SPN FIC - Personal Effects
'Tis
erinrua 's birthday!! (Tomorrow, the 24th.) And knowing her deep and abiding love for Truckzilla ... well, here ya go, girl. Many happy returns. Let's go back to July 2006, Lincoln, Nebraska.
"How's she run?" he'd asked John that first day he showed up with the truck.
Characters: Bobby
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG, for language
Spoilers: IMTOD
Length: 1546 words
PERSONAL EFFECTS
By Carol Davis
Leave it to John Winchester to be able to find a place in this neighborhood where that black behemoth of a truck could sit for almost a week, pretty much unbothered by human or demon or anything in between. As near as Bobby could tell, the thing had been invisible to the whole world in between then and now.
Then, the last time John had switched off the engine.
And now, almost a week after he'd dropped dead.
Bobby had come to Lincoln all on his own, with no permission or anything like it from the Winchester boys. Whether they had any idea where he was, he didn't really know, and tried to tell himself he didn't care. They'd done their duty for their daddy, and now he was going to do his - for his friend.
Chased the son of a bitch off with a shotgun, last I saw him.
The memory of that made Bobby Singer sit quietly behind the wheel of his own car for a couple of minutes, listening to the rain hammer down on metal and glass and pavement. The day had been shitty, twilight-dark, bleak and wet, since first thing in the morning, and that seemed fitting. Wouldn't have been right to do any kind of a fare-thee-well for John Winchester in the blistering sunlight of a Nebraska summer day.
"How's she run?" he'd asked John that first day he showed up with the truck.
"Dependable," was John's answer.
It hadn't been new, even then. John couldn't afford new - hell, he didn't even have the money for anything used that was halfway decent, so obviously he'd made a deal with somebody.
Made another deal, six days ago.
The price was higher, this time. But then, what he'd bartered for was all that much more precious.
Weary and aching from the long drive, Bobby opened the car door and stepped out into the downpour. He hadn't bothered with a coat; the day wasn't chilly enough for that, and it wouldn't have made much of a difference anyway. He was drenched almost immediately, like he'd been thrown overboard, and that, like everything else about this day, seemed fitting. Whatever happened here, it was nothing compared to what those boys had had to do a few days back. How they'd managed it… Well, that didn't bear thinking about. Not here, not now, at least. There'd be time later, if Sam and Dean wanted to talk. Wanted to let out some of their grief.
God willing, they would let some of it out. They hadn't, up till now, Dean especially.
Dean had been the reason for the truck. The day he turned eighteen, John gave him the old Impala.
With rain streaming off his cap and his shoulders, Bobby circled the silent hulk of the truck. Halfway around, he reached out and laid a hand on the dark metal. Dependable, John had said, and it was still that. Almost a week, and nobody had stolen it, broken into it, or even messed it up any. No scratches in the paint job, nothing missing.
Maybe Winchester was haunting it, Bobby thought with a vague drift of humor. Telling anybody who might come skulking around here to stay the hell away from his property.
He had John's keyring - the hospital had turned it over to the boys along with the other stuff John had had in his pockets when that semi hit the Impala. Wallet, keys, some coins, a couple of charms that obviously hadn't done much good. The boys had dumped the stuff into a dresser drawer at Bobby's place and left it there, so it'd been no trick at all to take the keys and bring them here to Lincoln. He'd been glad of that; they'd make this a bit easier.
A bit faster.
When he lifted the lid of the lockbox, John's weapons were all still safe inside. All clean and oiled, for sure, each one tucked into a place that'd been custom-cut into the foam that lined the box. One by one Bobby pulled them free and transferred them to the trunk of his car. Whether the boys would want them or not, he didn't know, but it seemed right that somebody should get some use out of them, that they wouldn't end up stowed somewhere by the cops or used for some kind of mayhem. After fifteen or twenty minutes Bobby had moved them all, and he closed the trunk lid over the haphazard arrangement with the feeling that John was a little pissed at his lack of care.
Right then, Bobby would have welcomed John being pissed at something. At anything.
He closed the lockbox and secured it, then unlocked and opened the driver's door. With that door having been shut tight for six days, and with the benefit of some sun and a lot of wet, the cab was still full of John's scent, so pure that Bobby half-expected to blink and find John sitting in the driver's seat, ready to head out somewhere, to kick somebody's ass. The crazy bastard had probably lived right there, in the cab of that truck, ate and slept and stewed things over, more often than he made himself comfortable somewhere else. And that sure wasn't right. He would have been welcome any time at the house. Yeah, there would have been head-butting and name-calling and a round of buckshot or two. But maybe they would have been able to figure something out, the two of them. Something better than what had happened. Something that'd mean those boys would still have their daddy around.
You stupid son of a bitch. You had to do it all yourself, didn't you?
Damn you, John.
He'd thought, a time or two or ten, about telling the boys: He was like my brother. Would've walked into the fire right alongside him, if it came to that.
But the bastard didn't give me the chance.
