New Story (that I'm actually posting here!!)
I don't usually post my fanfictions to my journal, but I particularly like this one, and now I have online friends who might actually read it, so...here. It's x-posted on fanfiction.net under that name (which remains nameless because of the family members who browse this journal). I'm not a part of any writing communities on livejournal...idk, should I be?
Anyway, cut so that it doesn't bother any normal people out there.
Series: Supernatural
Title: If There Be Angels
Characters: Jimmy Novak, John Winchester
Category: Gen, Action
Rating: T, for language and action
Spoilers: If you know who Jimmy is, then...none.
Summary: Jimmy Novak was a cynic and an atheist. On his 21st birthday he was saved from the clutches of evil by an angel… in an Impala. Pre-series oneshot.
Word Count: 4,632
Author's Note: The result of a desire to expand on two ideas I had about Jimmy Novak: That maybe he wasn't always so pious, and that at some point in the past he had crossed paths with the Winchesters.
If There Be Angels
Jimmy hated that his birthday was on Christmas day.
It always sucked, but this was the worst. His twenty-first. He should be out at the bars with his friends, debating politics and drunkenly cat-calling girls and downing shots until he puked his guts up at 3:00 AM passed out on a friend's bathroom floor. That's what was supposed to happen on your 21st birthday.
Instead, all he got were closed bars and snowy roads. All of his friends were at their parent's houses, drinking egg nog and opening gifts and curling up by firesides with adoring girlfriends, while Jimmy was alone in his apartment, and cold, eating fruit loops without milk and drinking stale beer. Peace and joy, his ass.
To make it worse, his next-door neighbor had a baby, and its wailing had soared through the paper-thin walls for the past six months. Six months. Wasn't that thing ever going to grow out of crying? It would have been so much easier if his neighbors had been, say, blasting music, or having loud sex, because then he could reasonably pound on the wall and scream at them to shut the fuck up. But a baby was unstoppable. How much of a dick would he be if he screamed at a baby?
Quite abruptly, the wailing stopped. Jimmy sagged against the couch cushions and crunched on his cereal. Finally. Silence.
He could almost hear the snow fall lightly against the roof; in the distance, the sound of carolers wafted, tinny and off-pitch and not nearly as darling or adorable as they were made out to be on TV. Jimmy idly wondered if the liquor store around the corner was open. He might not be able to go to a bar with friends, but at least he could enact the getting-wasted-out-of-his-mind-and-puking-on-the-floor part of his birthday.
His phone rang: his mom. Jimmy turned the ringer off and heaved himself off of the couch with a sigh, shoving his feet into boots and his arms into his old grey ski jacket. Liquor store, it was. Anything to get out of this fucking apartment for five minutes.
Plus, the snow was beautiful.
He was just locking his door from the outside when someone screamed.
It came from the apartment next door, the one with the young couple and their excruciatingly loud baby. Jimmy hesitated, but when the scream sounded again, throaty and terror-filled, his found himself knocking on their door, then pushing it open.
"Hello?" he called, edging in. The place appeared to be deserted, though the table was heaped with food and the tiny stereo was still pumping out a static-filled Oh Come, All Ye Faithful. "Uh, Mr. and Mrs. Lieberman? It's Jimmy from next door. Is everything ok?"
There was a gunshot. A scream. Jimmy recognized Mr. Lieberman's voice: "What the fuck are you? What are you doing to her! Katie, oh my God!" Another gunshot.
Jimmy's legs carried him to the hallway before he realized what he was doing, and he burst into the room without even a weapon.
It was a child's bedroom, complete with cradle and mobile and large, smiling cartoon animals dotting the walls. But Jimmy didn't notice this; not really. What he saw was Mr. Lieberman huddled in a corner with a gun clutched in his hands, a figure in black standing by the cradle, and holy mother of fucking shit Kate Lieberman on the fucking ceiling with her stomach gashed open oh my fuck oh hell oh oh oh…
Like a flower blooming, the ceiling blossomed with flames, eating up the plaster and her body, the smell of burning flesh and hair. Mr. Leiberman (Harry, was it?) just stared upward in horror, his mouth slack, the fire reflected in his eyes.
The thing by the cradle turned to the newcomer; they locked gazes, and all Jimmy could see was yellow, sick yellow, glowing and monstrous. Even the flames paled in comparison, the sparks drifting down on his head, the scent of cooking meat. It smiled.
"Well, well, well," it said, stepping closer. Behind him, the baby was wailing, thrusting chubby fists into the air as his mother burned above him. "What do we have here?"
Jimmy snapped out of his trance. He darted his gaze to the immobile husband. "Harry! Get your son! Harry! Now!"
The strange figure didn't react to his hoarse shouts, just kept drifting closer, leaving the infant behind. "Harry!" Jimmy screamed, and the panicked man snapped into action, leaping from the floor to scoop up his wailing son from the cradle. "Get out of the building!" Jimmy yelled, backing into the wall as the dark man advanced on him. The ceiling was consumed, showing no signs that a body had once been there, and the flames were licking greedily at the rest of the room, eating their way down to the floor. The smoke was choking; Jimmy pulled the sleeve of his coat over his nose, eyes watering. None of this seemed to bother the demonic figure at all.
He didn't know where this surge of bravery had come from, how he was able to stand down an oncoming monster in a burning house without running for the hills. All he could think was good, good, you bastard, focus on me, let them escape.
It occurred to him, for the first time, that he was going to die. On Christmas. On his birthday. Like one big cosmic joke. If there was a God, something Jimmy, for all of his religious upbringing, had never been able to force himself to believe, He was surely laughing his ass off right about now.
