SPN FIC - It Was a Very Good Year
Let's take a look back -- John and Bobby and the boys, a long-ago summer. With lyrics liberally borrowed from Don McLean's "American Pie." (As a side note, this came about because of that music meme that's going around. I graduated high school in 1972, and so did John and Mary. Where Dick Nixon came from, I couldn't tell ya.)
The boys had been chasing each other around Bobby Singer's yard for the best part of an hour. The last John had seen them -- they'd been out of his line of sight, around the corner -- they'd been doing battle with water pistols from the dollar store, but that weaponry had apparently been destroyed or had fallen into enemy hands. Now, Sammy seemed to be his own weapon, outfitted in a grease-splotched white lab coat and, of all things, a Dick Nixon Halloween mask.
Characters: John, Bobby, and the wee!chesters
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG, for language
Spoilers: none
Length: 1640 words
IT WAS A VERY GOOD YEAR
By Carol Davis
"Daddy!" Sammy shrieked. "I'm a monster! See me, I'm a monster and I'm gonna get Dean!"
The boys had been chasing each other around Bobby Singer's yard for the best part of an hour. The last John had seen them - they'd been out of his line of sight, around the corner - they'd been doing battle with water pistols from the dollar store, but that weaponry had apparently been destroyed or had fallen into enemy hands. Now, Sammy seemed to be his own weapon, outfitted in a grease-splotched white lab coat and, of all things, a Dick Nixon Halloween mask.
Still flailing (since flailing seemed to be a key element of Monster Sammy's attack mode), Sam stumbled toward Bobby's front porch and up the steps. Luckily he was within reach of John when he tripped over the hem of the lab coat and went sprawling. Chuckling softly, John caught him, set him upright and adjusted the mask so Sam could see out the eye holes.
"I'm a monster," Sam announced.
"I see that."
"Gonna get Dean."
"I think you lost your lock on the enemy, soldier. Where's your brother?"
Sam looked around as if he had fully expected Dean to be on the porch with his father and Bobby. "I dunno," he groused.
"Focus on the mission," John advised him. "No rest until victory is achieved."
Sam pondered that for a moment, sneakered foot scuffing against the floorboards of the porch, then nodded and reversed course off the porch, aiming for the back yard. John watched him go, shaking his head in bemusement as he took a sip of his beer. "Where'd he get that get-up?" he asked Bobby.
"Out back. People leave stuff in the junkers," Bobby said. "I keep it for a while, case they come to and decide their life's over if they don't get it back."
"Can see where it'd be valuable. Tricky Dick mask? That's a keeper."
"Boys're getting some use out of it."
"You told Sam he was a monster, or did he get that on his own?"
Bobby snorted softly. "It a problem?"
"The man was President of these United States."
That prompted a louder snort. "You vote for him?"
"Too young."
"Second time?"
John pondered his beer, sliding a thumb over the beads of condensation on the label. "Met a girl," he said, looking out toward the road, away from Bobby. "Did everything but have 'McGovern/Shriver' tattooed on my ass."
"And that woulda been visible to the general voting public?"
"The part of it that counted."
"Did some campaigning, did she?"
"Little bit." John shifted in his chair, enough to bring Bobby into his peripheral vision. A small smile drifted across his face, but it wasn't for Bobby's benefit. Then, a moment later, it was. He owed the man, he figured: for being his host. Part of his short - but growing - roster of mentors.
For being his friend.
They sat in silence for a while, draining a couple of bottles apiece, listening to the drone of cicadas and the shrieking and yelling echoing from out in the back yard. The boys had gotten hold of Bobby's garden hose, it seemed like, and somebody was chasing somebody else with it. John thought about calling out to them, telling them to remember this was Bobby's house, but Bobby didn't seem to mind either the noise or the appropriation of his belongings. Almost seemed to welcome it, although if anyone had asked, "welcome" probably wouldn't be one of the words he'd come up with. He was a cantankerous sumbitch, Bobby.
Pretended to be, anyway.
Halfway through his third bottle, Bobby started to hum. Little snatches of music, a few notes, then stop. A couple more, then stop.
John raised a brow at him.
"Good song," Bobby said. "Came out that year, right?"
"Seventy-two?"
"Hmm."
I was a lonely teenage broncin' buck
With a pink carnation and a pickup truck
But I knew that I was out of luck...
"I remember that day," Bobby mused. "Remember my sister cryin'. Kinda cried over pretty much everything, but she went off the charts with that one. 'Buddy Holly! Buddy Hooooolllly!' Christ on a crutch."
The day the music died...
