys. Time just got away I guess." He takes a long swallow, nearly draining his drink. There's a faint thud when he sets it too heavily back on the bar. "I swear to you I'll kill that bastard, whenever I find it, whatever it is."
"No swearing," she says softly. "Not in front of Jo."
"Ellen--" His voice is low and almost tender. "I don't--"
"Just tell me: how do you do it?"
"Do what?"
She turns and looks over to the mess of blonde hair in the booth. "Do you remember the night we met?"
She knows he does.
"Dean called. You spoke to him for fifteen minutes. Then you told me his name and bragged that he was already as good a shot as his dad. I don't think I've seen you so proud before or since, as when you're talking about those kids." Ellen pauses, remembering. "He called every night that week, always at the same time, and you were always here, every night, to pick up the phone. Bill said you were chasing a revenant--a nasty one--but you never missed your son, and he never missed you. I never told you that he called again, the night you left, just to make sure you'd hit the road okay."
"What--"
"Tell me how you do it, John."
He walks around to her side of the bar, wary and confused, hands out like she's some kind of wildcat whose next move he can't predict. He steps closer, reaching out to touch her.
Suddenly she can't bear the idea of more stupid condolences, more hugs and empty words. She turns on him and sends the barstool crashing to the ground. "How do you walk away from your kids every time you go on a hunt? How do you live with yourself knowing you might never come back? That they'll never know what happened to you?"
"I don't think I'm the one--"
"I know who I'm talking to." She presses him closer to the door, and he backs away from her advance. "I'm grieving, not crazy." She takes another step. "Don't you get it? Those boys love you. You're all they have, and you just…. You want to swear your life away? You just swear to me you won't go like my Bill. Then we'll call it even."
They're standing at the threshold. The wind lifts up her hair, and she can feel hot tears dampen her cheek. She means to slam the door in his shocked face, but he's holding it open and her hand is shaking too badly to push his away.
"I don't think you should be alone," he says.
She grits her teeth. "You of all people would know about that."
They stand still for a long minute, and the silence stretches out between them. Finally, she lets go of the door. "Go home," she says. "Go away. Back to your boys. We'll be alright."
And then he smiles, flashes that grin that's hiding some secret he'll let her know in its own good time. "You really think I'm gonna do that?" He reaches out and rests a hand on her shoulder. This time, she doesn't brush it away. "I'll be back in the morning," he says as he turns and ambles out to his car. "And Ellen?" he turns to tell her, "I swear."
~
The wind is picking up, whistling hollow and long over the stunted trees. She wipes her hands on he apron and thinks about the empty beds out back. Silly to ask; she knew they wouldn't stay.
Too much of their dad in them, any fool could see it.
"Mom, can you give me a hand with these boxes?" Jo calls from inside.
Ellen takes a deep breath. "Lying bastard," she whispers into the empty lot.
There's no answer but the wind and the setting sun.
Title: Wind, Promises, Beer, and Dust
Author:
krisomniacRating, warning, pairing: PG, almost-cussing, gen
Disclaimer: not mine. They belong to Kripke and CW network. No profit nor copyright infringement intended.
A/N, Summary: Thanks to
ignipes for the beta. Apparently, I really like writing minor character POV pieces. ~1900 words.Reflections on an empty road and an old friend.
Ellen watches the dust settle on the road long after the Volkswagen is gone back to Bobby's. She leans back against the rough wooden door and listens to the sound of Ash setting his beer on the bar, the rapid clicking of his fingers on the keyboard, Jo moving the chairs and tables aside as she sweeps. The afternoon sun is shining. The leaves are changing from golden red to faded brown.
And John Winchester is dead.
She closes her eyes and imagines him answering the phone, the smile and greeting she could always count on, even when he was a thousand miles away. The memories are so vivid she doesn't quite believe they're all that's left of him. Death is something that happens to other people, normal people.
She almost smiles at the irony. The first time she met John, she wouldn't have picked him out of the crowd.
~
Benji Horn is telling lewd jokes again, his booming laughter louder than every other voice in the room. He grabs at her ass as she spins away.
