fic: and wish that we could save them all
I feel like I should maybe apologize? Oh, well, it's random ficlet time, because Lucifer checking in on Bobby is just as much fun as I thought it'd be. I mean, it really, really is ;DD
required reading: hallelujah, we'll make it last.
OMGWTF: unbeta'd; Bobby-POV; spoilers for 5.15; minor canon character death
and wish that we could save them all
"I'm very sorry for your loss."
Bobby ignores the guy; the rest of the town's learned to walk right on by whenever Bobby Singer's at this particular bench, so this guy must be new around here.
Bobby don't really care to make friends. Guy'll learn, too.
He's thinking about when he can get his hands on another bottle, when he can stagger around drunk-blind and stupid, because her face. Her face. Christ, her face had been so twisted and ugly, and Karen'd always been beautiful.
Always been a good person, and when he thinks that it's like someone's whispering in his ear, pressing greed and warmth into him.
"I'm sorry, I've lost a lot of people. I'm familiar with that look," the man says, sitting down on the bench next to him, shoulder to shoulder. "I know what you must be going through."
Bobby wants to snap, wants to say, no, no you don't. How could you? He knows the words are childish, foolish. He's not the first to lose someone. He's sure as hell not the last. He's not even the first to screw the rest of his life into the dust because of it.
He doesn't care about any of that, how unfair his thoughts are, but when he turns enough to catch the man's expression, he can't say any of it. Suddenly doesn't want to, because maybe this guy ain't so bad.
"Bobby," he says. His voice is ruined, cracking on the edges and wavering in the middle, but the man smiles, takes his hand when Bobby offers it.
"Nick," the guy says, with a little too much force, a little awkwardly, but Bobby just nods, squeezes the man's dead-cold hand and then drops it. "Mind if I ask where they're buried?"
Bobby jerks at the question. It's weird, but at least the guy seems to know it. "My wife," Bobby says. Then, "does it matter?" He waves his hand at the cemetery, the array of headstones and statues, flowers and memorials. It's oddly beautiful in the sun, light dappling through the trees arranged throughout the grounds. Fleeting summer shadows coloring cold stone.
The desire for a drink claws at the back of his throat, a sudden, scrabbling urge that almost makes him choke, almost makes him want to run back to the scrap yard, to the line of bottles waiting for him. He forces himself to sit, loose and as easy as he can, while his mind screams at him. It almost feels like winning.
Nick hums, something low and rhythmic, and Bobby's brought back to the conversation. "Sometimes." He turns fully so that Bobby catches more than profile. The man's exhausted looking, sad. Bobby almost wants to ask who he lost, but most of him doesn't care. "Sometimes it means everything."
Bobby wonders if this time means anything, and if this is a test whether he'd pass or fail. "She was cremated."
"Oh."
"Maybe," Bobby continues, suddenly desperate to keep talking. Maybe he wants this stranger to stay here, or maybe he wants to scare him off, even Bobby isn't sure. "I should have had her buried? I already come here every day."
"Is it comforting? This place?" Nick looks out at the gravestones, face slightly lined and pleasant. Bobby looks away from the man, follows suit and sees the same things he always does, all the things he manages not to notice. There are graves when he wants them, formless rocks when he doesn't want to, or he can't, see.
"I don't know," he says. It's true. He can't tell if coming here gives him peace or an excuse. "I just can't stop."
Nick stands, then, and the sun hits his back, casts him in shadow, dark enough that the space beside Bobby grows cold. Bobby's not sure he could keep himself from following if Nick left, and the feeling is out of place, nothing he's used to. Karen's the only person he's ever needed, and even then he didn't need her all the time. But when Nick asks, "Take a walk?" When he holds out a hand like Bobby needs help getting up, like he's sure Bobby's going to get up, it's easier to sigh in relief, bypass the hand and stand on his own. Easier than refusing or arguing or saying anything about it at all.
"Okay," he says as if it's not obvious, but Nick's lips curl upwards, arms across his chest when he starts walking.
The cemetery's sidewalk is neat and even, winding along the outskirts of the graves, rolling with the hills. The ground on either side of the path is close clipped and green, easy to navigate, to find whatever place someone's looking for. But they stay on the winding concrete, side by side and close. They're quiet for a long time, just insects and birds making noise, countering the fall of their feet.
