SPN FIC - We Leave Behind Those Desperate Eyes
Three viewings of 5.02 later, I'm still left with a question: "Wait! What happened to Ellen and Jo?" There seemed to be a scene missing at the end, before that ultimate scene with the boys. That might be a time-limitation problem, or an "Eh, they'll never notice" moment -- but it begged for fic. So here you go: the missing scene from the end of 5.02, told from the POV of one of those spoilery characters.
The title is from Pat Conroy's awesome South of Broad.
CHARACTERS: Dean, Sam, Ellen, Jo, Rufus
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: 5.02
LENGTH: 1673 words
WE LEAVE BEHIND THOSE DESPERATE EYES
By Carol Davis
"There's food in the kitchen," Ellen says softly, and she can hear the weight in her voice. Something prompts her to keep talking; her daughter sitting there on the couch a few feet away is no small part of it, but there's more.
She used to run a roadhouse. Used to be a hostess of sorts.
"Bread," she says. "And some stuff for sandwiches."
"Whose house is this?" Dean asks her, with less emotion in his voice than one of those automated voicemail systems.
"I don't know."
"If they're still out there" - he nods toward the window - "you think maybe we oughta ask before we help ourselves?"
Nobody says We saved their asses. We've got it coming to us. Whatever we want to take. Yes, the battle's over, but this town is one big casualty. Judging by the size of it, the original population might have been a couple of hundred. Now it's maybe a dozen, although there might be a few more hiding in cellars or closets or under their beds.
"I'll go ask," Jo says.
She stands up, and looks from face to face. Ellen, Sam, Rufus, Dean. It doesn't escape Ellen that she looks at Dean last, and then only fleetingly. The only response she gets is a small shrug from Sam that he seems to mean as an acknowledgment of a good idea. Ellen doesn't bother to protest, doesn't bother to say Be careful.
Because it's over. For now.
And they're all going to be warriors eventually. Everyone's daughters. Everyone's sons.
She lowers her head into her hands. She can feel, now, the exhaustion creeping into bone and muscle.
"Anybody hurt?" Dean asks after a minute. "We all okay?"
It happens: in the frenzy of the moment, you don't realize you're hurt. Then you look down and there's blood. Or you try to stand up and there's a busted ankle, or a popped shoulder, or some other damn thing. Bill used to tell her about it. She'd hear the other hunters talk about it over a beer or a whiskey. Like it was amusing. They had to turn it into something amusing, she supposes. The war stories are what keeps you going afterwards.
"Ellen?" Dean says. "You okay?"
"Yeah," she murmurs, and lifts her head as if that proves something. Every inch of her aches or cramps or throbs, from lack of sleep and food and water, from being tossed around, from the void that's left when the adrenaline's gone. A part of it that's got no connection at all with her being female wants to cry. Wants to be back at the roadhouse, serving up drinks and sandwiches and a few laughs while she waits for Bill to come home.
"We should help them," Sam suggests. "There are -" He stops. "There are bodies out there."
Rufus looks him full in the eye. "They're gonna want to take care of their own."
"But -"
"Don't ask 'em now. Wait a while. This is their town."
"But it'd be easier on them if we do it."
Rufus snorts loudly, pushes up from his chair, frowns in a way that says yes, he's pretty beat up but he'll be damned if he's gonna slow down for it. He strides across the room, yanks the door open and goes out onto the porch, banging the door shut behind him.
That leaves her alone with John Winchester's boys.
She's always known them as grown men, not the kids their daddy used to talk about - those few times when he'd open up to talking about something other than the hunt, anyway. That first time Dean and Sam showed up at the roadhouse, they didn't look to be anybody's kids. They were hunters, every inch of them.
That was three years ago, but now, somehow, in a way she couldn't before, she can see the lost kid in each of them.
If she went into the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror, she figures she'd see a lost kid looking back at her from there, too.
"You oughta eat something," she says.