"You…" the thing hissed, very close to Jimmy, nose nearly touching him, like a dog sniffing out prey. "Youuuu….are something different from all the other meat suits." It grabbed Jimmy's face with both hands and lifted it, peering into his eyes, then gave an approving nod as if finding something it liked. "Oh, hello. A vessel. Primed and ready. Haven't seen one of you in a loooong time." It grinned nastily, eyes flashing golden. "Too bad you're so old, kid. You had potential. Demon blood in a vessel…you would have been my pride and joy."
Jimmy could barely breathe. Around him churned smoke, fire, sparks like tiny brands on his skin, but the creature's hands stayed cold and clammy, like death. There was a huge cracking sound, and a beam fell to the floor, sending up a spray of incandescent red light. The heat was unbearable.
The thing considered him for a moment, then shrugged. "Too bad, too old. Sorry, kid. Can't leave an unoccupied vessel running around. It's bad for business. You understand."
"What?" Jimmy croaked out, coughing. The thing grinned, tightening its grip around his throat. Jimmy suddenly realized that he was being murdered, and so he did something that he hadn't done in a very, very long time. He prayed.
'Please Lord, God, Whoever, please let me live, I can't die like this, I can't die, oh God, oh please, let me live, I'll do anything, give anything, I'll worship You all the days of my life if you just save me from this Demon and let me live, let me live, let me live…'
A shot rang out, flinging the monster to the side. A shotgun pumped, and then sent another shot spraying into the burning room. "How do you like rock salt, you evil son of a bitch!" a voice yelled. "I've got you now!"
Jimmy slid down the wall, gasping weakly for breath. The smoke was in his eyes, in his nose, a hot, burning blanket that smothered him as surely as the monster had. Dimly he saw a man advance from the churning cloud of grey, pumping a sawed-off shotgun and chanting in Latin.
When he was close enough the man tossed a vial of water on the thing's face; it screamed, and though Jimmy couldn't see much, he could hear the smirk in the man's voice.
"I've been waiting for this for a long time!" he called, moving as if to do something with his hands. He had something in them, some kind of stone, or an amulet. He held it front of him and it started to glow, the light soothing even in the burning inferno of the room. "Hello from John Winchester, bitch!"
Jimmy wasn't sure what the man, apparently John Winchester, was about to do, because at that moment the monster tipped its head back and let a cloud of smoke stream from his throat. There was an almighty crack, and whatever John was holding snapped in pieces, its glow extinguished.
"No!" John screamed, clutching uselessly at the black smoke as it seeped through the floorboards. "No, you fucker, come back! This isn't over! Fuck! Fuck!"
Jimmy coughed, trying to call out, but he couldn't breathe, oh God he couldn't breathe. "He…" he managed, then coughed again, feeling like a vice was pressing around his lungs. "Help…h…elp…"
His voice was so soft it barely carried past his own ears, but John's head shot up. He was immediately at Jimmy's side, lifting him like he weighed nothing. One booted foot slammed through the weakened floor, but John quickly recovered and shouldered his way out of the burning wreckage and into the blessedly cold night air.
In the distance, sirens could be heard. "You okay?" John asked, still not putting him down. Jimmy nodded but coughed weakly. He could see his rescuer clearly for the first time: he was a broad-shouldered, rugged face doused in soot, with messy brown hair, and somber, almost haunted eyes. John pressed a hand to his forehead and checked his pulse. "Shit, smoke inhalation, but you'll live. Come on, kid."
Jimmy thrashed a little. "That's…what it…called…" he started, coughing mightily. John seemed to understand.
"All right, all right, no kid then," he muttered. "We gotta get out of here. What's your name?"
"Jimmy," he gasped out, tears streaming from his eyes and making shining tracks down his blackened face. "N…Novak."
"Okay Jimmy, can you walk?"
Jimmy nodded, and John carefully set him down on his feet, letting the younger man lean heavily on his shoulder. "Look, I know none of this makes sense right now, but we've gotta get out of here. Come with me."
Jimmy was too exhausted to argue. The adrenaline was slowly leaking out of his veins, leaving him drained and shaky. Breathing was a struggle; his throat burned, and more than anything he wanted water. John seemed to realize this; as they hobbled along he scooped up a handful of snow and handed it to him.
"Slowly. Don't choke. It'll have to do until we can get you some water, okay? How's the breathing?"
"Better," Jimmy said in a hoarse voice, letting a small amount of blessedly, beautifully icy cold snow melt in his mouth. "Where are we going? Why not…stay for…police?" He coughed a little and took another bite of snow.
"That thing knows what you look like," John said darkly. "It could be back. You need to get far from here. Besides, you really want to tell the police what you saw? You gonna tell them a demon trapped her on the ceiling and burnt her?"
"That's really what that was?" Jimmy asked. They had walked about two blocks by now, and were stopping by the side of an old muscle car; Jimmy didn't really know what kind, cars had never been his thing. It looked cool though, dented and dinged but badass, just right for this stranger who fought off monsters and saved people from burning buildings on Christmas night.
John opened the side door and helped him in. "Been on its trail for years. Always the same MO: mother on the ceiling in flames on her baby's six-month anniversary."
"Why?" Jimmy croaked, shivering. John stared at him for a minute, his eyes pained.
"That's the sixty million dollar question."
He slammed the door and walked to the driver's side, getting in and quickly peeling away.
Jimmy shimmied himself deeper into his slightly charred coat, hating how it smelled like smoke and fire. "Where are we going?"
