The Church Lady for Vanillafluffy
Type of Submission: Fiction
Title: The Church Lady
Author: just_ruth
Recipient:
vanillafluffy who wanted (paraphrasing) “John’s storage unit fascinates me . . . Sam and/or Dean going there for some reason and finding something unexpected
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Spoilers for “Bad Day at Black Rock” and “Friday the 13th: the series.”
Author's Notes: contains one of my favorite Original Character
Special thanks to:samidha
Word count: 1175
Summary: “Why would Dad keep this?”
******
November 13, 2007
“I’m only sorry it took us this long to contact you, Mr. Winchester,” said the red-haired woman as she supervised the removal of the cursed boxes from the storage facility at Black Rock. “We knew that your father had been working with Mr. Knox, but after Mr. Knox’s disappearance it was hard for the Verdredi society to find out what happened.”
“Why would it be so hard?” wondered Dean. She called herself Michelle Ventura and there was something about her that reminded him of Ellen.
“Buffalo New York is the home of the Skeptics Society, founded by stage magician James Randi. Start asking too many questions about things paranormal and you find yourself under attack by a group of smug individuals who are convinced you’re an idiot and they’ll try to ‘save’ you from what they consider your ‘delusions’.” She shook her head. “At least your father kept these safe. We were worried when rumors had Bela Talbot looking for the rabbit’s foot.”
“Well, that’s been destroyed,” Dean shoved his hands into his pockets. He watched the society members carrying out the coffin that had been draped with the South Carolina state flag. “What’s in that?”
“You don’t want to know,” was the grim answer. She leaned on one of the shelves to write the check. “This should cover all your expenses.”
Dean looked over the amount with a satisfied nod. It was a fair amount. Not as nice as the lottery winnings Bela had taken from him, but it would keep them in gas and M&M’s for a while.
“Hey, Dean?” Sam Winchester turned with the rust-spotted find in his hand. “Why would Dad keep this?” The old pan had been sitting behind the row of cursed boxes.
Dean Winchester frowned. “I have no idea, Sammy.” He took the muffin pan in his hand. There was something about it that teased his memory. He turned it around. “Oh, yeah, there was a lady that came to visit us - a church lady.”
“I thought Dad ran those off.”
“This one was different. She was nice and she brought muffins.” He looked off into the past.
January 9, 1984
John Winchester sat down in the creaking, groaning chair in the rooms above the garage and rubbed his forehead. Dean went over to peer into the clothesbasket where Sammy was sleeping peacefully.
“What do you want for dinner, Tiger?” John asked. His oldest son looked up at him; still silent.
John sighed. Give him time. They said at the hospital. He went to the refrigerator and got a beer. Out the tiny kitchen window, he saw her at the foot of the stairs, frowning at a piece of paper in her hand; a small, round woman with brown hair, sensible, conservative clothes and a basket on one arm.
Oh, hell, not another church lady! he thought as he heard her climbing.
She knocked on the door. He considered pretending no one was home, but Dean evaded his grasp and opened the door.
“Thank you!” She smiled, not stepping inside the rooms. “Mr. Winchester? May I come in?”
All the others had simply barged right in. John looked at her face; she was not at all beautiful, but her brown eyes had an honest look to them. “Oh, sure, come on in.”
“Thank you.” She set the basket on the small table. “I’m Martha Truman.” She held out her hand. John gave it a quick squeeze.
“Ma’am, I’m not really a church goer,” he began.
“I understand,” she opened the basket. “I’m not here to invite you to church.”
“Well, damn, lady! You’re the first one that ever said that!”
Her face froze with brief disapproval, but she shook herself and blinked. “I’m sorry that’s happened.” She set out a disposable foil pan and a tin of muffins. “I’ve brought you chicken casserole and some muffins; six corn to go with the casserole and six blueberry.”
“Ma’am, that’s really nice of you but . . .”
Sammy picked that moment to start crying. Dean, who had been standing watching, ran to the cupboard and brought back a diaper. John almost cursed out loud.
“Excuse me,” he scooped up Sammy, grabbed the diaper from Dean and stepped into the tiny bedroom to change his youngest. Well, at least she didn’t offer to take over - he’d had more than one of the old bats step right in as if he didn’t know what he was doing. Martha merely nodded. Dean went to stand by her and stare.
