SPN FIC - Conversion
A follow-up to For Thereby Some Have Entertained. A storm's sweeping through Blue Earth -- and it's brought with it a man Jim Murphy never expected to see again. A man with a terrifying story to tell.
CHARACTERS: Pastor Jim, John, wee!Dean, baby Sam
GENRE: Gen
RATING: G
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 716 words
CONVERSION
By Carol Davis
They need soup, Jim thinks as he shudders inside the cling of his rain-soaked coat. Soup, and blankets. Coffee. Hot chocolate for the little boy, a warm bottle for the baby. A good night's sleep. The parsonage was built to accommodate a family, and since he's the only one who currently lives there, there's plenty of space for guests. One of the spare bedrooms is fully made up, thanks to Caroline. Hours after his Easter visitors were gone, she'd stripped and re-made the bed, dusted, laid a stack of fresh towels on top of the bureau.
He'll stand up now. Gesture toward the door, and by implication toward the house.
Offer a bed. A meal.
But when he shifts his weight, his legs say No thank you.
Some time ago (Was it ten minutes? An hour?) he and John moved to a pew some distance away from John's children; left the five-year-old to guard the baby, which he seems to be doing without misgiving. There's no sign of restlessness, of a need to be somewhere else - somewhere more interesting, more colorful - in the way he murmurs to the baby, gently strokes the baby's soft pale hair and ruddy cheeks, teases the baby's fingers with his own. John gestured Jim away from his children so they wouldn't overhear what he had to say, but as Jim sits looking across the dim width of his church he wonders if any of what John said would come as a surprise to that little boy.
He's seen things, Jim thinks.
God help them all, he's seen things.
"You think I've lost it?" John murmurs when Jim's gaze returns to him, takes careful measure of him once again. Something that's clearly meant to be a smile takes shape on John's face - because John's worked the muscles of his cheeks and jaw, manipulated them like clay, an artist's lifeless medium. There's no amusement behind it, certainly.
A little fondness, maybe. The memory of something left behind.
Jim draws in a long, slow breath.
Outside, the storm in raging, sending down rain in torrents. The raw strength of the wind makes the old bones of the church creak and shudder. The gusts - they're hitting forty miles an hour, Jim thinks distantly. Maybe more. There'll be tree limbs down, maybe some power lines. If the lights go out, it won't surprise him.
They need soup, he thinks.
A good night's sleep.
"No," he whispers. "I don't think you've lost it."
He and John Winchester have known each other for years: since Vietnam, though strictly speaking, they knew each other for just a few months, and haven't seen each other for years. The man sitting alongside him now isn't the boy from a Kansas college town who spoke of a pretty blonde girl and his belief that they'd spend forever together. This man's been through fire of a kind even the Vietcong couldn't conjure (perhaps, couldn't even imagine); the kind that chars you deep inside. Makes you question everything you thought you knew. He's still John Winchester, but some part of Jim puts forth the suggestion that the man sitting alongside of him is wearing John Winchester like a suit. That there's another man taking shape within.
"Tell me the rest," Jim offers.
"You sure you want to hear it?" John asks, the manipulated smile gone now. "You sure you want to cross that line?"
On the other side of the church, John's children occupy a quiet pew.
Waiting, Jim thinks.
Shipwrecked.
"I didn't sign on for just the uplifting part of it," he says.
John's eyebrows slide up toward his hairline. Perhaps, he's remembering another time, a quickly spoken, "Sure, hit me." Remembering the eagerness of youth, the ability to ignore the storm outside. Remembering, maybe, scary stories told around a campfire. Marshmallows and hot dogs roasted at the end of a slender twig. The willingness to be afraid.
All of that gone now. Swept away on a single night.
Some years ago, Jim Murphy answered a calling. Did it willingly, without misgiving.
This storm-torn afternoon, he rests a hand on the forearm of the man he once called friend and nods, forcing himself to hold steady, not to shudder at the chill of the leather sleeve beneath his palm.
