SPN FIC - Echoes
It's just a simple hunt: find some bones in an ancient cave, carry 'em out, and burn 'em. Trouble is, they're in a place that's tough to get to -- a place where water and wind and the shrill of bats might sound like something else.
"HEY," Bobby Singer says, and listens to his voice reverberate within millennia-old limestone walls.
CHARACTERS: Bobby, Dean, Sam
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1000 words
ECHOES
By Carol Davis
It’s stopped being anything he can put up with. Hell, it was annoying the first time, maybe twenty minutes ago, and there’s no good reason he can think of why this is the third repetition of this nonsense.
"HEY," Bobby Singer says, and listens to his voice reverberate within millennia-old limestone walls.
No one answers him except himself.
"Son of a bitch," he mutters, because this was supposed to be an in-and-out. Couple hours, max, and then back to the house for some dinner, a chance to put his feet up, and some well-earned shuteye. Five, maybe six hours' worth, if he's lucky. At least, that was the original plan. At this rate, they won't be home until well after dark, and he'll be so keyed up he'll do nothing but toss and turn the whole frigging night.
"DEAN," he says into the darkness. "Goddammit. Sam??"
"Yeah," comes a voice from some distance back. It's faint, and there's just the one word, so it's hard to tell which one of 'em answered.
"Are you idjits coming, or do I have to tie a rope onto the two of you and drag you along like a couple of damn shih tzus?"
He can hear footsteps, but their pace is nothing you could call rapid, or enthusiastic; it takes a good half a minute for the two of 'em to come around the bend to a point where he can see them. At least they've got the good grace to look a little sheepish. Best part of half an hour to cover ground he could've put behind him in half that - even allowing for careful treading on damp, slick ground - if he didn't have these two chuckleheads to worry about. They're not kids, he thinks with what comes close to some serious outrage; Dean put thirty behind him a couple years back, and Sam's breathing hard on it. For that matter, when they were kids…
The voices come back to him like it was only a few months back.
"Hey, Uncle Bobby! Come look at this!"
"Oh, man, this is AWESOME!"
Things were fun then. Once in a while, anyway.
"What?" he asks quietly.
The good LED flashlight he picked up at Home Depot a couple weeks back casts a beam so bright he doesn't dare shine it into their faces; the best he can do is cast it a little to one side, bounce it off that ancient limestone. That's more than enough to show him how pale the two of them are, and it's not because neither one of 'em whiles away their afternoons sitting out by the pool in a Speedo, armed with a cold beer and a copy of Penthouse.
Dean half-shrugs, a hitch of one shoulder. Sam looks at the ground just past the toes of his boots.
"What?" Bobby asks again.
They glance at each other, and again the memories come back: the two of them, bound together in guilt. Something busted, something lost. Something they hoped he'd mourn with nothing more than a heartfelt "Well, GODDAMMIT" and move on.
"In here -" Sam says. Stops. His face hitches.
This time, Dean won't quite look at his brother. Or at Bobby. He's trying his level best to hold it together, but Bobby's known him for most of his life. If somebody poked him in the middle of the back right now, he'd blow chunks all over wet, slimy limestone.
In here isn't enough to explain anything much, but all of a sudden, it's plenty.
"It's water," Bobby says. "Bats. The wind hitting the rock."
Dean flinches, like if he could find a way to run in ten different directions at once, he'd do that. Sam looks like he'd kind of like somebody to shoot him, or run him over with a bus. A big chunk of the ceiling falling on him might work - anything that'd stop him being conscious. They're not kids any more, neither one of 'em, but right now they're both as scared as Bobby Singer has ever seen them.
It's dark in here.
Dark, and cold, and if you listen just right, water and bats and wind sounds like voices.
It might, if you've got a point of reference, sound like Hell.
"It's just bones," Bobby says softly, after a minute. "Nothing I can't do by myself."
They twitch. Shrug. Neither one of them takes a step.
Then Dean says firmly, in his best whistle away the dark voice, "Let's just do it and get out of here. Okay? Let's get this done."
"Go on back. No reason you need to -"
Finally, Dean looks his brother in the eye. A whole conversation goes on between the two of them without a single word being said - just the way it did years ago, over the thing that was busted or lost, the thing they hoped Bobby wouldn't feel like kicking anybody's ass over. When they're done, they take a big, deep breath, completely in unison. Like they're one person. Two halves of a whole.
"You're not gonna be able to move half a ton of rock on your own," Sam says.
"Maybe I exaggerated," Bobby tells him. "I ain't fond of bats. Figured I'd get out of here quicker if I had some help."
"Then let's do it."
They don't look any less pale than they did a minute ago.
He thinks of those boys: the ones who ran and whooped around his house, got into his stuff, busted up a thing or two. Made his place feel like a home, now and then, the way it'd been before he lost Karen. Thinks of those kids John Winchester bequeathed to him as completely as if the son of a bitch had written out a will and signed it in blood.
"We don't have to -" he offers. One last chance at an out.