"First of all, someplace where we can get you washed up. You look like hell. Then we're getting a stiff drink." John gave him a side-long look. "How old are you?"
"It's my 21st birthday today," Jimmy said, running sooty hands through his hair and trying to stem the hysterical laughter that bubbled in his throat.
"Shit, son. Well, Merry Christmas and Happy Birthday. We're definitely getting you that drink. And by the way, I'm John. John Winchester." He held out a hand and Jimmy shook it.
"You know, when I saw you in there, I thought you were an angel," Jimmy said, tilting his head against the seat and closing his burning eyes. He really wished he had more snow to eat.
John laughed and shook his head. "Far from it, Jimmy. Far from it."
They stopped at a Target, the only store open on Christmas night. John disappeared into the harshly-lit aisles and Jimmy spent several minutes washing his face in the tiny bathroom and trying to get black out from the grooves of his hands. He kept almost laughing. Every time he looked at his reflection in the mirror- florescent lights illuminating his sallow skin, blue eyes huge and hollow, hair sticking up like splayed fingers, the thick smudge of bruises flowering on his neck- he felt the laughter bubble up inside of him, the wheezing sense of oncoming hyperventilation, and he would have to catch his breath and force it back.
No panic attacks. Not tonight.
"You're shaking like a leaf, Jimmy," John said when they met back at the car. He had four bottles of water, beef jerky, and a plastic bag with something soft and large in it. Jimmy greedily guzzled the first water as they pulled out of the parking lot and eased onto the snow-covered highway. "And slow down. If you vomit in this car you're on your own."
Jimmy reluctantly put the half-empty bottle down. "What's in the bag?" he rasped, his voice coming out low and sore from the smoke, deeper than it usually was. He found he kind of liked it.
John kept his eyes on the road but handed the bag over. "It's for you. Think of it like a Christmas gift."
Jimmy raised his eyebrows, rummaging through the bag with an odd sense of trepidation. He pulled out a length of tan material, soft and pliable under his hands. "A trench coat?" he asked.
John nodded. "It's all they had that didn't look like a fuckin' ski parka. In case you haven't noticed, what you're wearing is singed, filthy, and smells like smoke and demon shit. Least with this you won't totally embarrass me."
Jimmy ran his fingertips over the collar, then brought it to his nose; it smelled of soap and disinfectant, like the store. "Thanks," he murmured. "You didn't have to."
"'Course I didn't," John said gruffly, and Jimmy knew that was the end of the conversation. "Now, where the hell is there an open bar?"
The bar they finally found was dingy, to say the least. Jimmy was pretty sure the flat beer and cigarette smoke smell was going to seep into his new trench coat, but he figured that would make it even cooler, like John Constantine. Or John Winchester.
"So you're…hunting that thing?" Jimmy asked. They were perched on stools at the bar, leaning over the stained and slick wood. John had ordered them two beers; the bartender, a tired-looking man in a greasy apron, snapped the tops off with a bottle opener, the sound sharp and crisp.
"Yep," John said. "Among other things. We live in a dangerous world. More out there than you could ever believe."
"Like what?" Jimmy asked, leaning forward. John took a long drink of beer and tilted his head to the younger man.
"If I told you, you'd never be able to sleep again."
Jimmy waited, but that seemed like the only answer he was going to get. He tried a different tactic. "So that stone, or whatever it was," he said, twirling the brown glass bottle in his hands and wishing he didn't still feel so sick from the smoke. "The thing you tried to…"
"It's an amulet," John said roughly. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out three jagged pieces, layering them together on top of the bar. "Was supposed to trap it. Didn't work; the yellow-eyed bastard is too strong. But I'm still searching. I'll get him someday." He paused, eyeing Jimmy gruffly. "Beer's not for playing with. Drink it."
Jimmy obediently took a gulp. Usually he liked beer, the smooth yeast-and-hops taste of it, but tonight it was hard to swallow, and his stomach churned. "It, uh…it talked to me."
John sat straight, interested. "What did it say?"
Jimmy licked his lips nervously, trying to force away the memory of those clammy cold hands around his neck. "It said I was a…a vessel. An unoccupied vessel. That if it had found me when I was younger I would have been its pride and joy." He felt sick just saying it. "But that I was too old. Then it started to choke me."
"A vessel," John mused, drinking deeply and staring at the wall in thought. "Never heard of that before. Wonder what it meant." He shot Jimmy a glance. "Anything weird ever happen to you? Migraines, visions, paranormal activity, especially when you're angry or upset?"
"N-no," Jimmy stuttered. "No, I'm totally normal."
John frowned pensively. "It say anything else? What did it mean by if it had found you earlier?"
Jimmy ran a hand through his still-sooty hair. "I dunno. Something about…demon blood in a vessel? Like that would be a good thing…for it. I really have no idea."
"Demon blood," John said darkly, as if this confirmed something he had long expected. "Damn."
"What?" Jimmy asked innocently. John shook his head.
"Nothing. It's personal. Drink your beer."
Jimmy choked down another swallowful. He coughed a little, then tried again.
"Why are you after that particular…"
"It's personal," John snapped, bristling. Jimmy immediately turned back to his beer, chugging it despite his nausea. After a moment John's gaze softened and he clapped Jimmy on the shoulder. "You're a good guy, Jimmy. You did a brave thing. Got the husband and his kid out safely, faced down a demon and survived; can't ask for anything more than that. So tell me, why were you all alone on Christmas night? Hell, it's your birthday."
