SPN FIC - I Think What I Saw Was Real
This one's a little melancholy, because it's been that kind of day. It's in memory of my grandfather, who suffered from Alzheimer's for a number of years until it finally claimed his life. One of the moments I remember best is standing outside with him and with my cousin's toddler, who was babbling a mile a minute in baby talk. "What's he saying?" Gramp asked me, and when I told him, "Nothing, it's just baby talk," he sighed and said wistfully, "Oh. I thought it was me."
He could do that. Go down there. It's his house, after all, and if there's nonsense going on, he ought to be the one to put a stop to it.
CHARACTERS: OMC, Dean, Sam
GENRE: Gen (outsider POV)
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1818 words
I THINK WHAT I SAW WAS REAL
By Carol Davis
So much noise.
So much terrible noise.
TV, he thinks. That's what it is, the TV. The…one…the boy. The boy is watching one of those movies on the TV, with the cars and the guns and people screaming. Screeching tires and women screaming and gunfire.
Never did like those much.
A Western, he thinks. Now that's a movie. John Wayne.
Duke. The Duke.
It goes on for a long time. All that noise.
He remembers someone who would go downstairs and find out what the hell's going on. Someone who would take charge. Turn that darn TV off, or down, at least. It's playing so loud they can probably hear it all the way down at the end of the street, and that's no good. This is a quiet neighborhood. That's why he bought this house, why he chose this one instead of that blue one over on Madison. It's quiet here, and safe.
There used to be someone who would go down there and turn that thing off.
He could do that. Go down there. It's his house, after all, and if there's nonsense going on, he ought to be the one to put a stop to it.
Because that was him. The one who used to take charge.
That woman (Is it a woman? Because that's an awful caterwauling; it doesn't sound human at all) starts screaming again, and there's another crash. Furniture, he thinks. Someone's down there wrecking the furniture, and they shouldn't be doing that, shouldn't be breaking the things he worked all those years to pay for.
She wouldn't like that. People breaking her things.
She.
His…his lady.
"Stop that," he says. "You stop that, now. She won't like it."
There's no one here. No one listening. Is there? There's his bed, and his clothes, and his books. And his things. That model car. Someone gave him that. The boy? He remembers a face, a smiling face, and hands giving him the car.
He remembers cake.
A woman.
Not his lady. His…yes. His lady with the curly hair. She had a name and she was a person but she's gone now.
"Don't," he murmurs.
Something breaks. Something glass.
A tear slides down his cheek as he thinks of his house, his things, his nice things, their nice things. He worked and brought home the money but they bought those things together. She made a pretty house with them.
It's quiet.
All quiet. Then someone talks. A few words. He can't make out what they are.
He should go down there. He should be that man, that one who goes downstairs and takes care of his house. He knows how to do that, knows the feel of the stairs under his feet and the smooth wood of the railing beneath his palm. No, that's wrong, there are two, two railings, one on each side. The boy nailed that other one on there for his…
Lady.
LADY.
Lucy.
Is that right? She was Lucy.
She's down there. In the kitchen. She's making his supper. That's what he heard, pots and pans, and water running, and the TV. He sniffs the air but there's no smell yet, nothing that says meat and potatoes.
She shouldn't be down there alone.
Someone is breaking things.
It all hurts when he moves his body, when he crawls out from behind the bed, when he clutches the bedpost and hauls himself to his feet. His back, his legs, it all hurts and he needs to pee. He needs to pee and he needs some water and maybe her gentle fingers rubbing the back of his neck, her arms holding him and her soft voice asking him if he had a bad day. Yes, he needs that, so he hobbles across the room, out into the hallway, over to the top of the stairs.
Down.
That's a long way, down.
There are two railings, though, two for his Lucy, because of her hip. He grasps them firmly and leans a little. Sneaks one foot halfway out over the edge.
He does this. He can do this.
One step.
Two.
Five.
All the way to the bottom. Not so far, after all.
It's terrible down there. Things are broken. All the pretty things, all the furniture. Maybe a storm, a twister. Maybe it was that. A storm can make terrible sounds. Can sound like someone screaming. He should have gone down cellar if there was a storm, but no one told him one was coming, and the sky wasn't dark, and that's not right. They should have told him. Lucy. And the boy. The boy with brown hair.
He should go out. Should go tell them all his things are broken.
Oh.
The girl is there. The nice girl, the one who brings him pudding. She's there by the chair, on the floor.
"Girl," he says. "Girl?"