The air's still, the sun hotter than at the bench, and Bobby's on the verge of sweating. Nick's not, he can tell. They brush hands and arms frequently on the narrow path, and he can feel the coolness of the man's skin. Maybe he'd think it was odd if he weren't almost jealous.
Nick slows, stops and turns toward Bobby. At first he thinks there's a grave here that Nick wants to see, but Nick doesn't make like he's going to move. He just stands there for a minute, facing him. Bobby returns the favor, leaning in when Nick does, nerves coiling tight in his gut. "It won't matter," Nick says and it sounds like recollection, something familiar, but Bobby shakes his head, and Nick continues. "That she's cremated. Things will happen like they should. But," Nick reaches, gets Bobby's hand by the wrist. His fingers carry a chill in them, and Bobby's skin prickles.
Nick's other hand reaches into his shirt pocket, pulls out with his fingers clasped tight around something. With his fist, Nick nudges Bobby's hand until he can press whatever he's holding into Bobby's palm. The shape is elongated, dully pointed. Bobby doesn't have to look to know what it is. "A guarantee. Just a small one that I'm certain no one will mind."
Nick moves his hand away then, lets it drift over Bobby's. He presses inward until Bobby relents, forms a loose fist. "When the right person finds you, you'll figure it out, Bobby." It's a promise, and Bobby's head jerks, uncontrolled, eyes stuck on the hand folded over his own, arm feeling the weight against his palm like a hundred bricks. "I know."
Pale fingers push against him, quickly, then withdraw. It's only him, his hand, his fingers, within his eyeline. It's not comforting.
When he looks up, Nick is gone.
He opens his hand. He's...he's holding a bullet, brassy gold against the wrinkled skin of his palm. He looks around, half-spinning in place, but there's only the sound of voices growing steadily louder. Nothing else.
He doesn't know what to do, jiggles the bullet briefly, feels it bump against the slight curve of his fingers. He can see the people cresting the top of the hill in front of him, and he hurriedly slides it into his pocket.
A bullet? He'd wonder how far gone he'd have to be to carry around a random bullet, but he knows he's sober, has been all day.
Maybe that's too long, he thinks, as the group nears, eyes him with some pity but mostly distaste. Town'd run out of sympathy a long time ago, and that's fine. Bobby doesn't need it; never did, in fact.
He starts back toward the gate, hands shaking and mind wandering. Christ, but a drink sounds good.
And here's the third fic in this 'verse.
required reading: hallelujah, we'll make it last.
OMGWTF: unbeta'd; Bobby-POV; spoilers for 5.15; minor canon character death
and wish that we could save them all
"I'm very sorry for your loss."
Bobby ignores the guy; the rest of the town's learned to walk right on by whenever Bobby Singer's at this particular bench, so this guy must be new around here.
Bobby don't really care to make friends. Guy'll learn, too.
He's thinking about when he can get his hands on another bottle, when he can stagger around drunk-blind and stupid, because her face. Her face. Christ, her face had been so twisted and ugly, and Karen'd always been beautiful.
Always been a good person, and when he thinks that it's like someone's whispering in his ear, pressing greed and warmth into him.
"I'm sorry, I've lost a lot of people. I'm familiar with that look," the man says, sitting down on the bench next to him, shoulder to shoulder. "I know what you must be going through."
Bobby wants to snap, wants to say, no, no you don't. How could you? He knows the words are childish, foolish. He's not the first to lose someone. He's sure as hell not the last. He's not even the first to screw the rest of his life into the dust because of it.
He doesn't care about any of that, how unfair his thoughts are, but when he turns enough to catch the man's expression, he can't say any of it. Suddenly doesn't want to, because maybe this guy ain't so bad.
"Bobby," he says. His voice is ruined, cracking on the edges and wavering in the middle, but the man smiles, takes his hand when Bobby offers it.
"Nick," the guy says, with a little too much force, a little awkwardly, but Bobby just nods, squeezes the man's dead-cold hand and then drops it. "Mind if I ask where they're buried?"
Bobby jerks at the question. It's weird, but at least the guy seems to know it. "My wife," Bobby says. Then, "does it matter?" He waves his hand at the cemetery, the array of headstones and statues, flowers and memorials. It's oddly beautiful in the sun, light dappling through the trees arranged throughout the grounds. Fleeting summer shadows coloring cold stone.
The desire for a drink claws at the back of his throat, a sudden, scrabbling urge that almost makes him choke, almost makes him want to run back to the scrap yard, to the line of bottles waiting for him. He forces himself to sit, loose and as easy as he can, while his mind screams at him. It almost feels like winning.