Dean knits his hands together and rests them on his knees. Oozes out a long breath that sounds like he's been hanging on to it for a while, like it was something he wasn't sure he'd get too much more of. He stares at something halfway between his knees and the floor for a minute, maybe working something over in his head. Back three years ago, back at the roadhouse - even though his daddy was only a couple of weeks gone - he would have tossed her some smartass comment. Made light of things. Maybe he still does that, now and then, but there's a new outer layer to him now. Hell might have fired this new layer of clay, she thinks, but something here on earth put a glaze on it after he came out of the kiln.
"I'll get you something," she says, and starts to rise.
"No," Dean says.
He looks at her, harsh at first, then gentler. "No," he says again. "Wait'll Jo comes back. We can wait to be invited."
He doesn't look at Sam.
She finds him a little while later standing upstairs in one of the bedrooms. Not making himself at home, not that in any way at all. It's like he's touring a battlefield, or a monument. Paying his respects to something that's been lost. Something has been, of course: Jo came back in to tell them that the owners of this particular house were killed a couple of days ago, and the house stood empty until Jo and Rufus claimed it as their stronghold. It belongs to nobody now, unless the owners had heirs who live somewhere else.
Ellen stands in the doorway, still and silent, one hand resting on the frame. He knows she's there, even though he's turned away from her; she can see that in his body language. Can also see that he knows it's not Sam, or Rufus, or Jo who's come treading slowly up the stairs to find him.
Two years ago, after they watched the Devil's Gate fly open, they took some comfort in each other.
Things have only gotten worse since then.
She moves to stand in front of him, stand close, and wraps her arms around him. He stands still and steady for a moment, then surrenders by degrees and folds her in his arms, rests his cheek against the top of her head.
"We should go," he whispers. "They don't want us here."
It's true: it might take a while for the dozen-odd people of River Bend to pick up the pieces, to bury their dead and clean up the mess their fear created. But they'll find a way to do it. Maybe the few who are left will be the stronger for it. Either way, there's no place in this town for five strangers who showed up to save them.
And there are other towns.
Other people to save.
A while back, Ellen Harvelle ran a roadhouse. She served up food and drink and some music and a place to rest and she listened to hunters make light of what they'd done, of what had happened to them. But that's all gone now: the roadhouse, her husband, her home, her friends.
All of her friends, except for these last few. John Winchester's boys. Rufus Turner. Bobby Singer.
And her daughter. She's still got her daughter.
But things have gotten steadily worse. She's got no illusion to hold on to that they can save more than they lose.
There are voices downstairs, she realizes.
It's time to go.
She draws back from Dean just a little. Tips her head to look up at him, look into his eyes. There's something in them she's never seen before. He lets her look at it, look into those jewel-green wells to his soul, for just a moment, then he leans down a little and gently touches his lips to her cheek. When he draws back he smiles, and it says more than any collection of words ever could.
"Be careful," she tells him.
He shrugs, a small lift of one shoulder.
"Please," she says.
"Don't know that it'd change anything."
He releases her then, steps back and takes one last look around. When he's finished with that he smiles again, and this time there's a little of the old humor in it, a little of the old Dean, the one who strutted almost everywhere he went, the one who liked to pretend he owned the world. He holds on to that as he moves toward the door, holds on to it as he seems to be putting some pieces together in his mind.
"Sorry," he says as he nears the threshold.
"For what?"
"That I didn't call."
There are moments, she knows - moments when you have to choose the right way to send someone on their way. Sometimes, if you do it wrong, there's no do-over. There wasn't, with Bill, and she's regretted that on a thousand different nights.
So she does this. She matches Dean's crooked little smirk and tells him, "The next time you're resurrected? You call me. Or I'll kick your ass."
"Duly noted," he says.
She watches out the bedroom window as he and Sam leave the house and set off down the road, headed out of town, headed for parts unknown. Time was, she would have sent them on their way with a paper sack of sandwiches and some sodas. Time was, she could have counted on seeing them again.
Now, there's no counting on much of anything.
