SPN FIC - We Live in This Old Van
Seven years ago, they decided to leave a dusty, nowhere town and see the country, living out of a beat-up Volkswagen camper. Twelve days into their adventure, the camper broke down, and they were rescued by a couple of guys in an old black Impala.
"Baby," she said. "Todd, baby, look, it's Sam and Dean."
CHARACTERS: OMC, OFC (with background Dean and Sam)
GENRE: Gen (Outsider POV)
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1082 words
WE LIVE IN THIS OLD VAN
By Carol Davis
"Baby," she said. "Todd, baby, look, it's Sam and Dean."
Todd cracked an eye. Took note of an old black Impala pulling up to the pumps at the Gas 'n' Sip, then closed the eye again and tipped his face up to the sun. Not the best plan in the world, he thought: lunch at a picnic table set out in the weeds alongside the gas station. They could've kept going, found something a little nicer, maybe at a rest stop.
"Todd. Are you listenin' to me?"
"I heard you."
"You gonna do this again? Tell me about how there's half a million black Impalas out on the road? Todd Wheeler Keenan. You sit right there and tell me that's not Dean, gettin' out a' that car."
He took another look, into the glare around the pumps.
"Uh-huh," he said.
"Todd KEENAN."
"What? All right, it's them."
But his tiny, ponytailed wife was already gone, hiking through the weeds to the asphalt blanket at the front of the Gas 'n' Sip. He could hear her trumpet "My LORD, would you look at YOU, right here out in the middle a' nowhere!" as she neared the man in jeans and flannel who was filling the old car with gas. He saw the man flinch, then turn, and flinch again as Lacey flung her arms around his waist.
Lacey being a born (and rarely discouraged) hugger, she held on for a good long while, thumping the man on the small of his back; when she finally stepped away she pointed toward the picnic table and there was nothing for Todd to do but wave.
Then she moved in close to the car and bent down, talking to the man sitting in the passenger seat, hands braced against her thighs.
Todd finished his sandwich and took a couple of sips of his Dr. Pepper. He was climbing up from the picnic table when Lacey came high-stepping back through the weeds. Dean, Todd noted, was headed inside the mini-mart.
"Never knew you to be outright rude," Lacey said.
"Head hurts, baby. You wanna come on, now. I'm supposed to race across the parking lot like they're long-lost cousins? Or, what, come back from the war and we thought they were MIA? They didn't haul ass on over here to see me, neither."
She tipped her head and gave him The Look. "So it don't matter to you that we're seven years into this, right now, doin' what we planned and dreamed, just because a' those two boys? That we were sittin' out in the middle of East Nowhere in a pourin' rainstorm in a busted-down van with nothin' to do but wait, and they come along and rescued us?"
"We were off a' Route 40, Lace. Not out in the middle of the Atlantic on a raft."
Scowling, she sat down on the picnic bench. "They fixed Van Johnson for us, Todd Wheeler Keenan, and you know that."
"Yes, Lacey," he said.
"Then you go on over. You go right over there and you say hello and be neighborly."
It was in her eyes: you go do that, or you won't hear the end of it if you live to be a thousand. No matter that the rescue she was talking about involved Dean diving into the engine of the van for maybe ten minutes, and it'd been seven years ago. There'd been no friendship built, no exchange of phone numbers, no promise to see each other down the road or send Christmas cards.
Yes, they'd seen Sam and Dean some four or five times since then, always in an odd place - a motel, or a gas station. But still: just in passing.
Just to wave, or nod.
They certainly were not "neighbors."
"He looks like hammered hell, you know," Lacey said.
"Who does?"
"Sam."
"I figure I don't look much better. Had this sumbitchin' headache three days now."
"Not like that."
"Not like what, Lace?"
She was staring off at the car. The glare was hitting it such that Todd couldn't see anything of what was inside it. "Like he's awful bad. Got cancer or somethin'. Or AIDS. I'd say AIDS, but they're brothers, you know, and Dean told me the one time, no, neither one of 'em's battin' for the other team. Not that it matters. But I don't think I'd say AIDS. It's somethin', though. He looks terrible, and he's got a real bad cough. Like Joey Reilly did. You remember Joe Reilly?"
Todd did.
Holding back a sigh, he sat down on the picnic bench alongside his wife and reached for his bottle of Dr. Pepper. It had gone pretty warm, sitting there in the sun, and did little to quench his thirst. He sipped from it anyway, frowning at the sweat that dribbled off of it onto his hand.
"That's a shame, then," he said after a minute.
Seven years ago, fresh out of high school and almost as freshly married, he and Lacey had hit the road in a blue-and-white VW camper. They'd had enough of living in a town of less than a thousand souls, enough of dust and fast-food jobs. Big country out there, they thought, all of it just waiting to be looked at and explored.
They'd give it ten years, they agreed, supporting themselves with pick-up jobs when the cash ran low, then, at the end of that, they'd pick a spot and settle down.
They were twelve days into it when the van started spewing smoke.
Twelve days. A torrent of rain.
And two boys in an old black Impala.
"Could be we're supposed to do somethin'," Lacey said. "I mean - what're the odds? Big ol' country like this. How many millions of miles of road, and we keep runnin' into 'em. Maybe there's somethin' to that. You think?"
"Do what?" Todd asked.
"I don't know," she said. "Maybe if nothin' else, we can just be kind."
Even sitting side by side, she had to look up to look into his face, crinkles forming around her eyes.
Not many people could abide being cheek-by-jowl with somebody for seven years, Todd thought. Day in, day out, the other person right there within reach. Most people would balk at that - and he would have, too, if the other person had been anyone other than Lacey.