She doesn't move. Doesn't speak.
There's stuff on her clothes.
When he goes to her, when he nudges her with his toes, she still doesn't move. It's bad, he thinks, because she's sleeping with her eyes open, and there's stuff on her sweater, dark sticky stuff. In her hair, too, and on the rug.
"Girl?"
Dead.
Like his Lucy.
Not from TV; the TV wouldn't do that to her. Wouldn't break all his things and push the furniture where it isn't supposed to be.
It was the dark thing.
The dark thing killed his Lucy, and it's back.
He cries.
For a long time, he cries, his face buried deep in his hands, the sobs coming up from someplace way down deep. The boy used to cry like that. Because of the dog. And the day he got in the car and went away.
That's what he should do now.
Go away.
Outside. Where the sky isn't dark. Where things aren't broken. Where he can step without cutting his feet on the beautiful things his Lucy bought with the money he brought home to her. The boy is out there somewhere. He'll know what to do. How to help the girl, and fix the broken things. How to clean up that mess on the rug.
Boy.
He fights hard with the door, turns and turns and turns the knob, then thinks, No, like THIS and turns the other thing, the bright thing, the lock, and the door opens so suddenly he stumbles and would fall if he wasn't still clinging to the knob.
There are two boys out there, walking up onto his porch.
Do I know you?
They've come from a car, a black car, one that looks familiar, like one he used to own. Green, he thinks: his was green, and this one is black. They're holding things, these two boys: gray duffel bags that look heavy, and one of them says, "Mister Dobbs?"
The other one says, "Are you Charlie? Charlie Dobbs?"
That's…someone.
"I don't know," he says.
They look past him, into the house. They don't look happy. Maybe they know about all the broken furniture, and the girl.
Maybe they know about the dark thing.
"Do I know you?" he asks.
They look at each other.
"Mr. Dobbs," one of them says. "We're here to help you. Okay?"
He needs to pee. And blow his nose. Instead of doing either one of those things, he wraps his arms around the boy who's closest to him. It's not his boy, his son. Or maybe it is. It's been a long time since he saw his boy. When he lets go he looks up into the face of this boy and smiles at him. That's the best way to treat someone who comes to your door, he thinks: you smile.
"I don't think so good any more," he says quietly. "I'm all screwed up."
"That's okay," the boy says.
It isn't. Not really. No: not at all. Not when he has to have help with his food. Not when words don't make sense.
There are tears leaking out of his eyes.
"I think -" he says. "There's - I don't know. I don't know what's up or down any more."
"It's okay, Mr. Dobbs. We're here to help you."
They want to set him aside. Go on into the house, and leave him out here on the porch in his socks and his wet pants.
World's all screwed up, he thinks.
He's all screwed up.
But they seem like nice boys. These two boys.
"Think I saw something," he mutters, in a way that should tell them he doesn't care whether they like what he's saying. He's going to say it, and that's that. There used to be someone who could tell people things, and that someone was him, but it's not him any more. Now there's just words.
And that dark thing.
"Think it was real," he says. "Don't know any more. M'mind's - it's all fucked up."
She wouldn't like that. His Lucy.
"We'll take care of it, Mr. Dobbs."
There used to be someone who could do that. Take care of his house, his things. Lucy, and his boy.
"Me," he mumbles.
The boy smiles and pats his arm. "We'll take care of you, too. Don't worry. You stay here, all right? Can you do that? Can you stay right here?"
"My house."
"Yes. That's right."
"Is it my house?"
The two boys look at each other again, like everybody looks at everybody else, when they're with him. My Lucy, he thinks: she didn't look at him like that, didn't look at anybody else like that when he was around, but that was a long time ago, when he was with Lucy and the boy, his boy, his son, when they lived here and ate pot roast and cookies.
"Was it real?" he asks.
Gently, the boy takes him by the arm and walks him over to one of the white chairs, the ones he likes to sit in to watch the world go by, and settles him down on its green cushion, its nice soft green cushion. The other boy says something, something that means We need to go in the house now, but the boy waves him off and crouches in front of the chair. He's still smiling, but he looks sad. A little bit sad.
"Is this my house?" Charlie Dobbs asks softly.
"You bet."
"I think -"
The boy rests his hands on Charlie's knees. He's remembering something, seems like. Or maybe he wishes he could remember something.
Like Charlie.
It's hard to remember. So very hard.
"It was real," the boy says finally. "Okay? You got that right. And we're gonna take care of it for you."