There was a paper coffee cup in the cupholder alongside the driver's seat, the little bit of coffee left in it long since gone stagnant. Stuffed in alongside it, a crumpled wrapper that might have contained a burger. Some coins, a couple of wadded-up one dollar bills, an empty beef jerky package, a rubber band, a cell phone charger. Half a dozen maps lay scattered on the passenger seat, all of them crumpled and dirty and well-used. A worn duffel bag occupied the passenger side footwell. Clothes, Bobby figured.
He moved the duffel to the driver's seat, unzipped it a few inches and tucked the phone charger inside, along with the odds and ends he found in the glove box: more maps, a small notebook half-full of John's scribbling, half a dozen pens and pencils, a mostly-empty pack of gum. And a gun, loaded with silver rounds.
And that was it. All of it. What John had left behind.
One hand on the duffel, Bobby was about to back out of the cab when something nudged at him. Said, Look.
Look at what? he wondered.
The visor. That was the only place he hadn't checked.
When he flipped the visor down, John Winchester looked back at him from an old, wrinkled photo. Sitting on either side of John were his boys, happy and sunburned and laughing.
All three of them. Happy and laughing.
You had to do it alone, didn't you, you dumb bastard?
With fingers still wet from the rain, Bobby pulled the picture away from the tape that held it to the visor and tucked it carefully inside the duffel, then zipped the bag shut, pulled it out of the truck, slammed the driver's door shut and locked it. Who he was locking it against, exactly, didn't matter. And really, locking it didn't make any sense. Somebody would find the truck before too much more time had passed - they'd have it towed out of here, and when nobody claimed it, the cops would more than likely auction it off.
The boys didn't want it. Bobby knew that without asking. It was just a truck.
Just transportation.
The Impala, now, that was something different. The first time John Winchester had pulled into Bobby's driveway, he'd been behind the wheel of that old Chevy, his boys tucked into the back seat. They'd had the car before, John said one day after a few drinks and not enough sleep, so it was as true a piece of home as anything the Winchesters owned. It'd been pretty near destroyed by that semi, but the last six days, Dean had been out in the scrapyard, doggedly trying to put it back together, bit by bit. He'd worked on it more than he'd done anything else, including sleeping. Probably wouldn't rest until he was done.
Bobby couldn't fault him for that, as much it pained him to see Dean so desperate. That car was his daddy, and his mama. It meant family.
This truck? Was just a truck. Just a way to go from place to place.
And no longer necessary.
With a last, rueful look at it, Bobby climbed back into his car and dropped John's duffel onto the seat beside him.
Dammit, John, he thought.
Then he started the car and put John's truck in his rearview mirror.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
erinrua 's birthday!! (Tomorrow, the 24th.) And knowing her deep and abiding love for Truckzilla ... well, here ya go, girl. Many happy returns. Let's go back to July 2006, Lincoln, Nebraska.
"How's she run?" he'd asked John that first day he showed up with the truck.
Characters: Bobby
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG, for language
Spoilers: IMTOD
Length: 1546 words
PERSONAL EFFECTS
By Carol Davis
Leave it to John Winchester to be able to find a place in this neighborhood where that black behemoth of a truck could sit for almost a week, pretty much unbothered by human or demon or anything in between. As near as Bobby could tell, the thing had been invisible to the whole world in between then and now.
Then, the last time John had switched off the engine.
And now, almost a week after he'd dropped dead.
Bobby had come to Lincoln all on his own, with no permission or anything like it from the Winchester boys. Whether they had any idea where he was, he didn't really know, and tried to tell himself he didn't care. They'd done their duty for their daddy, and now he was going to do his - for his friend.
Chased the son of a bitch off with a shotgun, last I saw him.
The memory of that made Bobby Singer sit quietly behind the wheel of his own car for a couple of minutes, listening to the rain hammer down on metal and glass and pavement. The day had been shitty, twilight-dark, bleak and wet, since first thing in the morning, and that seemed fitting. Wouldn't have been right to do any kind of a fare-thee-well for John Winchester in the blistering sunlight of a Nebraska summer day.
"How's she run?" he'd asked John that first day he showed up with the truck.
"Dependable," was John's answer.
It hadn't been new, even then. John couldn't afford new - hell, he didn't even have the money for anything used that was halfway decent, so obviously he'd made a deal with somebody.
Made another deal, six days ago.
The price was higher, this time. But then, what he'd bartered for was all that much more precious.
Weary and aching from the long drive, Bobby opened the car door and stepped out into the downpour. He hadn't bothered with a coat; the day wasn't chilly enough for that, and it wouldn't have made much of a difference anyway. He was drenched almost immediately, like he'd been thrown overboard, and that, like everything else about this day, seemed fitting. Whatever happened here, it was nothing compared to what those boys had had to do a few days back. How they'd managed it… Well, that didn't bear thinking about. Not here, not now, at least. There'd be time later, if Sam and Dean wanted to talk. Wanted to let out some of their grief.
God willing, they would let some of it out. They hadn't, up till now, Dean especially.
Dean had been the reason for the truck. The day he turned eighteen, John gave him the old Impala.