"All right," he said, grasping her hand and twining his fingers with hers. "We'll go say hello, see what we can do."
* * * * *
"Baby," she said. "Todd, baby, look, it's Sam and Dean."
CHARACTERS: OMC, OFC (with background Dean and Sam)
GENRE: Gen (Outsider POV)
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1082 words
WE LIVE IN THIS OLD VAN
By Carol Davis
"Baby," she said. "Todd, baby, look, it's Sam and Dean."
Todd cracked an eye. Took note of an old black Impala pulling up to the pumps at the Gas 'n' Sip, then closed the eye again and tipped his face up to the sun. Not the best plan in the world, he thought: lunch at a picnic table set out in the weeds alongside the gas station. They could've kept going, found something a little nicer, maybe at a rest stop.
"Todd. Are you listenin' to me?"
"I heard you."
"You gonna do this again? Tell me about how there's half a million black Impalas out on the road? Todd Wheeler Keenan. You sit right there and tell me that's not Dean, gettin' out a' that car."
He took another look, into the glare around the pumps.
"Uh-huh," he said.
"Todd KEENAN."
"What? All right, it's them."
But his tiny, ponytailed wife was already gone, hiking through the weeds to the asphalt blanket at the front of the Gas 'n' Sip. He could hear her trumpet "My LORD, would you look at YOU, right here out in the middle a' nowhere!" as she neared the man in jeans and flannel who was filling the old car with gas. He saw the man flinch, then turn, and flinch again as Lacey flung her arms around his waist.
Lacey being a born (and rarely discouraged) hugger, she held on for a good long while, thumping the man on the small of his back; when she finally stepped away she pointed toward the picnic table and there was nothing for Todd to do but wave.
Then she moved in close to the car and bent down, talking to the man sitting in the passenger seat, hands braced against her thighs.
Todd finished his sandwich and took a couple of sips of his Dr. Pepper. He was climbing up from the picnic table when Lacey came high-stepping back through the weeds. Dean, Todd noted, was headed inside the mini-mart.
"Never knew you to be outright rude," Lacey said.
"Head hurts, baby. You wanna come on, now. I'm supposed to race across the parking lot like they're long-lost cousins? Or, what, come back from the war and we thought they were MIA? They didn't haul ass on over here to see me, neither."
She tipped her head and gave him The Look. "So it don't matter to you that we're seven years into this, right now, doin' what we planned and dreamed, just because a' those two boys? That we were sittin' out in the middle of East Nowhere in a pourin' rainstorm in a busted-down van with nothin' to do but wait, and they come along and rescued us?"
"We were off a' Route 40, Lace. Not out in the middle of the Atlantic on a raft."
Scowling, she sat down on the picnic bench. "They fixed Van Johnson for us, Todd Wheeler Keenan, and you know that."
"Yes, Lacey," he said.
"Then you go on over. You go right over there and you say hello and be neighborly."
It was in her eyes: you go do that, or you won't hear the end of it if you live to be a thousand. No matter that the rescue she was talking about involved Dean diving into the engine of the van for maybe ten minutes, and it'd been seven years ago. There'd been no friendship built, no exchange of phone numbers, no promise to see each other down the road or send Christmas cards.
Yes, they'd seen Sam and Dean some four or five times since then, always in an odd place - a motel, or a gas station. But still: just in passing.
Just to wave, or nod.
They certainly were not "neighbors."
"He looks like hammered hell, you know," Lacey said.
"Who does?"
"Sam."
"I figure I don't look much better. Had this sumbitchin' headache three days now."
"Not like that."
"Not like what, Lace?"
She was staring off at the car. The glare was hitting it such that Todd couldn't see anything of what was inside it. "Like he's awful bad. Got cancer or somethin'. Or AIDS. I'd say AIDS, but they're brothers, you know, and Dean told me the one time, no, neither one of 'em's battin' for the other team. Not that it matters. But I don't think I'd say AIDS. It's somethin', though. He looks terrible, and he's got a real bad cough. Like Joey Reilly did. You remember Joe Reilly?"
Todd did.
Holding back a sigh, he sat down on the picnic bench alongside his wife and reached for his bottle of Dr. Pepper. It had gone pretty warm, sitting there in the sun, and did little to quench his thirst. He sipped from it anyway, frowning at the sweat that dribbled off of it onto his hand.
"That's a shame, then," he said after a minute.
Seven years ago, fresh out of high school and almost as freshly married, he and Lacey had hit the road in a blue-and-white VW camper. They'd had enough of living in a town of less than a thousand souls, enough of dust and fast-food jobs. Big country out there, they thought, all of it just waiting to be looked at and explored.
They'd give it ten years, they agreed, supporting themselves with pick-up jobs when the cash ran low, then, at the end of that, they'd pick a spot and settle down.
They were twelve days into it when the van started spewing smoke.
Twelve days. A torrent of rain.
And two boys in an old black Impala.
"Could be we're supposed to do somethin'," Lacey said. "I mean - what're the odds? Big ol' country like this. How many millions of miles of road, and we keep runnin' into 'em. Maybe there's somethin' to that. You think?"
"Do what?" Todd asked.
"I don't know," she said. "Maybe if nothin' else, we can just be kind."
Even sitting side by side, she had to look up to look into his face, crinkles forming around her eyes.
Not many people could abide being cheek-by-jowl with somebody for seven years, Todd thought. Day in, day out, the other person right there within reach. Most people would balk at that - and he would have, too, if the other person had been anyone other than Lacey.
"All right," he said, grasping her hand and twining his fingers with hers. "We'll go say hello, see what we can do."
* * * * *