Charlie reaches out to him. Lays a hand against the boy's rough cheek.
"Thank you," he says.
Then the boy is gone. Into the house, with the other one.
"Thank you," Charlie says again, but no one answers him.
* * * * *
He could do that. Go down there. It's his house, after all, and if there's nonsense going on, he ought to be the one to put a stop to it.
CHARACTERS: OMC, Dean, Sam
GENRE: Gen (outsider POV)
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1818 words
I THINK WHAT I SAW WAS REAL
By Carol Davis
So much noise.
So much terrible noise.
TV, he thinks. That's what it is, the TV. The…one…the boy. The boy is watching one of those movies on the TV, with the cars and the guns and people screaming. Screeching tires and women screaming and gunfire.
Never did like those much.
A Western, he thinks. Now that's a movie. John Wayne.
Duke. The Duke.
It goes on for a long time. All that noise.
He remembers someone who would go downstairs and find out what the hell's going on. Someone who would take charge. Turn that darn TV off, or down, at least. It's playing so loud they can probably hear it all the way down at the end of the street, and that's no good. This is a quiet neighborhood. That's why he bought this house, why he chose this one instead of that blue one over on Madison. It's quiet here, and safe.
There used to be someone who would go down there and turn that thing off.
He could do that. Go down there. It's his house, after all, and if there's nonsense going on, he ought to be the one to put a stop to it.
Because that was him. The one who used to take charge.
That woman (Is it a woman? Because that's an awful caterwauling; it doesn't sound human at all) starts screaming again, and there's another crash. Furniture, he thinks. Someone's down there wrecking the furniture, and they shouldn't be doing that, shouldn't be breaking the things he worked all those years to pay for.
She wouldn't like that. People breaking her things.
She.
His…his lady.
"Stop that," he says. "You stop that, now. She won't like it."
There's no one here. No one listening. Is there? There's his bed, and his clothes, and his books. And his things. That model car. Someone gave him that. The boy? He remembers a face, a smiling face, and hands giving him the car.
He remembers cake.
A woman.
Not his lady. His…yes. His lady with the curly hair. She had a name and she was a person but she's gone now.
"Don't," he murmurs.
Something breaks. Something glass.
A tear slides down his cheek as he thinks of his house, his things, his nice things, their nice things. He worked and brought home the money but they bought those things together. She made a pretty house with them.
It's quiet.
All quiet. Then someone talks. A few words. He can't make out what they are.
He should go down there. He should be that man, that one who goes downstairs and takes care of his house. He knows how to do that, knows the feel of the stairs under his feet and the smooth wood of the railing beneath his palm. No, that's wrong, there are two, two railings, one on each side. The boy nailed that other one on there for his…
Lady.
LADY.
Lucy.
Is that right? She was Lucy.
She's down there. In the kitchen. She's making his supper. That's what he heard, pots and pans, and water running, and the TV. He sniffs the air but there's no smell yet, nothing that says meat and potatoes.
She shouldn't be down there alone.
Someone is breaking things.
It all hurts when he moves his body, when he crawls out from behind the bed, when he clutches the bedpost and hauls himself to his feet. His back, his legs, it all hurts and he needs to pee. He needs to pee and he needs some water and maybe her gentle fingers rubbing the back of his neck, her arms holding him and her soft voice asking him if he had a bad day. Yes, he needs that, so he hobbles across the room, out into the hallway, over to the top of the stairs.
Down.
That's a long way, down.
There are two railings, though, two for his Lucy, because of her hip. He grasps them firmly and leans a little. Sneaks one foot halfway out over the edge.
He does this. He can do this.
One step.
Two.
Five.
All the way to the bottom. Not so far, after all.
It's terrible down there. Things are broken. All the pretty things, all the furniture. Maybe a storm, a twister. Maybe it was that. A storm can make terrible sounds. Can sound like someone screaming. He should have gone down cellar if there was a storm, but no one told him one was coming, and the sky wasn't dark, and that's not right. They should have told him. Lucy. And the boy. The boy with brown hair.
He should go out. Should go tell them all his things are broken.
Oh.
The girl is there. The nice girl, the one who brings him pudding. She's there by the chair, on the floor.
"Girl," he says. "Girl?"
She doesn't move. Doesn't speak.
There's stuff on her clothes.
When he goes to her, when he nudges her with his toes, she still doesn't move. It's bad, he thinks, because she's sleeping with her eyes open, and there's stuff on her sweater, dark sticky stuff. In her hair, too, and on the rug.