With rain streaming off his cap and his shoulders, Bobby circled the silent hulk of the truck. Halfway around, he reached out and laid a hand on the dark metal. Dependable, John had said, and it was still that. Almost a week, and nobody had stolen it, broken into it, or even messed it up any. No scratches in the paint job, nothing missing.
Maybe Winchester was haunting it, Bobby thought with a vague drift of humor. Telling anybody who might come skulking around here to stay the hell away from his property.
He had John's keyring - the hospital had turned it over to the boys along with the other stuff John had had in his pockets when that semi hit the Impala. Wallet, keys, some coins, a couple of charms that obviously hadn't done much good. The boys had dumped the stuff into a dresser drawer at Bobby's place and left it there, so it'd been no trick at all to take the keys and bring them here to Lincoln. He'd been glad of that; they'd make this a bit easier.
A bit faster.
When he lifted the lid of the lockbox, John's weapons were all still safe inside. All clean and oiled, for sure, each one tucked into a place that'd been custom-cut into the foam that lined the box. One by one Bobby pulled them free and transferred them to the trunk of his car. Whether the boys would want them or not, he didn't know, but it seemed right that somebody should get some use out of them, that they wouldn't end up stowed somewhere by the cops or used for some kind of mayhem. After fifteen or twenty minutes Bobby had moved them all, and he closed the trunk lid over the haphazard arrangement with the feeling that John was a little pissed at his lack of care.
Right then, Bobby would have welcomed John being pissed at something. At anything.
He closed the lockbox and secured it, then unlocked and opened the driver's door. With that door having been shut tight for six days, and with the benefit of some sun and a lot of wet, the cab was still full of John's scent, so pure that Bobby half-expected to blink and find John sitting in the driver's seat, ready to head out somewhere, to kick somebody's ass. The crazy bastard had probably lived right there, in the cab of that truck, ate and slept and stewed things over, more often than he made himself comfortable somewhere else. And that sure wasn't right. He would have been welcome any time at the house. Yeah, there would have been head-butting and name-calling and a round of buckshot or two. But maybe they would have been able to figure something out, the two of them. Something better than what had happened. Something that'd mean those boys would still have their daddy around.
You stupid son of a bitch. You had to do it all yourself, didn't you?
Damn you, John.
He'd thought, a time or two or ten, about telling the boys: He was like my brother. Would've walked into the fire right alongside him, if it came to that.
But the bastard didn't give me the chance.
There was a paper coffee cup in the cupholder alongside the driver's seat, the little bit of coffee left in it long since gone stagnant. Stuffed in alongside it, a crumpled wrapper that might have contained a burger. Some coins, a couple of wadded-up one dollar bills, an empty beef jerky package, a rubber band, a cell phone charger. Half a dozen maps lay scattered on the passenger seat, all of them crumpled and dirty and well-used. A worn duffel bag occupied the passenger side footwell. Clothes, Bobby figured.
He moved the duffel to the driver's seat, unzipped it a few inches and tucked the phone charger inside, along with the odds and ends he found in the glove box: more maps, a small notebook half-full of John's scribbling, half a dozen pens and pencils, a mostly-empty pack of gum. And a gun, loaded with silver rounds.
And that was it. All of it. What John had left behind.
One hand on the duffel, Bobby was about to back out of the cab when something nudged at him. Said, Look.
Look at what? he wondered.
The visor. That was the only place he hadn't checked.
When he flipped the visor down, John Winchester looked back at him from an old, wrinkled photo. Sitting on either side of John were his boys, happy and sunburned and laughing.
All three of them. Happy and laughing.
You had to do it alone, didn't you, you dumb bastard?
With fingers still wet from the rain, Bobby pulled the picture away from the tape that held it to the visor and tucked it carefully inside the duffel, then zipped the bag shut, pulled it out of the truck, slammed the driver's door shut and locked it. Who he was locking it against, exactly, didn't matter. And really, locking it didn't make any sense. Somebody would find the truck before too much more time had passed - they'd have it towed out of here, and when nobody claimed it, the cops would more than likely auction it off.
The boys didn't want it. Bobby knew that without asking. It was just a truck.
Just transportation.
The Impala, now, that was something different. The first time John Winchester had pulled into Bobby's driveway, he'd been behind the wheel of that old Chevy, his boys tucked into the back seat. They'd had the car before, John said one day after a few drinks and not enough sleep, so it was as true a piece of home as anything the Winchesters owned. It'd been pretty near destroyed by that semi, but the last six days, Dean had been out in the scrapyard, doggedly trying to put it back together, bit by bit. He'd worked on it more than he'd done anything else, including sleeping. Probably wouldn't rest until he was done.
Bobby couldn't fault him for that, as much it pained him to see Dean so desperate. That car was his daddy, and his mama. It meant family.
This truck? Was just a truck. Just a way to go from place to place.
And no longer necessary.
With a last, rueful look at it, Bobby climbed back into his car and dropped John's duffel onto the seat beside him.
Dammit, John, he thought.
Then he started the car and put John's truck in his rearview mirror.
~~~~~~~~~~~~