SPN FIC - Ghosts of Christmas Past
The second of today's offerings: Christmas 1992, with John, a year after Sammy's discovery of the Journal.
Characters: John, Ellen, Wee!Jo
Pairings: none
Spoilers: none
Rating: PG, for language
Length: 1585 words
Disclaimer: Don't own. Will share.
Jo's voice pulled him out of his reverie. Stopped his in-depth study of the scuffs and grooves in the surface of the table. Ended his being alone in a room occupied by a couple dozen people.
Ghosts of Christmas Past
By Carol Davis
“Uncle John? Mommy wants to know if you want more coffee.”
Jo’s voice pulled him out of his reverie. Stopped his in-depth study of the scuffs and grooves in the surface of the table.
Ended his being alone in a room occupied by a couple dozen people.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” he said. “I’m good.”
“That means ‘no,’ right?”
She was a cute little thing. Long blonde hair plaited into pigtails. Clothes like a Mommy & Me version of Ellen’s: jeans, boots, flannel shirt. Or maybe it was Mommy & Daddy & Me, because Bill was dressed pretty much the same.
“That means ‘no,’” he confirmed.
“Okay, then.”
And off she went, to check with the guy two tables over. Seemed funny, her so little, being in a place like this and pretty much serving as a waitress. John suspected she had some grit to her under the surface - being Ellen’s kid, she couldn’t not have that - but still, there was something off about a little blonde girl in pigtails running around a worn-out roadhouse full of hunters.
He looked around, in the way he’d been partly taught by Caleb and partly picked up through trial and error, taking everything in without being obvious. He was almost certain - no, hell, he was certain - that everybody in the place knew he was taking their measure, but they didn’t react, any of them, with more than a flicker of the eyes or a minute shift in posture. They all knew him, knew he wasn’t a threat to them.
Not here, not now, anyway.
There were two women in the crowd. One of them made Ellen look girly. The other was more down toward Jo’s end of the scale: dressed sturdy, but with a little bit of delicacy about her. The kind who’d cry if a pissed-off spirit knocked her across a room.
Crap like that made his head hurt. Not that he thought women couldn’t handle the job; Ellen was pure proof they could, and she wasn’t the only member of that club. No, it was more like…the fragile ones, the ones who’d been shoved up to the plate instead of stepping up, really ought to be somewhere else. Part of some other life.
The life they’d been torn out of.
Little Jo (and hell, that made him think of Bonanza) probably intended to stroll right into the family business when the time came. She couldn’t much help it, with both her parents being hunters and her being surrounded by them all the damn time. At least none of it would come as a shock to her.
The way it had to Dean. To Sammy.
Sammy…
How he’d ever thought he could keep Sam in the dark…
“You holdin’ it together?”
He looked. Ellen, holding a half-full coffeepot. Black handle; no decaf for this crowd. She smiled, more in a way that said she knew what he was thinking than that she was trying to be cheerful. Then she refilled his cup.
“Look like you’re building up to a migraine size of Mount St. Helen’s,” she said. “If that’s true, caffeine’s probably the last thing you need, but what the hell. I’ve caffeinated myself through pretty much every ailment known to mankind.”
“I need to - probably time to hit the road.”
“If you’re planning to make it back at a decent hour, probably so.” She nodded toward a hunter John had spoken to a couple of times. “Top says the roads are okay. He called some friend of his at the trooper barracks. Couple squalls here and there, but nothing to knot up your drawers about.”
“That’s good.”
“Ought to get yourself a truck. Better on the rough spots.”
“I’ve thought about it.”
She smiled again. Damn the way the woman knew what he was thinking. Or feeling, at least. No wonder Harvelle had scooped her up. He couldn’t have found better, not to fill the niche Ellen was filling.
She knew about the car. Knew what it meant.
“Your boy’s how old?” she asked. “The older one.”
“Fourteen, in a month.”
“Another couple years, you can pass the car on to him. Get yourself a truck.” She leaned a hip against the edge of the table and shoved her free hand through her hair. She looked tired. Why, John couldn’t guess. “You know they’re welcome anytime. Your boys.”