"Got to be a lot more drunk, if you think I'm gonna sing with you," John said.
"No need for that."
"The drinking, or the singing?"
"You sing worth half a damn?"
Did you write the book of love
And do you have faith in God above?
"Bob Moose threw that pitch in '72," John said. "Screwed things for the Pirates. Handed that game to the Reds on a goddamn platter."
The corner of Bobby's mouth quirked a little. "We changin' the subject?"
"Hawaii Five-O. Used to watch it with my old man. Closest the bastard ever got to Hawaii."
"Wasn't here," Bobby replied. "In the middle of my tour in '72."
"You ever watch Hawaii Five-O?"
"Can't say as I have."
"Gunsmoke?"
Bobby nodded. Smiled. "Spent half my life watchin' Gunsmoke. Had me some interesting dreams about Miss Kitty."
The racket from the back yard got louder, went up in pitch. Somebody had gotten a blast from the hose, John figured, and it'd been running long enough for the water to have turned ice cold. He shifted again in his seat and tried looking around back, but the boys weren't visible until they came tearing around the corner, Sammy minus his mask but still covered neck to toes in the old, flapping lab coat. Dean was a few steps behind him and closing fast, getting ready to fire what looked like a ball of mud.
Do you believe in rock and roll?
Can music save your mortal soul?
And can you teach me how to dance real slow...
"Think it was the red hair," John said. "Red hair, on a color TV."
Bobby swigged his beer, ran his tongue over his upper lip. "You one of the damn Rockefellers? No color TV around here. Not in my house, anyway. Neighbors had one. Everything was green and purple."
"Made it interesting."
"Purple-haired woman floats your boat, you go right ahead and sign up."
"You really worried about hair color?"
Bobby looked John dead in the eye for a second. What he was thinking wasn't at all visible on his face. "Not so much," he said after a moment. Then his gaze drifted, out across the front yard, surveying his kingdom. "Not any more," he murmured.
"Figure we'll take off in the morning," John offered, mildly, as if that had been the next item on their agenda.
"No need."
"Yeah," John said. "Got somebody to see."
"Got purple hair?"
"No idea."
"Boys can stay."
"That's -" John said, a little sharper than he'd planned to.
"Just an offer," Bobby told him.
As if he'd been summoned, Sammy came pounding up onto the porch, mud smeared into his hair, dripping down onto the collar of the lab coat. Dean followed him as far as the foot of the porch steps, his face flushed from the sun and the running around. His clothes were drenched and well-splotched with the same mud Sammy was wearing.
"Uncle Bobby?" Sammy blurted. "Can we have a soda?"
"You ask your daddy, son."
Sam blinked at that. "But it's your soda."
John looked from Sam over to Dean, standing quietly at the foot of the steps. It wasn't much of a mystery whose idea the sodas had been. "You make a mess in Bobby's kitchen," he said, "you clean it up."
Dean tipped his head, caught the sunlight with the water in his hair. "Yes, sir."
And off they went again, Sammy somehow keeping his footing with the lab coat flapping around his legs. Dean let him take the lead for maybe twenty feet, then set off after him, making what he seemed to think were realistic monster sounds.
Or maybe he didn't think that at all.
And I knew if I had my chance
That I could make those people dance
And maybe they'd be happy for a while...
"They're good boys," Bobby observed quietly, beer stopped halfway to his lips.
John closed his eyes and listened, tracked his sons that way until he heard the thump of the screen door out back. The two of them seemed to tiptoe after that, as if they thought there was someone in the house they'd wake up if they made too much noise. Or any noise at all. Or, for all John knew, maybe they equated "quiet" with "don't make a mess."
"Couldn't wait to get away," he said after a while, to no one in particular. "Signed up the minute they'd let me. Couldn't wait to leave."
"Yeah," Bobby said. "I remember."
"Couldn't wait to go somewhere else."
"Wrong kinda somewhere," Bobby replied. "And a long road back."
"Yeah," John said. "Yeah."
A soft giggling started up inside the house. Muffled by dirty hands, John figured. Lubricated with some of Bobby's supply of Mountain Dew.
"Don't lose sight of what you've got, John," Bobby said. "House don't mean much, sometimes."
"Sammy," Dean barked from inside. "Don't do that."
He was answered with another round of giggles, this one unmuffled.
I can still remember
How that music used to make me smile...
With Bobby watching him, John set his bottle down on the dusty porch floor and walked down the steps to the path that led out to the road. He stopped about midway down the path, turned his face to the sun, and closed his eyes again.
After a minute, with the heat crinkling his skin, he smiled.