Nick hums, something low and rhythmic, and Bobby's brought back to the conversation. "Sometimes." He turns fully so that Bobby catches more than profile. The man's exhausted looking, sad. Bobby almost wants to ask who he lost, but most of him doesn't care. "Sometimes it means everything."
Bobby wonders if this time means anything, and if this is a test whether he'd pass or fail. "She was cremated."
"Oh."
"Maybe," Bobby continues, suddenly desperate to keep talking. Maybe he wants this stranger to stay here, or maybe he wants to scare him off, even Bobby isn't sure. "I should have had her buried? I already come here every day."
"Is it comforting? This place?" Nick looks out at the gravestones, face slightly lined and pleasant. Bobby looks away from the man, follows suit and sees the same things he always does, all the things he manages not to notice. There are graves when he wants them, formless rocks when he doesn't want to, or he can't, see.
"I don't know," he says. It's true. He can't tell if coming here gives him peace or an excuse. "I just can't stop."
Nick stands, then, and the sun hits his back, casts him in shadow, dark enough that the space beside Bobby grows cold. Bobby's not sure he could keep himself from following if Nick left, and the feeling is out of place, nothing he's used to. Karen's the only person he's ever needed, and even then he didn't need her all the time. But when Nick asks, "Take a walk?" When he holds out a hand like Bobby needs help getting up, like he's sure Bobby's going to get up, it's easier to sigh in relief, bypass the hand and stand on his own. Easier than refusing or arguing or saying anything about it at all.
"Okay," he says as if it's not obvious, but Nick's lips curl upwards, arms across his chest when he starts walking.
The cemetery's sidewalk is neat and even, winding along the outskirts of the graves, rolling with the hills. The ground on either side of the path is close clipped and green, easy to navigate, to find whatever place someone's looking for. But they stay on the winding concrete, side by side and close. They're quiet for a long time, just insects and birds making noise, countering the fall of their feet.
The air's still, the sun hotter than at the bench, and Bobby's on the verge of sweating. Nick's not, he can tell. They brush hands and arms frequently on the narrow path, and he can feel the coolness of the man's skin. Maybe he'd think it was odd if he weren't almost jealous.
Nick slows, stops and turns toward Bobby. At first he thinks there's a grave here that Nick wants to see, but Nick doesn't make like he's going to move. He just stands there for a minute, facing him. Bobby returns the favor, leaning in when Nick does, nerves coiling tight in his gut. "It won't matter," Nick says and it sounds like recollection, something familiar, but Bobby shakes his head, and Nick continues. "That she's cremated. Things will happen like they should. But," Nick reaches, gets Bobby's hand by the wrist. His fingers carry a chill in them, and Bobby's skin prickles.
Nick's other hand reaches into his shirt pocket, pulls out with his fingers clasped tight around something. With his fist, Nick nudges Bobby's hand until he can press whatever he's holding into Bobby's palm. The shape is elongated, dully pointed. Bobby doesn't have to look to know what it is. "A guarantee. Just a small one that I'm certain no one will mind."
Nick moves his hand away then, lets it drift over Bobby's. He presses inward until Bobby relents, forms a loose fist. "When the right person finds you, you'll figure it out, Bobby." It's a promise, and Bobby's head jerks, uncontrolled, eyes stuck on the hand folded over his own, arm feeling the weight against his palm like a hundred bricks. "I know."
Pale fingers push against him, quickly, then withdraw. It's only him, his hand, his fingers, within his eyeline. It's not comforting.
When he looks up, Nick is gone.
He opens his hand. He's...he's holding a bullet, brassy gold against the wrinkled skin of his palm. He looks around, half-spinning in place, but there's only the sound of voices growing steadily louder. Nothing else.
He doesn't know what to do, jiggles the bullet briefly, feels it bump against the slight curve of his fingers. He can see the people cresting the top of the hill in front of him, and he hurriedly slides it into his pocket.
A bullet? He'd wonder how far gone he'd have to be to carry around a random bullet, but he knows he's sober, has been all day.
Maybe that's too long, he thinks, as the group nears, eyes him with some pity but mostly distaste. Town'd run out of sympathy a long time ago, and that's fine. Bobby doesn't need it; never did, in fact.
He starts back toward the gate, hands shaking and mind wandering. Christ, but a drink sounds good.
And here's the third fic in this 'verse.