It was clear that he was trying to change the subject, and Jimmy didn't question it. "Parents live out west," he said. "We don't really get along. Real religious, you know? Always thought it was kinda weird, all the Bible-quoting and crying in church. I dunno. We got into fights about it. I wasn't pious enough, or something. After tonight, it doesn't seem so crazy anymore." He shrugged weakly, drinking his beer as an excuse to not speak. It was almost empty. "What about you? You got family?"
John signaled for two more beers; Jimmy winced as it was put down in front of him but began drinking resolutely. "Yep," John said, with a mixture of pride and weariness. "Two boys. Dean and Sam. Dean's sixteen, Sammy's twelve. Good kids."
"They're with their mother?" Jimmy asked. John cringed, a slight, barely perceptible movement in the dark bar.
"No. They're with me."
Jimmy raised his eyebrows. "Oh. Where are they now, then?"
"Back at the motel, probably asleep." He gave Jimmy a sharp-eyed look. "Why?"
"Nothing," Jimmy said, shifting uncomfortably on the bar stool, his new trench coat flared below him like tan wings.
"You gonna say something then say it," John said gruffly. It was strange, Jimmy thought, like the older man wanted to say something but needed to be pushed, couldn't just come out and say it on his own. Like he was waiting for someone to absolve him of his sins.
"It's just…" Jimmy said softly, running his fingers along the rough grain of the bar. "Why are you hunting monsters and drinking with a stranger on Christmas night instead of being at home with your sons? I'm sure they miss you."
"And I miss them," he said in a low voice. "Every moment that I'm not with them, and sometime even when I am. But I got a history, and I got a job. They know this."
"So why are you still here?" Jimmy asked. John shrugged.
"Sometimes it's just hard to go home." He smiled, as if suddenly realizing that he was spilling precious emotions the way someone might spill water in the desert: sloppily, carelessly. He finished his second beer and signaled for a third. "Plus someone had to stick around and make sure you weren't gonna piss your pants and run to the cops. And I needed a drink. So did you. Drink, damnit."
"I still feel…a little sick," Jimmy admitted with embarrassment. John's face fell.
"Oh, fuck. Sorry. Not gonna puke, are you?"
Jimmy shook his head. "No." He wasn't sure if this was a lie.
Clearly John didn't believe him either. "Hmmm," he murmured, studying Jimmy's pale face with narrowed eyes. "So what are you gonna do now? You got a place to stay for the night?"
Jimmy abruptly remembered that his apartment building burnt down. He felt like someone had slapped him in the face. "Oh. I…I'm not sure. I guess I'll get a motel and then…buy a plane ticket. Go stay with my parents for a while as I sort things out. Maybe take the next semester off, figure…figure things out. This has been kind of a game changer."
"Bet it has," John said seriously. "You got money for a plane ticket?"
Jimmy nodded. "Yeah, I have my credit card in my other coat." He nodded to the bag at his feet, where his old singed coat was shoved in a ball. "As long as it didn't melt in the heat, I'll be fine." He hesitated. "You don't…you don't think that thing will come after me, do you?"
John stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head. "No, I don't. Whatever a vessel is, I'm guessing you're a small fry. This demon, he's got bigger things to attend to. Just stay out of sight for a while." He paused, digging around in his pocket, finally coming up with a wrinkled, coffee-stained card. He scribbled something on the back. "Here's my cell. You ever have any trouble with this demon again, or any other supernatural nasty, you give me a call. Understand?"
Jimmy took it with shaking fingers. "Yeah. Thanks."
Before he could pull away John clamped his hand around Jimmy's wrist; startled, Jimmy met his eyes, feeling the seriousness of the older man's demeanor.
"You listen to me, Jimmy Novak," he said in a steady voice. "Don't let this fuck you up. Live your life. Marry a nice girl. Find religion if that will make you sleep better at night. And pray you don't ever get dragged back into this mess. You survived it once. I wouldn't like your odds of doing that a second time."
Jimmy merely nodded, his throat dry, and John released his hand.
"All right, Jim," he said, placing a wad of crumpled bills on the bar and standing up. "I think it's time to head home to my boys. It is Christmas. You need a ride?"
Jimmy shook his head. "No, thanks. I know this area. There's a motel two blocks down I can stay at."
John nodded and held out his hand; Jimmy shook it, and he felt like he drew in a little of his savior's strength from the action. "Thank you," Jimmy said, the words lurching out of his sore throat. "I don't know if I said it before. Thank you for saving my life."
John shrugged and dropped his hand. "Welcome. And Jim-put a line of salt along your door and windows tonight. Just in case."
Jimmy knew enough not to question. He just nodded. "Okay, John. Thanks."
"You already said that." John smiled, and turned to walk away. Jimmy hopped off the bar stool and caught his shoulder.
"I really did," he said, a little breathlessly. "Think you were an angel back there. For a moment. Best moment of my life, really, believing in angels. In God."
John merely stared at him, then smiled, a sad, ghostly smile. "Get some sleep, Jim," he said quietly. "It's been a long night."
Then he slid out of Jimmy's grasp and disappeared out the door.
Jimmy grabbed the plastic bag from under the bar stool and followed him out, but the older man and his beat-up old car were already gone. He stood silently in the dim green glow of the bar sign, feeling the snow land feather-light on his skin and a chill breeze lift up the edges of his new trench coat. He had no apartment, no belongings; he had watched a woman burn to death, been attacked by a demon and discovered that the world was full of monsters. He had been saved by a hero. And somehow, throughout it all, he found God.