"Girl?"
Dead.
Like his Lucy.
Not from TV; the TV wouldn't do that to her. Wouldn't break all his things and push the furniture where it isn't supposed to be.
It was the dark thing.
The dark thing killed his Lucy, and it's back.
He cries.
For a long time, he cries, his face buried deep in his hands, the sobs coming up from someplace way down deep. The boy used to cry like that. Because of the dog. And the day he got in the car and went away.
That's what he should do now.
Go away.
Outside. Where the sky isn't dark. Where things aren't broken. Where he can step without cutting his feet on the beautiful things his Lucy bought with the money he brought home to her. The boy is out there somewhere. He'll know what to do. How to help the girl, and fix the broken things. How to clean up that mess on the rug.
Boy.
He fights hard with the door, turns and turns and turns the knob, then thinks, No, like THIS and turns the other thing, the bright thing, the lock, and the door opens so suddenly he stumbles and would fall if he wasn't still clinging to the knob.
There are two boys out there, walking up onto his porch.
Do I know you?
They've come from a car, a black car, one that looks familiar, like one he used to own. Green, he thinks: his was green, and this one is black. They're holding things, these two boys: gray duffel bags that look heavy, and one of them says, "Mister Dobbs?"
The other one says, "Are you Charlie? Charlie Dobbs?"
That's…someone.
"I don't know," he says.
They look past him, into the house. They don't look happy. Maybe they know about all the broken furniture, and the girl.
Maybe they know about the dark thing.
"Do I know you?" he asks.
They look at each other.
"Mr. Dobbs," one of them says. "We're here to help you. Okay?"
He needs to pee. And blow his nose. Instead of doing either one of those things, he wraps his arms around the boy who's closest to him. It's not his boy, his son. Or maybe it is. It's been a long time since he saw his boy. When he lets go he looks up into the face of this boy and smiles at him. That's the best way to treat someone who comes to your door, he thinks: you smile.
"I don't think so good any more," he says quietly. "I'm all screwed up."
"That's okay," the boy says.
It isn't. Not really. No: not at all. Not when he has to have help with his food. Not when words don't make sense.
There are tears leaking out of his eyes.
"I think -" he says. "There's - I don't know. I don't know what's up or down any more."
"It's okay, Mr. Dobbs. We're here to help you."
They want to set him aside. Go on into the house, and leave him out here on the porch in his socks and his wet pants.
World's all screwed up, he thinks.
He's all screwed up.
But they seem like nice boys. These two boys.
"Think I saw something," he mutters, in a way that should tell them he doesn't care whether they like what he's saying. He's going to say it, and that's that. There used to be someone who could tell people things, and that someone was him, but it's not him any more. Now there's just words.
And that dark thing.
"Think it was real," he says. "Don't know any more. M'mind's - it's all fucked up."
She wouldn't like that. His Lucy.
"We'll take care of it, Mr. Dobbs."
There used to be someone who could do that. Take care of his house, his things. Lucy, and his boy.
"Me," he mumbles.
The boy smiles and pats his arm. "We'll take care of you, too. Don't worry. You stay here, all right? Can you do that? Can you stay right here?"
"My house."
"Yes. That's right."
"Is it my house?"
The two boys look at each other again, like everybody looks at everybody else, when they're with him. My Lucy, he thinks: she didn't look at him like that, didn't look at anybody else like that when he was around, but that was a long time ago, when he was with Lucy and the boy, his boy, his son, when they lived here and ate pot roast and cookies.
"Was it real?" he asks.
Gently, the boy takes him by the arm and walks him over to one of the white chairs, the ones he likes to sit in to watch the world go by, and settles him down on its green cushion, its nice soft green cushion. The other boy says something, something that means We need to go in the house now, but the boy waves him off and crouches in front of the chair. He's still smiling, but he looks sad. A little bit sad.
"Is this my house?" Charlie Dobbs asks softly.
"You bet."
"I think -"
The boy rests his hands on Charlie's knees. He's remembering something, seems like. Or maybe he wishes he could remember something.
Like Charlie.
It's hard to remember. So very hard.
"It was real," the boy says finally. "Okay? You got that right. And we're gonna take care of it for you."
Charlie reaches out to him. Lays a hand against the boy's rough cheek.
"Thank you," he says.
Then the boy is gone. Into the house, with the other one.
"Thank you," Charlie says again, but no one answers him.
* * * * *