Sammy was informing the world he was uncomfortable and John didn’t blame him. Ugh, how could applesauce smell so nice coming out of the jar and smell so bad afterwards?
“Hang on, kiddo,” he reached out grabbed a wipe - and only half of one came out of the jug.
“Shit!” he roared. Sammy stopped crying and stuffed his fist into his mouth. “Oh, no, I’m not mad at you, Sammy. . .”
“Is there something I can help with, Mr. Winchester?” Martha asked.
“You don’t happen to have a jug of baby wipes in your basket do you?” John demanded.
He thought he heard her say “hmm.” She opened the door a crack. “Will these do?”
It was a package of thick paper dinner napkins. “Thank you ma’am, they certainly will!”
There was enough water in the jug to moisten the napkins enough to get Sammy’s little bottom clean. He tucked him back into his romper and sat him on his hip.
He came into the kitchen just in time to hear Martha say, “You have to say please.”
She had a blueberry muffin on a plate in front of Dean. John bristled and got ready to shout at the interfering old bat.
“Please,” said Dean.
John was thunderstruck.
“Please,” repeated Dean.
“There you are,” Martha set the plate on the table and Dean grabbed the muffin. “I’ll be on my way, Mr. Winchester.”
“Er, yes, thank you ma’am.”
“Oh, if you want to return my muffin pan? I’ll be at Third Presbyterian on Sunday. Service is at nine but if you just come at ten-thirty for coffee and cookies I’ll never tell.” She smiled.
“Not worried about saving my soul, ma’am?”
“Your soul is yours to save if you want, Mr. Winchester, that’s why God created us with free will. I can’t do it for you.” She picked up the empty basket. “I hope to see you again.”
“Ma’am,” John nodded. He turned to Dean. “Good muffin, tiger?”
“Good,” said Dean, crumbs dropping off his chin. “Real good.”
But before John could consider Martha’s offer, he met Missouri Mosley and started on a long, epic odyssey. He carried the muffin pan with him because he kept hearing the words that broke Dean’s silence every time he handled it. He finally stored it away in the Black Rock unit and forgot about it.
******
Dean shook his head and set the pan aside. ”We’re not going to fight Lilith with muffins. Let’s see what else is in here.”
Title: The Church Lady
Author: just_ruth
Recipient:
vanillafluffy who wanted (paraphrasing) “John’s storage unit fascinates me . . . Sam and/or Dean going there for some reason and finding something unexpected
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Spoilers for “Bad Day at Black Rock” and “Friday the 13th: the series.”
Author's Notes: contains one of my favorite Original Character
Special thanks to:samidha
Word count: 1175
Summary: “Why would Dad keep this?”
******
November 13, 2007
“I’m only sorry it took us this long to contact you, Mr. Winchester,” said the red-haired woman as she supervised the removal of the cursed boxes from the storage facility at Black Rock. “We knew that your father had been working with Mr. Knox, but after Mr. Knox’s disappearance it was hard for the Verdredi society to find out what happened.”
“Why would it be so hard?” wondered Dean. She called herself Michelle Ventura and there was something about her that reminded him of Ellen.
“Buffalo New York is the home of the Skeptics Society, founded by stage magician James Randi. Start asking too many questions about things paranormal and you find yourself under attack by a group of smug individuals who are convinced you’re an idiot and they’ll try to ‘save’ you from what they consider your ‘delusions’.” She shook her head. “At least your father kept these safe. We were worried when rumors had Bela Talbot looking for the rabbit’s foot.”
“Well, that’s been destroyed,” Dean shoved his hands into his pockets. He watched the society members carrying out the coffin that had been draped with the South Carolina state flag. “What’s in that?”
“You don’t want to know,” was the grim answer. She leaned on one of the shelves to write the check. “This should cover all your expenses.”
Dean looked over the amount with a satisfied nod. It was a fair amount. Not as nice as the lottery winnings Bela had taken from him, but it would keep them in gas and M&M’s for a while.
“Hey, Dean?” Sam Winchester turned with the rust-spotted find in his hand. “Why would Dad keep this?” The old pan had been sitting behind the row of cursed boxes.
Dean Winchester frowned. “I have no idea, Sammy.” He took the muffin pan in his hand. There was something about it that teased his memory. He turned it around. “Oh, yeah, there was a lady that came to visit us - a church lady.”