So she does what she can do. She steps away from the window, walks out of the bedroom that belonged to a couple of strangers who'll never enter it again, walks away from the bit of home that belongs to no one any more, and makes her way down the stairs to join her daughter and get the hell out of River Bend.
* * * * *
The title is from Pat Conroy's awesome South of Broad.
CHARACTERS: Dean, Sam, Ellen, Jo, Rufus
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: 5.02
LENGTH: 1673 words
WE LEAVE BEHIND THOSE DESPERATE EYES
By Carol Davis
"There's food in the kitchen," Ellen says softly, and she can hear the weight in her voice. Something prompts her to keep talking; her daughter sitting there on the couch a few feet away is no small part of it, but there's more.
She used to run a roadhouse. Used to be a hostess of sorts.
"Bread," she says. "And some stuff for sandwiches."
"Whose house is this?" Dean asks her, with less emotion in his voice than one of those automated voicemail systems.
"I don't know."
"If they're still out there" - he nods toward the window - "you think maybe we oughta ask before we help ourselves?"
Nobody says We saved their asses. We've got it coming to us. Whatever we want to take. Yes, the battle's over, but this town is one big casualty. Judging by the size of it, the original population might have been a couple of hundred. Now it's maybe a dozen, although there might be a few more hiding in cellars or closets or under their beds.
"I'll go ask," Jo says.
She stands up, and looks from face to face. Ellen, Sam, Rufus, Dean. It doesn't escape Ellen that she looks at Dean last, and then only fleetingly. The only response she gets is a small shrug from Sam that he seems to mean as an acknowledgment of a good idea. Ellen doesn't bother to protest, doesn't bother to say Be careful.
Because it's over. For now.
And they're all going to be warriors eventually. Everyone's daughters. Everyone's sons.
She lowers her head into her hands. She can feel, now, the exhaustion creeping into bone and muscle.
"Anybody hurt?" Dean asks after a minute. "We all okay?"
It happens: in the frenzy of the moment, you don't realize you're hurt. Then you look down and there's blood. Or you try to stand up and there's a busted ankle, or a popped shoulder, or some other damn thing. Bill used to tell her about it. She'd hear the other hunters talk about it over a beer or a whiskey. Like it was amusing. They had to turn it into something amusing, she supposes. The war stories are what keeps you going afterwards.
"Ellen?" Dean says. "You okay?"
"Yeah," she murmurs, and lifts her head as if that proves something. Every inch of her aches or cramps or throbs, from lack of sleep and food and water, from being tossed around, from the void that's left when the adrenaline's gone. A part of it that's got no connection at all with her being female wants to cry. Wants to be back at the roadhouse, serving up drinks and sandwiches and a few laughs while she waits for Bill to come home.
"We should help them," Sam suggests. "There are -" He stops. "There are bodies out there."
Rufus looks him full in the eye. "They're gonna want to take care of their own."
"But -"
"Don't ask 'em now. Wait a while. This is their town."
"But it'd be easier on them if we do it."
Rufus snorts loudly, pushes up from his chair, frowns in a way that says yes, he's pretty beat up but he'll be damned if he's gonna slow down for it. He strides across the room, yanks the door open and goes out onto the porch, banging the door shut behind him.
That leaves her alone with John Winchester's boys.
She's always known them as grown men, not the kids their daddy used to talk about - those few times when he'd open up to talking about something other than the hunt, anyway. That first time Dean and Sam showed up at the roadhouse, they didn't look to be anybody's kids. They were hunters, every inch of them.
That was three years ago, but now, somehow, in a way she couldn't before, she can see the lost kid in each of them.
If she went into the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror, she figures she'd see a lost kid looking back at her from there, too.
"You oughta eat something," she says.
Dean knits his hands together and rests them on his knees. Oozes out a long breath that sounds like he's been hanging on to it for a while, like it was something he wasn't sure he'd get too much more of. He stares at something halfway between his knees and the floor for a minute, maybe working something over in his head. Back three years ago, back at the roadhouse - even though his daddy was only a couple of weeks gone - he would have tossed her some smartass comment. Made light of things. Maybe he still does that, now and then, but there's a new outer layer to him now. Hell might have fired this new layer of clay, she thinks, but something here on earth put a glaze on it after he came out of the kiln.