“I know.”
“You want some of that pie for the road?”
“Maybe a sandwich.”
“I’ll throw in some pie.”
“I won’t throw it back.”
Ellen chuckled, deep and throaty, a smoker’s laugh. John watched her cross the room without bothering to be surreptitious about it. Didn’t need to be, after all this time; Harvelle wouldn’t have let him do any more than drink here if he hadn’t know right from the beginning that John Winchester didn’t have any designs on his wife. Or anybody else’s. Or anybody single, come down to it. There was a reason he was still wearing Mary’s ring on his left hand. Probably always would be.
Did that make him…what, unrealistic? Obsessive? Unable to move on, get down to the business of living?
No, he thought. It made him hers, the way he’d always been, for as much of his life that counted.
Ellen came back with a packed-full brown paper bag and a thermos. When she saw the look on his face she sat down on the other side of the table. “Something you want to say?” she asked quietly.
He didn’t quite shake his head. “Wool-gathering.”
“I look gullible to you?”
John’s gaze tracked across the room, found Jo studying the roster of songs on the juke. “How did you decide to tell her?” he asked after a minute.
“Never decided. She…” Ellen paused, looking at her daughter. “I think she popped out of the chute knowing.”
“And you don’t -“
“It scares the hell out of me. But we figured she could protect herself better if she knew. No point in walking around blindfolded. We keep some things from her, but she knows the basics. Like I said, she seems to know it before we can tell her.”
“Psychic?”
“Nah. Too smart for her own good, the brat.” Wearing that same smile again, she pushed the bag and the thermos across the table to sit alongside the leather-covered journal John had been writing in most of the afternoon. He followed her attention there, and the flicker of change that went through his eyes was more than enough to tell her what was going on. “That how he found out?” she asked.
“He knew. Before.”
“You sure?”
“He was looking for a second opinion. Found it in the book.”
The moment he’d gone looking for the journal and found nothing in the bottom of the duffel but dirty socks, he knew who had it. Not Dean; Dean knew he’d have the chance to read it when the time came, and that the “when” of that wasn’t up to him. It was Dean who gave it back, though. Handed it over with a look deep in his eyes that said he thought he’d FUBARed the situation somehow.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” he said. Took him a good half a minute to meet John’s eyes.
Took John a lot longer to get that Dean wasn’t sorry for himself, he was sorry for Sam. That Sam had gotten elbowed into the game whether he wanted to be there or not. A year later, he and Dean were still trying to keep Sam on the sidelines. Sometimes that worked; sometimes it very much didn’t.
“How much did he read?” Ellen asked.
“Pretty much all of it.”
“He’s better off knowing, John.”
“Maybe.”
“Would’ve figured it out sooner or later.”
John didn’t answer that, just looked at the journal.
He’d started writing in the damn thing because of her: because of Mary. God knew what she’d been writing down every night, tucked in bed with a pen and her book, the latest of a whole pile of them, ranging from a little girl’s pink-covered diary to something cloth-covered, more adult. He’d seen the covers, teased her about them, asked once or twice (or a hundred times) what was so important that she needed to write it down to remember it.
“Not for now,” she said. “For later.”
The books had all gone up in the fire. And second only to having her back, he wanted those damn books.
So maybe that was why Sammy had gone ferreting in his bag. Not because he thought there were dark things, things to be afraid of, but simply because he wanted to know what his old man was thinking. What was so important that it needed to be written down.
Ellen was half right: he did have the seeds of a headache. Run of the mill, though; the dregs of being tired, worn thin.
“I need to go,” he said.
She didn’t object. “Have a merry Christmas, John.”
“You too.”
“You know you can come back here any time.”
He gathered up the food, the thermos, the book. “Thank you.” He found Jo one more time, scuffing the toe of her boot against the floor in front of the juke. She seemed to feel him looking at her and turned to grin gap-toothed at him. He smiled back, the headache pushed away for a moment by the genuineness of the little girl’s farewell.