"Nah," Dean says. "We're good."
They're not. They're obviously not.
But they're together, and that's got to be worth something.
* * * * *
"HEY," Bobby Singer says, and listens to his voice reverberate within millennia-old limestone walls.
CHARACTERS: Bobby, Dean, Sam
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1000 words
ECHOES
By Carol Davis
It’s stopped being anything he can put up with. Hell, it was annoying the first time, maybe twenty minutes ago, and there’s no good reason he can think of why this is the third repetition of this nonsense.
"HEY," Bobby Singer says, and listens to his voice reverberate within millennia-old limestone walls.
No one answers him except himself.
"Son of a bitch," he mutters, because this was supposed to be an in-and-out. Couple hours, max, and then back to the house for some dinner, a chance to put his feet up, and some well-earned shuteye. Five, maybe six hours' worth, if he's lucky. At least, that was the original plan. At this rate, they won't be home until well after dark, and he'll be so keyed up he'll do nothing but toss and turn the whole frigging night.
"DEAN," he says into the darkness. "Goddammit. Sam??"
"Yeah," comes a voice from some distance back. It's faint, and there's just the one word, so it's hard to tell which one of 'em answered.
"Are you idjits coming, or do I have to tie a rope onto the two of you and drag you along like a couple of damn shih tzus?"
He can hear footsteps, but their pace is nothing you could call rapid, or enthusiastic; it takes a good half a minute for the two of 'em to come around the bend to a point where he can see them. At least they've got the good grace to look a little sheepish. Best part of half an hour to cover ground he could've put behind him in half that - even allowing for careful treading on damp, slick ground - if he didn't have these two chuckleheads to worry about. They're not kids, he thinks with what comes close to some serious outrage; Dean put thirty behind him a couple years back, and Sam's breathing hard on it. For that matter, when they were kids…
The voices come back to him like it was only a few months back.
"Hey, Uncle Bobby! Come look at this!"
"Oh, man, this is AWESOME!"
Things were fun then. Once in a while, anyway.
"What?" he asks quietly.
The good LED flashlight he picked up at Home Depot a couple weeks back casts a beam so bright he doesn't dare shine it into their faces; the best he can do is cast it a little to one side, bounce it off that ancient limestone. That's more than enough to show him how pale the two of them are, and it's not because neither one of 'em whiles away their afternoons sitting out by the pool in a Speedo, armed with a cold beer and a copy of Penthouse.
Dean half-shrugs, a hitch of one shoulder. Sam looks at the ground just past the toes of his boots.
"What?" Bobby asks again.
They glance at each other, and again the memories come back: the two of them, bound together in guilt. Something busted, something lost. Something they hoped he'd mourn with nothing more than a heartfelt "Well, GODDAMMIT" and move on.
"In here -" Sam says. Stops. His face hitches.
This time, Dean won't quite look at his brother. Or at Bobby. He's trying his level best to hold it together, but Bobby's known him for most of his life. If somebody poked him in the middle of the back right now, he'd blow chunks all over wet, slimy limestone.
In here isn't enough to explain anything much, but all of a sudden, it's plenty.
"It's water," Bobby says. "Bats. The wind hitting the rock."
Dean flinches, like if he could find a way to run in ten different directions at once, he'd do that. Sam looks like he'd kind of like somebody to shoot him, or run him over with a bus. A big chunk of the ceiling falling on him might work - anything that'd stop him being conscious. They're not kids any more, neither one of 'em, but right now they're both as scared as Bobby Singer has ever seen them.
It's dark in here.
Dark, and cold, and if you listen just right, water and bats and wind sounds like voices.
It might, if you've got a point of reference, sound like Hell.
"It's just bones," Bobby says softly, after a minute. "Nothing I can't do by myself."
They twitch. Shrug. Neither one of them takes a step.
Then Dean says firmly, in his best whistle away the dark voice, "Let's just do it and get out of here. Okay? Let's get this done."
"Go on back. No reason you need to -"
Finally, Dean looks his brother in the eye. A whole conversation goes on between the two of them without a single word being said - just the way it did years ago, over the thing that was busted or lost, the thing they hoped Bobby wouldn't feel like kicking anybody's ass over. When they're done, they take a big, deep breath, completely in unison. Like they're one person. Two halves of a whole.
"You're not gonna be able to move half a ton of rock on your own," Sam says.
"Maybe I exaggerated," Bobby tells him. "I ain't fond of bats. Figured I'd get out of here quicker if I had some help."
"Then let's do it."
They don't look any less pale than they did a minute ago.
He thinks of those boys: the ones who ran and whooped around his house, got into his stuff, busted up a thing or two. Made his place feel like a home, now and then, the way it'd been before he lost Karen. Thinks of those kids John Winchester bequeathed to him as completely as if the son of a bitch had written out a will and signed it in blood.
"We don't have to -" he offers. One last chance at an out.
"Nah," Dean says. "We're good."
They're not. They're obviously not.
But they're together, and that's got to be worth something.
* * * * *