Bye, bye, Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry...
"You're right," Bobby said. "You can't sing worth a shit, Winchester."
True enough, John thought.
Not that it mattered.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The boys had been chasing each other around Bobby Singer's yard for the best part of an hour. The last John had seen them -- they'd been out of his line of sight, around the corner -- they'd been doing battle with water pistols from the dollar store, but that weaponry had apparently been destroyed or had fallen into enemy hands. Now, Sammy seemed to be his own weapon, outfitted in a grease-splotched white lab coat and, of all things, a Dick Nixon Halloween mask.
Characters: John, Bobby, and the wee!chesters
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG, for language
Spoilers: none
Length: 1640 words
IT WAS A VERY GOOD YEAR
By Carol Davis
"Daddy!" Sammy shrieked. "I'm a monster! See me, I'm a monster and I'm gonna get Dean!"
The boys had been chasing each other around Bobby Singer's yard for the best part of an hour. The last John had seen them - they'd been out of his line of sight, around the corner - they'd been doing battle with water pistols from the dollar store, but that weaponry had apparently been destroyed or had fallen into enemy hands. Now, Sammy seemed to be his own weapon, outfitted in a grease-splotched white lab coat and, of all things, a Dick Nixon Halloween mask.
Still flailing (since flailing seemed to be a key element of Monster Sammy's attack mode), Sam stumbled toward Bobby's front porch and up the steps. Luckily he was within reach of John when he tripped over the hem of the lab coat and went sprawling. Chuckling softly, John caught him, set him upright and adjusted the mask so Sam could see out the eye holes.
"I'm a monster," Sam announced.
"I see that."
"Gonna get Dean."
"I think you lost your lock on the enemy, soldier. Where's your brother?"
Sam looked around as if he had fully expected Dean to be on the porch with his father and Bobby. "I dunno," he groused.
"Focus on the mission," John advised him. "No rest until victory is achieved."
Sam pondered that for a moment, sneakered foot scuffing against the floorboards of the porch, then nodded and reversed course off the porch, aiming for the back yard. John watched him go, shaking his head in bemusement as he took a sip of his beer. "Where'd he get that get-up?" he asked Bobby.
"Out back. People leave stuff in the junkers," Bobby said. "I keep it for a while, case they come to and decide their life's over if they don't get it back."
"Can see where it'd be valuable. Tricky Dick mask? That's a keeper."
"Boys're getting some use out of it."
"You told Sam he was a monster, or did he get that on his own?"
Bobby snorted softly. "It a problem?"
"The man was President of these United States."
That prompted a louder snort. "You vote for him?"
"Too young."
"Second time?"
John pondered his beer, sliding a thumb over the beads of condensation on the label. "Met a girl," he said, looking out toward the road, away from Bobby. "Did everything but have 'McGovern/Shriver' tattooed on my ass."
"And that woulda been visible to the general voting public?"
"The part of it that counted."
"Did some campaigning, did she?"
"Little bit." John shifted in his chair, enough to bring Bobby into his peripheral vision. A small smile drifted across his face, but it wasn't for Bobby's benefit. Then, a moment later, it was. He owed the man, he figured: for being his host. Part of his short - but growing - roster of mentors.
For being his friend.
They sat in silence for a while, draining a couple of bottles apiece, listening to the drone of cicadas and the shrieking and yelling echoing from out in the back yard. The boys had gotten hold of Bobby's garden hose, it seemed like, and somebody was chasing somebody else with it. John thought about calling out to them, telling them to remember this was Bobby's house, but Bobby didn't seem to mind either the noise or the appropriation of his belongings. Almost seemed to welcome it, although if anyone had asked, "welcome" probably wouldn't be one of the words he'd come up with. He was a cantankerous sumbitch, Bobby.
Pretended to be, anyway.
Halfway through his third bottle, Bobby started to hum. Little snatches of music, a few notes, then stop. A couple more, then stop.
John raised a brow at him.
"Good song," Bobby said. "Came out that year, right?"
"Seventy-two?"
"Hmm."
I was a lonely teenage broncin' buck
With a pink carnation and a pickup truck
But I knew that I was out of luck...
"I remember that day," Bobby mused. "Remember my sister cryin'. Kinda cried over pretty much everything, but she went off the charts with that one. 'Buddy Holly! Buddy Hooooolllly!' Christ on a crutch."
The day the music died...
"Got to be a lot more drunk, if you think I'm gonna sing with you," John said.
"No need for that."
"The drinking, or the singing?"
"You sing worth half a damn?"