"Gotta move faster than that, Benj," she says, smacking his hand with her towel.
The phone is ringing, but she takes her time walking back and misses the call. The music is fast, Bill is home, and the company is pleasantly rowdy tonight. She wipes down the bar and sets out four bottles from the fridge. The phone starts to ring again.
"Be right back." She winks at the guys waiting for their beer. "Hullo?"
The voice on the other end of the line is barely loud enough to be heard over the noise in the saloon.
"Come again?"
"Can I speak to my dad?" the caller asks a second time.
Ellen walks into the hallway beside the bathrooms, stretching the cord around the corner where she can hear better. "Your what?"
"My dad." He has a child's voice, she thinks, high and determined and a little too used to making this call.
"There's a lot of people's daddies here, kid. He have a name?"
"John."
"A lot of Johns, too."
There's a long pause. Ellen twists the cord around her little finger. "You still there?" she asks.
When he speaks again, his voice is louder, panic hidden under little-kid bravado. "He gave me this number, and he told me to call. He said he'd be there, so--" He takes a deep breath. "He has to be."
"Alright, I'll take a look." She walks back into the main room, glancing past the locals at the bar, trying to find her husband in the crowd. Bill knows everyone in town, everyone just passing through, and everyone who's ever been here before. He's bound to know what John has a son who's waiting to speak to his dad.
He's sitting at a table in the back, talking quietly with an unfamiliar man. The stranger is scruffy but alert, nursing his beer and glancing nervously around the room. Even from here, she can see Bill's efforts to make him laugh are falling on deaf ears.
"Your dad," she asks the boy on the line. "He a hunter?"
"Um. I guess so." She can barely hear him over the music now. "His name's John Winchester."
~
They broke into her place, she muses, almost smiling. Of course they did.
She'd never seen them before, but the moment Dean spoke, she suspected. When she heard their names, she knew.
Like family, she told them. And they'd stared at her like she was crazy.
~
She locks the door behind her. They're not expecting anyone else and--she looks at the piles of dirty dishes from today's well-wishers--she isn't entirely sure she wants to see them anyway.
Her eyes are dry and tired, her skin feels caked in dust from the bonfire, hands sore from shaking, shoulders all hugged out.
Jo is passed out cold on the bench in her daddy's favorite booth, curled into the tiniest space by the wall, only her shock of white-blonde hair visible to the rest of the room. She's exhausted from showing everyone in town her new shoes and stuffed bear. She doesn't understand what's happening, not really. Her daddy's been away for this long before. He's always come back.
Ellen pulls out a bar stool and rests her head in the crook of her arm. She doesn't think about it. She doesn't think about anything at all, just inhales the bitter scent of stale beer that's soaked so deep in this wood no amount of scrubbing will ever wash it out. Dwelling on what happened is about as useful as poking a bruise to see if it's still there. She's got the business to worry about and Jo, always Jo.
There's a faint click across the room, shifting pins in the rusty old lock. At least, she thinks,it's good for something.
Her gun is cocked and trained on the intruder before he even opens the door. She doesn't lift her head.
"Ellen," he says quietly.
She looks up. John is standing just inside the doorway, framed by the summer night. He doesn't move. Doesn't come in or retreat.
"I just heard."
She shrugs. "Happens to all of them, I guess. Sooner or later." Then she remembers who she's talking to and swallows.
He nods and steps inside. A cool breeze follows and he seems hesitant to come any closer. "I'm so--" He can't even say the word.
She smiles ruefully and tucks the gun back into her belt; no need to worry about hugs or casseroles from this one. "John," she says, "you'd better not be going soft on me."
"No ma'am." He exhales, and some of the tension in the room eases. Then he points at the dishes piled up. "Lot of people come by?"
Ellen nods. "Everybody."
"Good," he says and begins to wash up. He knows where everything is and moves quickly, clearly relieved to have something to do with his hands. He's neat and efficient with this as with everything else, and she's more grateful for the silent companionship than she can say. The minutes pass as she watches him work, notes the slight bulge at his side, where he's hidden his gun, the concealed knife sheath just visible under the cuff of his sleeve. She's come to trust him over the past few years, nearly as much as Bill does.