Belatedly Jimmy realized that it was well past midnight. It wasn't his birthday any more. Nor was it Christmas. Just another winter morning, still and silent in the hours before dawn, streets covered in clean snow that shone blue under the moon.
Being alive was a beautiful thing.
Anyway, cut so that it doesn't bother any normal people out there.
Series: Supernatural
Title: If There Be Angels
Characters: Jimmy Novak, John Winchester
Category: Gen, Action
Rating: T, for language and action
Spoilers: If you know who Jimmy is, then...none.
Summary: Jimmy Novak was a cynic and an atheist. On his 21st birthday he was saved from the clutches of evil by an angel… in an Impala. Pre-series oneshot.
Word Count: 4,632
Author's Note: The result of a desire to expand on two ideas I had about Jimmy Novak: That maybe he wasn't always so pious, and that at some point in the past he had crossed paths with the Winchesters.
If There Be Angels
Jimmy hated that his birthday was on Christmas day.
It always sucked, but this was the worst. His twenty-first. He should be out at the bars with his friends, debating politics and drunkenly cat-calling girls and downing shots until he puked his guts up at 3:00 AM passed out on a friend's bathroom floor. That's what was supposed to happen on your 21st birthday.
Instead, all he got were closed bars and snowy roads. All of his friends were at their parent's houses, drinking egg nog and opening gifts and curling up by firesides with adoring girlfriends, while Jimmy was alone in his apartment, and cold, eating fruit loops without milk and drinking stale beer. Peace and joy, his ass.
To make it worse, his next-door neighbor had a baby, and its wailing had soared through the paper-thin walls for the past six months. Six months. Wasn't that thing ever going to grow out of crying? It would have been so much easier if his neighbors had been, say, blasting music, or having loud sex, because then he could reasonably pound on the wall and scream at them to shut the fuck up. But a baby was unstoppable. How much of a dick would he be if he screamed at a baby?
Quite abruptly, the wailing stopped. Jimmy sagged against the couch cushions and crunched on his cereal. Finally. Silence.
He could almost hear the snow fall lightly against the roof; in the distance, the sound of carolers wafted, tinny and off-pitch and not nearly as darling or adorable as they were made out to be on TV. Jimmy idly wondered if the liquor store around the corner was open. He might not be able to go to a bar with friends, but at least he could enact the getting-wasted-out-of-his-mind-and-puking-on-the-floor part of his birthday.
His phone rang: his mom. Jimmy turned the ringer off and heaved himself off of the couch with a sigh, shoving his feet into boots and his arms into his old grey ski jacket. Liquor store, it was. Anything to get out of this fucking apartment for five minutes.
Plus, the snow was beautiful.
He was just locking his door from the outside when someone screamed.
It came from the apartment next door, the one with the young couple and their excruciatingly loud baby. Jimmy hesitated, but when the scream sounded again, throaty and terror-filled, his found himself knocking on their door, then pushing it open.
"Hello?" he called, edging in. The place appeared to be deserted, though the table was heaped with food and the tiny stereo was still pumping out a static-filled Oh Come, All Ye Faithful. "Uh, Mr. and Mrs. Lieberman? It's Jimmy from next door. Is everything ok?"
There was a gunshot. A scream. Jimmy recognized Mr. Lieberman's voice: "What the fuck are you? What are you doing to her! Katie, oh my God!" Another gunshot.
Jimmy's legs carried him to the hallway before he realized what he was doing, and he burst into the room without even a weapon.
It was a child's bedroom, complete with cradle and mobile and large, smiling cartoon animals dotting the walls. But Jimmy didn't notice this; not really. What he saw was Mr. Lieberman huddled in a corner with a gun clutched in his hands, a figure in black standing by the cradle, and holy mother of fucking shit Kate Lieberman on the fucking ceiling with her stomach gashed open oh my fuck oh hell oh oh oh…
Like a flower blooming, the ceiling blossomed with flames, eating up the plaster and her body, the smell of burning flesh and hair. Mr. Leiberman (Harry, was it?) just stared upward in horror, his mouth slack, the fire reflected in his eyes.
The thing by the cradle turned to the newcomer; they locked gazes, and all Jimmy could see was yellow, sick yellow, glowing and monstrous. Even the flames paled in comparison, the sparks drifting down on his head, the scent of cooking meat. It smiled.
"Well, well, well," it said, stepping closer. Behind him, the baby was wailing, thrusting chubby fists into the air as his mother burned above him. "What do we have here?"
Jimmy snapped out of his trance. He darted his gaze to the immobile husband. "Harry! Get your son! Harry! Now!"
The strange figure didn't react to his hoarse shouts, just kept drifting closer, leaving the infant behind. "Harry!" Jimmy screamed, and the panicked man snapped into action, leaping from the floor to scoop up his wailing son from the cradle. "Get out of the building!" Jimmy yelled, backing into the wall as the dark man advanced on him. The ceiling was consumed, showing no signs that a body had once been there, and the flames were licking greedily at the rest of the room, eating their way down to the floor. The smoke was choking; Jimmy pulled the sleeve of his coat over his nose, eyes watering. None of this seemed to bother the demonic figure at all.
He didn't know where this surge of bravery had come from, how he was able to stand down an oncoming monster in a burning house without running for the hills. All he could think was good, good, you bastard, focus on me, let them escape.
It occurred to him, for the first time, that he was going to die. On Christmas. On his birthday. Like one big cosmic joke. If there was a God, something Jimmy, for all of his religious upbringing, had never been able to force himself to believe, He was surely laughing his ass off right about now.