“I do,” he told Ellen. “I’ll come back.”
* * * * *
Characters: John, Ellen, Wee!Jo
Pairings: none
Spoilers: none
Rating: PG, for language
Length: 1585 words
Disclaimer: Don't own. Will share.
Jo's voice pulled him out of his reverie. Stopped his in-depth study of the scuffs and grooves in the surface of the table. Ended his being alone in a room occupied by a couple dozen people.
Ghosts of Christmas Past
By Carol Davis
“Uncle John? Mommy wants to know if you want more coffee.”
Jo’s voice pulled him out of his reverie. Stopped his in-depth study of the scuffs and grooves in the surface of the table.
Ended his being alone in a room occupied by a couple dozen people.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” he said. “I’m good.”
“That means ‘no,’ right?”
She was a cute little thing. Long blonde hair plaited into pigtails. Clothes like a Mommy & Me version of Ellen’s: jeans, boots, flannel shirt. Or maybe it was Mommy & Daddy & Me, because Bill was dressed pretty much the same.
“That means ‘no,’” he confirmed.
“Okay, then.”
And off she went, to check with the guy two tables over. Seemed funny, her so little, being in a place like this and pretty much serving as a waitress. John suspected she had some grit to her under the surface - being Ellen’s kid, she couldn’t not have that - but still, there was something off about a little blonde girl in pigtails running around a worn-out roadhouse full of hunters.
He looked around, in the way he’d been partly taught by Caleb and partly picked up through trial and error, taking everything in without being obvious. He was almost certain - no, hell, he was certain - that everybody in the place knew he was taking their measure, but they didn’t react, any of them, with more than a flicker of the eyes or a minute shift in posture. They all knew him, knew he wasn’t a threat to them.
Not here, not now, anyway.
There were two women in the crowd. One of them made Ellen look girly. The other was more down toward Jo’s end of the scale: dressed sturdy, but with a little bit of delicacy about her. The kind who’d cry if a pissed-off spirit knocked her across a room.
Crap like that made his head hurt. Not that he thought women couldn’t handle the job; Ellen was pure proof they could, and she wasn’t the only member of that club. No, it was more like…the fragile ones, the ones who’d been shoved up to the plate instead of stepping up, really ought to be somewhere else. Part of some other life.
The life they’d been torn out of.
Little Jo (and hell, that made him think of Bonanza) probably intended to stroll right into the family business when the time came. She couldn’t much help it, with both her parents being hunters and her being surrounded by them all the damn time. At least none of it would come as a shock to her.
The way it had to Dean. To Sammy.
Sammy…
How he’d ever thought he could keep Sam in the dark…
“You holdin’ it together?”
He looked. Ellen, holding a half-full coffeepot. Black handle; no decaf for this crowd. She smiled, more in a way that said she knew what he was thinking than that she was trying to be cheerful. Then she refilled his cup.
“Look like you’re building up to a migraine size of Mount St. Helen’s,” she said. “If that’s true, caffeine’s probably the last thing you need, but what the hell. I’ve caffeinated myself through pretty much every ailment known to mankind.”
“I need to - probably time to hit the road.”
“If you’re planning to make it back at a decent hour, probably so.” She nodded toward a hunter John had spoken to a couple of times. “Top says the roads are okay. He called some friend of his at the trooper barracks. Couple squalls here and there, but nothing to knot up your drawers about.”
“That’s good.”
“Ought to get yourself a truck. Better on the rough spots.”
“I’ve thought about it.”
She smiled again. Damn the way the woman knew what he was thinking. Or feeling, at least. No wonder Harvelle had scooped her up. He couldn’t have found better, not to fill the niche Ellen was filling.
She knew about the car. Knew what it meant.
“Your boy’s how old?” she asked. “The older one.”
“Fourteen, in a month.”
“Another couple years, you can pass the car on to him. Get yourself a truck.” She leaned a hip against the edge of the table and shoved her free hand through her hair. She looked tired. Why, John couldn’t guess. “You know they’re welcome anytime. Your boys.”