Did.
He finishes washing and rolls his sleeves back down, wiping his hands on his worn-out jeans. "Care for a beer?"
"Thought you'd never ask."
John goes quickly behind the bar. He pops the cap with a flourish and sets the bottle down in front of her, opens another for himself. Droplets of condensation bead on the outside of the glass.
"Now, little miss," he begins, forcing a smile; it's a game they've played before, after everyone else has gone home: he's the bartender and she has to tell him what's wrong. He mixes the most creatively horrible drinks and usually spills something. She almost always laughs. "What seems to be troubling you?"
His face falls the moment the words leave his lips, his expression tinged with memory and regret.
She stares at her drink and doesn't answer for a long time. "Do you know--" She isn't entirely sure she wants to. "Do you know any more about what happened?"
He closes his eyes and shakes his head. "No." His knuckles are white on the glass, jaw tight as he stares out the door. "I owe you and William--you know you've been like family, right?" He won't meet her eyes. "Always wanted you two to meet my boys. Time just got away I guess." He takes a long swallow, nearly draining his drink. There's a faint thud when he sets it too heavily back on the bar. "I swear to you I'll kill that bastard, whenever I find it, whatever it is."
"No swearing," she says softly. "Not in front of Jo."
"Ellen--" His voice is low and almost tender. "I don't--"
"Just tell me: how do you do it?"
"Do what?"
She turns and looks over to the mess of blonde hair in the booth. "Do you remember the night we met?"
She knows he does.
"Dean called. You spoke to him for fifteen minutes. Then you told me his name and bragged that he was already as good a shot as his dad. I don't think I've seen you so proud before or since, as when you're talking about those kids." Ellen pauses, remembering. "He called every night that week, always at the same time, and you were always here, every night, to pick up the phone. Bill said you were chasing a revenant--a nasty one--but you never missed your son, and he never missed you. I never told you that he called again, the night you left, just to make sure you'd hit the road okay."
"What--"
"Tell me how you do it, John."
He walks around to her side of the bar, wary and confused, hands out like she's some kind of wildcat whose next move he can't predict. He steps closer, reaching out to touch her.
Suddenly she can't bear the idea of more stupid condolences, more hugs and empty words. She turns on him and sends the barstool crashing to the ground. "How do you walk away from your kids every time you go on a hunt? How do you live with yourself knowing you might never come back? That they'll never know what happened to you?"
"I don't think I'm the one--"
"I know who I'm talking to." She presses him closer to the door, and he backs away from her advance. "I'm grieving, not crazy." She takes another step. "Don't you get it? Those boys love you. You're all they have, and you just…. You want to swear your life away? You just swear to me you won't go like my Bill. Then we'll call it even."
They're standing at the threshold. The wind lifts up her hair, and she can feel hot tears dampen her cheek. She means to slam the door in his shocked face, but he's holding it open and her hand is shaking too badly to push his away.
"I don't think you should be alone," he says.
She grits her teeth. "You of all people would know about that."
They stand still for a long minute, and the silence stretches out between them. Finally, she lets go of the door. "Go home," she says. "Go away. Back to your boys. We'll be alright."
And then he smiles, flashes that grin that's hiding some secret he'll let her know in its own good time. "You really think I'm gonna do that?" He reaches out and rests a hand on her shoulder. This time, she doesn't brush it away. "I'll be back in the morning," he says as he turns and ambles out to his car. "And Ellen?" he turns to tell her, "I swear."
~
The wind is picking up, whistling hollow and long over the stunted trees. She wipes her hands on he apron and thinks about the empty beds out back. Silly to ask; she knew they wouldn't stay.
Too much of their dad in them, any fool could see it.
"Mom, can you give me a hand with these boxes?" Jo calls from inside.
Ellen takes a deep breath. "Lying bastard," she whispers into the empty lot.
There's no answer but the wind and the setting sun.