“I thought Dad ran those off.”
“This one was different. She was nice and she brought muffins.” He looked off into the past.
January 9, 1984
John Winchester sat down in the creaking, groaning chair in the rooms above the garage and rubbed his forehead. Dean went over to peer into the clothesbasket where Sammy was sleeping peacefully.
“What do you want for dinner, Tiger?” John asked. His oldest son looked up at him; still silent.
John sighed. Give him time. They said at the hospital. He went to the refrigerator and got a beer. Out the tiny kitchen window, he saw her at the foot of the stairs, frowning at a piece of paper in her hand; a small, round woman with brown hair, sensible, conservative clothes and a basket on one arm.
Oh, hell, not another church lady! he thought as he heard her climbing.
She knocked on the door. He considered pretending no one was home, but Dean evaded his grasp and opened the door.
“Thank you!” She smiled, not stepping inside the rooms. “Mr. Winchester? May I come in?”
All the others had simply barged right in. John looked at her face; she was not at all beautiful, but her brown eyes had an honest look to them. “Oh, sure, come on in.”
“Thank you.” She set the basket on the small table. “I’m Martha Truman.” She held out her hand. John gave it a quick squeeze.
“Ma’am, I’m not really a church goer,” he began.
“I understand,” she opened the basket. “I’m not here to invite you to church.”
“Well, damn, lady! You’re the first one that ever said that!”
Her face froze with brief disapproval, but she shook herself and blinked. “I’m sorry that’s happened.” She set out a disposable foil pan and a tin of muffins. “I’ve brought you chicken casserole and some muffins; six corn to go with the casserole and six blueberry.”
“Ma’am, that’s really nice of you but . . .”
Sammy picked that moment to start crying. Dean, who had been standing watching, ran to the cupboard and brought back a diaper. John almost cursed out loud.
“Excuse me,” he scooped up Sammy, grabbed the diaper from Dean and stepped into the tiny bedroom to change his youngest. Well, at least she didn’t offer to take over - he’d had more than one of the old bats step right in as if he didn’t know what he was doing. Martha merely nodded. Dean went to stand by her and stare.
Sammy was informing the world he was uncomfortable and John didn’t blame him. Ugh, how could applesauce smell so nice coming out of the jar and smell so bad afterwards?
“Hang on, kiddo,” he reached out grabbed a wipe - and only half of one came out of the jug.
“Shit!” he roared. Sammy stopped crying and stuffed his fist into his mouth. “Oh, no, I’m not mad at you, Sammy. . .”
“Is there something I can help with, Mr. Winchester?” Martha asked.
“You don’t happen to have a jug of baby wipes in your basket do you?” John demanded.
He thought he heard her say “hmm.” She opened the door a crack. “Will these do?”
It was a package of thick paper dinner napkins. “Thank you ma’am, they certainly will!”
There was enough water in the jug to moisten the napkins enough to get Sammy’s little bottom clean. He tucked him back into his romper and sat him on his hip.
He came into the kitchen just in time to hear Martha say, “You have to say please.”
She had a blueberry muffin on a plate in front of Dean. John bristled and got ready to shout at the interfering old bat.
“Please,” said Dean.
John was thunderstruck.
“Please,” repeated Dean.
“There you are,” Martha set the plate on the table and Dean grabbed the muffin. “I’ll be on my way, Mr. Winchester.”
“Er, yes, thank you ma’am.”
“Oh, if you want to return my muffin pan? I’ll be at Third Presbyterian on Sunday. Service is at nine but if you just come at ten-thirty for coffee and cookies I’ll never tell.” She smiled.
“Not worried about saving my soul, ma’am?”
“Your soul is yours to save if you want, Mr. Winchester, that’s why God created us with free will. I can’t do it for you.” She picked up the empty basket. “I hope to see you again.”
“Ma’am,” John nodded. He turned to Dean. “Good muffin, tiger?”
“Good,” said Dean, crumbs dropping off his chin. “Real good.”
But before John could consider Martha’s offer, he met Missouri Mosley and started on a long, epic odyssey. He carried the muffin pan with him because he kept hearing the words that broke Dean’s silence every time he handled it. He finally stored it away in the Black Rock unit and forgot about it.
******
Dean shook his head and set the pan aside. ”We’re not going to fight Lilith with muffins. Let’s see what else is in here.”