“I know.”
“You want some of that pie for the road?”
“Maybe a sandwich.”
“I’ll throw in some pie.”
“I won’t throw it back.”
Ellen chuckled, deep and throaty, a smoker’s laugh. John watched her cross the room without bothering to be surreptitious about it. Didn’t need to be, after all this time; Harvelle wouldn’t have let him do any more than drink here if he hadn’t know right from the beginning that John Winchester didn’t have any designs on his wife. Or anybody else’s. Or anybody single, come down to it. There was a reason he was still wearing Mary’s ring on his left hand. Probably always would be.
Did that make him…what, unrealistic? Obsessive? Unable to move on, get down to the business of living?
No, he thought. It made him hers, the way he’d always been, for as much of his life that counted.
Ellen came back with a packed-full brown paper bag and a thermos. When she saw the look on his face she sat down on the other side of the table. “Something you want to say?” she asked quietly.
He didn’t quite shake his head. “Wool-gathering.”
“I look gullible to you?”
John’s gaze tracked across the room, found Jo studying the roster of songs on the juke. “How did you decide to tell her?” he asked after a minute.
“Never decided. She…” Ellen paused, looking at her daughter. “I think she popped out of the chute knowing.”
“And you don’t -“
“It scares the hell out of me. But we figured she could protect herself better if she knew. No point in walking around blindfolded. We keep some things from her, but she knows the basics. Like I said, she seems to know it before we can tell her.”
“Psychic?”
“Nah. Too smart for her own good, the brat.” Wearing that same smile again, she pushed the bag and the thermos across the table to sit alongside the leather-covered journal John had been writing in most of the afternoon. He followed her attention there, and the flicker of change that went through his eyes was more than enough to tell her what was going on. “That how he found out?” she asked.
“He knew. Before.”
“You sure?”
“He was looking for a second opinion. Found it in the book.”
The moment he’d gone looking for the journal and found nothing in the bottom of the duffel but dirty socks, he knew who had it. Not Dean; Dean knew he’d have the chance to read it when the time came, and that the “when” of that wasn’t up to him. It was Dean who gave it back, though. Handed it over with a look deep in his eyes that said he thought he’d FUBARed the situation somehow.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” he said. Took him a good half a minute to meet John’s eyes.
Took John a lot longer to get that Dean wasn’t sorry for himself, he was sorry for Sam. That Sam had gotten elbowed into the game whether he wanted to be there or not. A year later, he and Dean were still trying to keep Sam on the sidelines. Sometimes that worked; sometimes it very much didn’t.
“How much did he read?” Ellen asked.
“Pretty much all of it.”
“He’s better off knowing, John.”
“Maybe.”
“Would’ve figured it out sooner or later.”
John didn’t answer that, just looked at the journal.
He’d started writing in the damn thing because of her: because of Mary. God knew what she’d been writing down every night, tucked in bed with a pen and her book, the latest of a whole pile of them, ranging from a little girl’s pink-covered diary to something cloth-covered, more adult. He’d seen the covers, teased her about them, asked once or twice (or a hundred times) what was so important that she needed to write it down to remember it.
“Not for now,” she said. “For later.”
The books had all gone up in the fire. And second only to having her back, he wanted those damn books.
So maybe that was why Sammy had gone ferreting in his bag. Not because he thought there were dark things, things to be afraid of, but simply because he wanted to know what his old man was thinking. What was so important that it needed to be written down.
Ellen was half right: he did have the seeds of a headache. Run of the mill, though; the dregs of being tired, worn thin.
“I need to go,” he said.
She didn’t object. “Have a merry Christmas, John.”
“You too.”
“You know you can come back here any time.”
He gathered up the food, the thermos, the book. “Thank you.” He found Jo one more time, scuffing the toe of her boot against the floor in front of the juke. She seemed to feel him looking at her and turned to grin gap-toothed at him. He smiled back, the headache pushed away for a moment by the genuineness of the little girl’s farewell.
“I do,” he told Ellen. “I’ll come back.”
* * * * *