"You…" the thing hissed, very close to Jimmy, nose nearly touching him, like a dog sniffing out prey. "Youuuu….are something different from all the other meat suits." It grabbed Jimmy's face with both hands and lifted it, peering into his eyes, then gave an approving nod as if finding something it liked. "Oh, hello. A vessel. Primed and ready. Haven't seen one of you in a loooong time." It grinned nastily, eyes flashing golden. "Too bad you're so old, kid. You had potential. Demon blood in a vessel…you would have been my pride and joy."
Jimmy could barely breathe. Around him churned smoke, fire, sparks like tiny brands on his skin, but the creature's hands stayed cold and clammy, like death. There was a huge cracking sound, and a beam fell to the floor, sending up a spray of incandescent red light. The heat was unbearable.
The thing considered him for a moment, then shrugged. "Too bad, too old. Sorry, kid. Can't leave an unoccupied vessel running around. It's bad for business. You understand."
"What?" Jimmy croaked out, coughing. The thing grinned, tightening its grip around his throat. Jimmy suddenly realized that he was being murdered, and so he did something that he hadn't done in a very, very long time. He prayed.
'Please Lord, God, Whoever, please let me live, I can't die like this, I can't die, oh God, oh please, let me live, I'll do anything, give anything, I'll worship You all the days of my life if you just save me from this Demon and let me live, let me live, let me live…'
A shot rang out, flinging the monster to the side. A shotgun pumped, and then sent another shot spraying into the burning room. "How do you like rock salt, you evil son of a bitch!" a voice yelled. "I've got you now!"
Jimmy slid down the wall, gasping weakly for breath. The smoke was in his eyes, in his nose, a hot, burning blanket that smothered him as surely as the monster had. Dimly he saw a man advance from the churning cloud of grey, pumping a sawed-off shotgun and chanting in Latin.
When he was close enough the man tossed a vial of water on the thing's face; it screamed, and though Jimmy couldn't see much, he could hear the smirk in the man's voice.
"I've been waiting for this for a long time!" he called, moving as if to do something with his hands. He had something in them, some kind of stone, or an amulet. He held it front of him and it started to glow, the light soothing even in the burning inferno of the room. "Hello from John Winchester, bitch!"
Jimmy wasn't sure what the man, apparently John Winchester, was about to do, because at that moment the monster tipped its head back and let a cloud of smoke stream from his throat. There was an almighty crack, and whatever John was holding snapped in pieces, its glow extinguished.
"No!" John screamed, clutching uselessly at the black smoke as it seeped through the floorboards. "No, you fucker, come back! This isn't over! Fuck! Fuck!"
Jimmy coughed, trying to call out, but he couldn't breathe, oh God he couldn't breathe. "He…" he managed, then coughed again, feeling like a vice was pressing around his lungs. "Help…h…elp…"
His voice was so soft it barely carried past his own ears, but John's head shot up. He was immediately at Jimmy's side, lifting him like he weighed nothing. One booted foot slammed through the weakened floor, but John quickly recovered and shouldered his way out of the burning wreckage and into the blessedly cold night air.
In the distance, sirens could be heard. "You okay?" John asked, still not putting him down. Jimmy nodded but coughed weakly. He could see his rescuer clearly for the first time: he was a broad-shouldered, rugged face doused in soot, with messy brown hair, and somber, almost haunted eyes. John pressed a hand to his forehead and checked his pulse. "Shit, smoke inhalation, but you'll live. Come on, kid."
Jimmy thrashed a little. "That's…what it…called…" he started, coughing mightily. John seemed to understand.
"All right, all right, no kid then," he muttered. "We gotta get out of here. What's your name?"
"Jimmy," he gasped out, tears streaming from his eyes and making shining tracks down his blackened face. "N…Novak."
"Okay Jimmy, can you walk?"
Jimmy nodded, and John carefully set him down on his feet, letting the younger man lean heavily on his shoulder. "Look, I know none of this makes sense right now, but we've gotta get out of here. Come with me."
Jimmy was too exhausted to argue. The adrenaline was slowly leaking out of his veins, leaving him drained and shaky. Breathing was a struggle; his throat burned, and more than anything he wanted water. John seemed to realize this; as they hobbled along he scooped up a handful of snow and handed it to him.
"Slowly. Don't choke. It'll have to do until we can get you some water, okay? How's the breathing?"
"Better," Jimmy said in a hoarse voice, letting a small amount of blessedly, beautifully icy cold snow melt in his mouth. "Where are we going? Why not…stay for…police?" He coughed a little and took another bite of snow.
"That thing knows what you look like," John said darkly. "It could be back. You need to get far from here. Besides, you really want to tell the police what you saw? You gonna tell them a demon trapped her on the ceiling and burnt her?"
"That's really what that was?" Jimmy asked. They had walked about two blocks by now, and were stopping by the side of an old muscle car; Jimmy didn't really know what kind, cars had never been his thing. It looked cool though, dented and dinged but badass, just right for this stranger who fought off monsters and saved people from burning buildings on Christmas night.
John opened the side door and helped him in. "Been on its trail for years. Always the same MO: mother on the ceiling in flames on her baby's six-month anniversary."
"Why?" Jimmy croaked, shivering. John stared at him for a minute, his eyes pained.
"That's the sixty million dollar question."
He slammed the door and walked to the driver's side, getting in and quickly peeling away.
Jimmy shimmied himself deeper into his slightly charred coat, hating how it smelled like smoke and fire. "Where are we going?"
"First of all, someplace where we can get you washed up. You look like hell. Then we're getting a stiff drink." John gave him a side-long look. "How old are you?"