"Tell me," he says.
* * * * *
CHARACTERS: Pastor Jim, John, wee!Dean, baby Sam
GENRE: Gen
RATING: G
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 716 words
CONVERSION
By Carol Davis
They need soup, Jim thinks as he shudders inside the cling of his rain-soaked coat. Soup, and blankets. Coffee. Hot chocolate for the little boy, a warm bottle for the baby. A good night's sleep. The parsonage was built to accommodate a family, and since he's the only one who currently lives there, there's plenty of space for guests. One of the spare bedrooms is fully made up, thanks to Caroline. Hours after his Easter visitors were gone, she'd stripped and re-made the bed, dusted, laid a stack of fresh towels on top of the bureau.
He'll stand up now. Gesture toward the door, and by implication toward the house.
Offer a bed. A meal.
But when he shifts his weight, his legs say No thank you.
Some time ago (Was it ten minutes? An hour?) he and John moved to a pew some distance away from John's children; left the five-year-old to guard the baby, which he seems to be doing without misgiving. There's no sign of restlessness, of a need to be somewhere else - somewhere more interesting, more colorful - in the way he murmurs to the baby, gently strokes the baby's soft pale hair and ruddy cheeks, teases the baby's fingers with his own. John gestured Jim away from his children so they wouldn't overhear what he had to say, but as Jim sits looking across the dim width of his church he wonders if any of what John said would come as a surprise to that little boy.
He's seen things, Jim thinks.
God help them all, he's seen things.
"You think I've lost it?" John murmurs when Jim's gaze returns to him, takes careful measure of him once again. Something that's clearly meant to be a smile takes shape on John's face - because John's worked the muscles of his cheeks and jaw, manipulated them like clay, an artist's lifeless medium. There's no amusement behind it, certainly.
A little fondness, maybe. The memory of something left behind.
Jim draws in a long, slow breath.
Outside, the storm in raging, sending down rain in torrents. The raw strength of the wind makes the old bones of the church creak and shudder. The gusts - they're hitting forty miles an hour, Jim thinks distantly. Maybe more. There'll be tree limbs down, maybe some power lines. If the lights go out, it won't surprise him.
They need soup, he thinks.
A good night's sleep.
"No," he whispers. "I don't think you've lost it."
He and John Winchester have known each other for years: since Vietnam, though strictly speaking, they knew each other for just a few months, and haven't seen each other for years. The man sitting alongside him now isn't the boy from a Kansas college town who spoke of a pretty blonde girl and his belief that they'd spend forever together. This man's been through fire of a kind even the Vietcong couldn't conjure (perhaps, couldn't even imagine); the kind that chars you deep inside. Makes you question everything you thought you knew. He's still John Winchester, but some part of Jim puts forth the suggestion that the man sitting alongside of him is wearing John Winchester like a suit. That there's another man taking shape within.
"Tell me the rest," Jim offers.
"You sure you want to hear it?" John asks, the manipulated smile gone now. "You sure you want to cross that line?"
On the other side of the church, John's children occupy a quiet pew.
Waiting, Jim thinks.
Shipwrecked.
"I didn't sign on for just the uplifting part of it," he says.
John's eyebrows slide up toward his hairline. Perhaps, he's remembering another time, a quickly spoken, "Sure, hit me." Remembering the eagerness of youth, the ability to ignore the storm outside. Remembering, maybe, scary stories told around a campfire. Marshmallows and hot dogs roasted at the end of a slender twig. The willingness to be afraid.
All of that gone now. Swept away on a single night.
Some years ago, Jim Murphy answered a calling. Did it willingly, without misgiving.
This storm-torn afternoon, he rests a hand on the forearm of the man he once called friend and nods, forcing himself to hold steady, not to shudder at the chill of the leather sleeve beneath his palm.
"Tell me," he says.
* * * * *