"I'll get you something," she says, and starts to rise.
"No," Dean says.
He looks at her, harsh at first, then gentler. "No," he says again. "Wait'll Jo comes back. We can wait to be invited."
He doesn't look at Sam.
She finds him a little while later standing upstairs in one of the bedrooms. Not making himself at home, not that in any way at all. It's like he's touring a battlefield, or a monument. Paying his respects to something that's been lost. Something has been, of course: Jo came back in to tell them that the owners of this particular house were killed a couple of days ago, and the house stood empty until Jo and Rufus claimed it as their stronghold. It belongs to nobody now, unless the owners had heirs who live somewhere else.
Ellen stands in the doorway, still and silent, one hand resting on the frame. He knows she's there, even though he's turned away from her; she can see that in his body language. Can also see that he knows it's not Sam, or Rufus, or Jo who's come treading slowly up the stairs to find him.
Two years ago, after they watched the Devil's Gate fly open, they took some comfort in each other.
Things have only gotten worse since then.
She moves to stand in front of him, stand close, and wraps her arms around him. He stands still and steady for a moment, then surrenders by degrees and folds her in his arms, rests his cheek against the top of her head.
"We should go," he whispers. "They don't want us here."
It's true: it might take a while for the dozen-odd people of River Bend to pick up the pieces, to bury their dead and clean up the mess their fear created. But they'll find a way to do it. Maybe the few who are left will be the stronger for it. Either way, there's no place in this town for five strangers who showed up to save them.
And there are other towns.
Other people to save.
A while back, Ellen Harvelle ran a roadhouse. She served up food and drink and some music and a place to rest and she listened to hunters make light of what they'd done, of what had happened to them. But that's all gone now: the roadhouse, her husband, her home, her friends.
All of her friends, except for these last few. John Winchester's boys. Rufus Turner. Bobby Singer.
And her daughter. She's still got her daughter.
But things have gotten steadily worse. She's got no illusion to hold on to that they can save more than they lose.
There are voices downstairs, she realizes.
It's time to go.
She draws back from Dean just a little. Tips her head to look up at him, look into his eyes. There's something in them she's never seen before. He lets her look at it, look into those jewel-green wells to his soul, for just a moment, then he leans down a little and gently touches his lips to her cheek. When he draws back he smiles, and it says more than any collection of words ever could.
"Be careful," she tells him.
He shrugs, a small lift of one shoulder.
"Please," she says.
"Don't know that it'd change anything."
He releases her then, steps back and takes one last look around. When he's finished with that he smiles again, and this time there's a little of the old humor in it, a little of the old Dean, the one who strutted almost everywhere he went, the one who liked to pretend he owned the world. He holds on to that as he moves toward the door, holds on to it as he seems to be putting some pieces together in his mind.
"Sorry," he says as he nears the threshold.
"For what?"
"That I didn't call."
There are moments, she knows - moments when you have to choose the right way to send someone on their way. Sometimes, if you do it wrong, there's no do-over. There wasn't, with Bill, and she's regretted that on a thousand different nights.
So she does this. She matches Dean's crooked little smirk and tells him, "The next time you're resurrected? You call me. Or I'll kick your ass."
"Duly noted," he says.
She watches out the bedroom window as he and Sam leave the house and set off down the road, headed out of town, headed for parts unknown. Time was, she would have sent them on their way with a paper sack of sandwiches and some sodas. Time was, she could have counted on seeing them again.
Now, there's no counting on much of anything.
So she does what she can do. She steps away from the window, walks out of the bedroom that belonged to a couple of strangers who'll never enter it again, walks away from the bit of home that belongs to no one any more, and makes her way down the stairs to join her daughter and get the hell out of River Bend.
* * * * *