"It's my 21st birthday today," Jimmy said, running sooty hands through his hair and trying to stem the hysterical laughter that bubbled in his throat.
"Shit, son. Well, Merry Christmas and Happy Birthday. We're definitely getting you that drink. And by the way, I'm John. John Winchester." He held out a hand and Jimmy shook it.
"You know, when I saw you in there, I thought you were an angel," Jimmy said, tilting his head against the seat and closing his burning eyes. He really wished he had more snow to eat.
John laughed and shook his head. "Far from it, Jimmy. Far from it."
They stopped at a Target, the only store open on Christmas night. John disappeared into the harshly-lit aisles and Jimmy spent several minutes washing his face in the tiny bathroom and trying to get black out from the grooves of his hands. He kept almost laughing. Every time he looked at his reflection in the mirror- florescent lights illuminating his sallow skin, blue eyes huge and hollow, hair sticking up like splayed fingers, the thick smudge of bruises flowering on his neck- he felt the laughter bubble up inside of him, the wheezing sense of oncoming hyperventilation, and he would have to catch his breath and force it back.
No panic attacks. Not tonight.
"You're shaking like a leaf, Jimmy," John said when they met back at the car. He had four bottles of water, beef jerky, and a plastic bag with something soft and large in it. Jimmy greedily guzzled the first water as they pulled out of the parking lot and eased onto the snow-covered highway. "And slow down. If you vomit in this car you're on your own."
Jimmy reluctantly put the half-empty bottle down. "What's in the bag?" he rasped, his voice coming out low and sore from the smoke, deeper than it usually was. He found he kind of liked it.
John kept his eyes on the road but handed the bag over. "It's for you. Think of it like a Christmas gift."
Jimmy raised his eyebrows, rummaging through the bag with an odd sense of trepidation. He pulled out a length of tan material, soft and pliable under his hands. "A trench coat?" he asked.
John nodded. "It's all they had that didn't look like a fuckin' ski parka. In case you haven't noticed, what you're wearing is singed, filthy, and smells like smoke and demon shit. Least with this you won't totally embarrass me."
Jimmy ran his fingertips over the collar, then brought it to his nose; it smelled of soap and disinfectant, like the store. "Thanks," he murmured. "You didn't have to."
"'Course I didn't," John said gruffly, and Jimmy knew that was the end of the conversation. "Now, where the hell is there an open bar?"
The bar they finally found was dingy, to say the least. Jimmy was pretty sure the flat beer and cigarette smoke smell was going to seep into his new trench coat, but he figured that would make it even cooler, like John Constantine. Or John Winchester.
"So you're…hunting that thing?" Jimmy asked. They were perched on stools at the bar, leaning over the stained and slick wood. John had ordered them two beers; the bartender, a tired-looking man in a greasy apron, snapped the tops off with a bottle opener, the sound sharp and crisp.
"Yep," John said. "Among other things. We live in a dangerous world. More out there than you could ever believe."
"Like what?" Jimmy asked, leaning forward. John took a long drink of beer and tilted his head to the younger man.
"If I told you, you'd never be able to sleep again."
Jimmy waited, but that seemed like the only answer he was going to get. He tried a different tactic. "So that stone, or whatever it was," he said, twirling the brown glass bottle in his hands and wishing he didn't still feel so sick from the smoke. "The thing you tried to…"
"It's an amulet," John said roughly. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out three jagged pieces, layering them together on top of the bar. "Was supposed to trap it. Didn't work; the yellow-eyed bastard is too strong. But I'm still searching. I'll get him someday." He paused, eyeing Jimmy gruffly. "Beer's not for playing with. Drink it."
Jimmy obediently took a gulp. Usually he liked beer, the smooth yeast-and-hops taste of it, but tonight it was hard to swallow, and his stomach churned. "It, uh…it talked to me."
John sat straight, interested. "What did it say?"
Jimmy licked his lips nervously, trying to force away the memory of those clammy cold hands around his neck. "It said I was a…a vessel. An unoccupied vessel. That if it had found me when I was younger I would have been its pride and joy." He felt sick just saying it. "But that I was too old. Then it started to choke me."
"A vessel," John mused, drinking deeply and staring at the wall in thought. "Never heard of that before. Wonder what it meant." He shot Jimmy a glance. "Anything weird ever happen to you? Migraines, visions, paranormal activity, especially when you're angry or upset?"
"N-no," Jimmy stuttered. "No, I'm totally normal."
John frowned pensively. "It say anything else? What did it mean by if it had found you earlier?"
Jimmy ran a hand through his still-sooty hair. "I dunno. Something about…demon blood in a vessel? Like that would be a good thing…for it. I really have no idea."
"Demon blood," John said darkly, as if this confirmed something he had long expected. "Damn."
"What?" Jimmy asked innocently. John shook his head.
"Nothing. It's personal. Drink your beer."
Jimmy choked down another swallowful. He coughed a little, then tried again.
"Why are you after that particular…"
"It's personal," John snapped, bristling. Jimmy immediately turned back to his beer, chugging it despite his nausea. After a moment John's gaze softened and he clapped Jimmy on the shoulder. "You're a good guy, Jimmy. You did a brave thing. Got the husband and his kid out safely, faced down a demon and survived; can't ask for anything more than that. So tell me, why were you all alone on Christmas night? Hell, it's your birthday."
It was clear that he was trying to change the subject, and Jimmy didn't question it. "Parents live out west," he said. "We don't really get along. Real religious, you know? Always thought it was kinda weird, all the Bible-quoting and crying in church. I dunno. We got into fights about it. I wasn't pious enough, or something. After tonight, it doesn't seem so crazy anymore." He shrugged weakly, drinking his beer as an excuse to not speak. It was almost empty. "What about you? You got family?"