Did you write the book of love
And do you have faith in God above?
"Bob Moose threw that pitch in '72," John said. "Screwed things for the Pirates. Handed that game to the Reds on a goddamn platter."
The corner of Bobby's mouth quirked a little. "We changin' the subject?"
"Hawaii Five-O. Used to watch it with my old man. Closest the bastard ever got to Hawaii."
"Wasn't here," Bobby replied. "In the middle of my tour in '72."
"You ever watch Hawaii Five-O?"
"Can't say as I have."
"Gunsmoke?"
Bobby nodded. Smiled. "Spent half my life watchin' Gunsmoke. Had me some interesting dreams about Miss Kitty."
The racket from the back yard got louder, went up in pitch. Somebody had gotten a blast from the hose, John figured, and it'd been running long enough for the water to have turned ice cold. He shifted again in his seat and tried looking around back, but the boys weren't visible until they came tearing around the corner, Sammy minus his mask but still covered neck to toes in the old, flapping lab coat. Dean was a few steps behind him and closing fast, getting ready to fire what looked like a ball of mud.
Do you believe in rock and roll?
Can music save your mortal soul?
And can you teach me how to dance real slow...
"Think it was the red hair," John said. "Red hair, on a color TV."
Bobby swigged his beer, ran his tongue over his upper lip. "You one of the damn Rockefellers? No color TV around here. Not in my house, anyway. Neighbors had one. Everything was green and purple."
"Made it interesting."
"Purple-haired woman floats your boat, you go right ahead and sign up."
"You really worried about hair color?"
Bobby looked John dead in the eye for a second. What he was thinking wasn't at all visible on his face. "Not so much," he said after a moment. Then his gaze drifted, out across the front yard, surveying his kingdom. "Not any more," he murmured.
"Figure we'll take off in the morning," John offered, mildly, as if that had been the next item on their agenda.
"No need."
"Yeah," John said. "Got somebody to see."
"Got purple hair?"
"No idea."
"Boys can stay."
"That's -" John said, a little sharper than he'd planned to.
"Just an offer," Bobby told him.
As if he'd been summoned, Sammy came pounding up onto the porch, mud smeared into his hair, dripping down onto the collar of the lab coat. Dean followed him as far as the foot of the porch steps, his face flushed from the sun and the running around. His clothes were drenched and well-splotched with the same mud Sammy was wearing.
"Uncle Bobby?" Sammy blurted. "Can we have a soda?"
"You ask your daddy, son."
Sam blinked at that. "But it's your soda."
John looked from Sam over to Dean, standing quietly at the foot of the steps. It wasn't much of a mystery whose idea the sodas had been. "You make a mess in Bobby's kitchen," he said, "you clean it up."
Dean tipped his head, caught the sunlight with the water in his hair. "Yes, sir."
And off they went again, Sammy somehow keeping his footing with the lab coat flapping around his legs. Dean let him take the lead for maybe twenty feet, then set off after him, making what he seemed to think were realistic monster sounds.
Or maybe he didn't think that at all.
And I knew if I had my chance
That I could make those people dance
And maybe they'd be happy for a while...
"They're good boys," Bobby observed quietly, beer stopped halfway to his lips.
John closed his eyes and listened, tracked his sons that way until he heard the thump of the screen door out back. The two of them seemed to tiptoe after that, as if they thought there was someone in the house they'd wake up if they made too much noise. Or any noise at all. Or, for all John knew, maybe they equated "quiet" with "don't make a mess."
"Couldn't wait to get away," he said after a while, to no one in particular. "Signed up the minute they'd let me. Couldn't wait to leave."
"Yeah," Bobby said. "I remember."
"Couldn't wait to go somewhere else."
"Wrong kinda somewhere," Bobby replied. "And a long road back."
"Yeah," John said. "Yeah."
A soft giggling started up inside the house. Muffled by dirty hands, John figured. Lubricated with some of Bobby's supply of Mountain Dew.
"Don't lose sight of what you've got, John," Bobby said. "House don't mean much, sometimes."
"Sammy," Dean barked from inside. "Don't do that."
He was answered with another round of giggles, this one unmuffled.
I can still remember
How that music used to make me smile...
With Bobby watching him, John set his bottle down on the dusty porch floor and walked down the steps to the path that led out to the road. He stopped about midway down the path, turned his face to the sun, and closed his eyes again.
After a minute, with the heat crinkling his skin, he smiled.
Bye, bye, Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry...
"You're right," Bobby said. "You can't sing worth a shit, Winchester."
True enough, John thought.
Not that it mattered.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~