John signaled for two more beers; Jimmy winced as it was put down in front of him but began drinking resolutely. "Yep," John said, with a mixture of pride and weariness. "Two boys. Dean and Sam. Dean's sixteen, Sammy's twelve. Good kids."
"They're with their mother?" Jimmy asked. John cringed, a slight, barely perceptible movement in the dark bar.
"No. They're with me."
Jimmy raised his eyebrows. "Oh. Where are they now, then?"
"Back at the motel, probably asleep." He gave Jimmy a sharp-eyed look. "Why?"
"Nothing," Jimmy said, shifting uncomfortably on the bar stool, his new trench coat flared below him like tan wings.
"You gonna say something then say it," John said gruffly. It was strange, Jimmy thought, like the older man wanted to say something but needed to be pushed, couldn't just come out and say it on his own. Like he was waiting for someone to absolve him of his sins.
"It's just…" Jimmy said softly, running his fingers along the rough grain of the bar. "Why are you hunting monsters and drinking with a stranger on Christmas night instead of being at home with your sons? I'm sure they miss you."
"And I miss them," he said in a low voice. "Every moment that I'm not with them, and sometime even when I am. But I got a history, and I got a job. They know this."
"So why are you still here?" Jimmy asked. John shrugged.
"Sometimes it's just hard to go home." He smiled, as if suddenly realizing that he was spilling precious emotions the way someone might spill water in the desert: sloppily, carelessly. He finished his second beer and signaled for a third. "Plus someone had to stick around and make sure you weren't gonna piss your pants and run to the cops. And I needed a drink. So did you. Drink, damnit."
"I still feel…a little sick," Jimmy admitted with embarrassment. John's face fell.
"Oh, fuck. Sorry. Not gonna puke, are you?"
Jimmy shook his head. "No." He wasn't sure if this was a lie.
Clearly John didn't believe him either. "Hmmm," he murmured, studying Jimmy's pale face with narrowed eyes. "So what are you gonna do now? You got a place to stay for the night?"
Jimmy abruptly remembered that his apartment building burnt down. He felt like someone had slapped him in the face. "Oh. I…I'm not sure. I guess I'll get a motel and then…buy a plane ticket. Go stay with my parents for a while as I sort things out. Maybe take the next semester off, figure…figure things out. This has been kind of a game changer."
"Bet it has," John said seriously. "You got money for a plane ticket?"
Jimmy nodded. "Yeah, I have my credit card in my other coat." He nodded to the bag at his feet, where his old singed coat was shoved in a ball. "As long as it didn't melt in the heat, I'll be fine." He hesitated. "You don't…you don't think that thing will come after me, do you?"
John stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head. "No, I don't. Whatever a vessel is, I'm guessing you're a small fry. This demon, he's got bigger things to attend to. Just stay out of sight for a while." He paused, digging around in his pocket, finally coming up with a wrinkled, coffee-stained card. He scribbled something on the back. "Here's my cell. You ever have any trouble with this demon again, or any other supernatural nasty, you give me a call. Understand?"
Jimmy took it with shaking fingers. "Yeah. Thanks."
Before he could pull away John clamped his hand around Jimmy's wrist; startled, Jimmy met his eyes, feeling the seriousness of the older man's demeanor.
"You listen to me, Jimmy Novak," he said in a steady voice. "Don't let this fuck you up. Live your life. Marry a nice girl. Find religion if that will make you sleep better at night. And pray you don't ever get dragged back into this mess. You survived it once. I wouldn't like your odds of doing that a second time."
Jimmy merely nodded, his throat dry, and John released his hand.
"All right, Jim," he said, placing a wad of crumpled bills on the bar and standing up. "I think it's time to head home to my boys. It is Christmas. You need a ride?"
Jimmy shook his head. "No, thanks. I know this area. There's a motel two blocks down I can stay at."
John nodded and held out his hand; Jimmy shook it, and he felt like he drew in a little of his savior's strength from the action. "Thank you," Jimmy said, the words lurching out of his sore throat. "I don't know if I said it before. Thank you for saving my life."
John shrugged and dropped his hand. "Welcome. And Jim-put a line of salt along your door and windows tonight. Just in case."
Jimmy knew enough not to question. He just nodded. "Okay, John. Thanks."
"You already said that." John smiled, and turned to walk away. Jimmy hopped off the bar stool and caught his shoulder.
"I really did," he said, a little breathlessly. "Think you were an angel back there. For a moment. Best moment of my life, really, believing in angels. In God."
John merely stared at him, then smiled, a sad, ghostly smile. "Get some sleep, Jim," he said quietly. "It's been a long night."
Then he slid out of Jimmy's grasp and disappeared out the door.
Jimmy grabbed the plastic bag from under the bar stool and followed him out, but the older man and his beat-up old car were already gone. He stood silently in the dim green glow of the bar sign, feeling the snow land feather-light on his skin and a chill breeze lift up the edges of his new trench coat. He had no apartment, no belongings; he had watched a woman burn to death, been attacked by a demon and discovered that the world was full of monsters. He had been saved by a hero. And somehow, throughout it all, he found God.
Belatedly Jimmy realized that it was well past midnight. It wasn't his birthday any more. Nor was it Christmas. Just another winter morning, still and silent in the hours before dawn, streets covered in clean snow that shone blue under the moon.
Being alive was a beautiful thing.