SPN FIC - Legend (Part Three: John and Deacon)
I'd heard whispered bits of the story since I was a kid. Just after Halloween, back in '83, the demon Azazel had crept into the nursery of a baby boy, intending to drip blood into the child's mouth and turn him into demon spawn. But Mary Campbell was waiting for him. She had a gun a stranger had brought to her family ten years before: a gun that could kill anything. She used it to kill Azazel that night. Saved her child. Then she disappeared.
Legends are told in bits and pieces, spread by word of mouth over the years. This is the story of Mary Campbell's family: the husband to whom she told the truth of who she was. The son who grieved the loss of her so deeply that he spent half his life on the road alone, searching for her. And the son who found success, and love, and peace ... until things went a little bit sideways.
I'll be posting a piece every day (possibly skipping a day here and there, depending on RL) for the next couple of weeks. Each piece is self-contained. They're told in chronological order, so it's best if you start at the beginning -- but you can probably skip around without being swamped with "Huh? What?"s.
Got a favorite character who died on Show? Stick around -- they'll probably turn up, alive and kicking. :)
Part One: Dean and Jo
Part Two: Dean, Sam, and Jessica
CHARACTERS: John, Deacon, OCs
GENRE: Gen (AU)
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1411 words
LEGEND
By Carol Davis
Part Three: John and Deacon
"Where are you?"
"You my mother?" John said into the tiny cell phone clamped between his left shoulder and his jaw. "She's been gone a long time, but as I remember it, she was prettier than you. And a lot less of a pain in my ass."
"Answer the question, Choir Boy."
"Arizona."
"Which is a long way from where you said you'd be. Thanksgiving at Mama Chang's? That ringing any bells?"
"Mister?" the little girl said.
"John?" Deacon said.
John settled back onto his haunches. Worked his shoulders in circles to coax the kinks out. He'd done his best to ignore what was looming in the peripheral of his left eye, but it was like pretending the sky wasn't there. Five of 'em: Dad, Mom, two boys and a girl. Six, if you counted the dog. They were lined up on the pavement, watching him like he was Pay Per View.
"Is it broke?" the little girl asked.
Dark green Suburban. He'd seen it in the distance as he rolled along the I-10 west of Phoenix: parked half on the shoulder and half off in the dust alongside the road, sitting there deader than roadkill with Dad and Mom and the rug-munchers all staring at the flat that had brought their little road trip to a screeching halt. No spare and no jack in sight, and the whole crew looked as mournful as if they'd mowed down Bambi, Thumper and Flower.
He'd been half inclined to keep going.
"Headed to Cali," he muttered into the phone.
"For -?"
"Got a stop to make."
"Then you're headed…north?"
The little girl moved closer and leaned in to peer at the flat. He'd managed to wrestle two of the lug nuts free, but the third was a gold-plated bitch, on there tighter than if it'd been super-glued. For all John knew, it had been super-glued.
"Mama Chang figuring on slitting her wrists if I don't show up?"
"I don't know that there is a Mama Chang," Deacon said.
The string of invective John let loose when the lug nut sprang free and the wrench slammed into his wrist made the little girl jerk back a couple of paces, eyes and mouth all blown wide open. She went hustling back to her mother as John fumbled for the nut, gingerly flexing his wrist and figuring his whole forearm would end up purple and green by sundown.
"Maybe I should -"
John looked over at the guy, the Clark Griswold of this little expedition, with none of Chevy Chase's fashion sense.
"Sorry," he said.
He was. Had been for a good twenty minutes now.
"You're like Ralphie's dad," one of the little boys commented, pointing at the set-aside hubcab John was using to store the nuts. "He said a whole lotta bad words when Ralphie lost those little things." Grinning, and tickled pink with himself for having made the connection with what was probably a holiday favorite for his well-scrubbed and GAP-outfitted family, the kid hustled over to retrieve the nut that had gone flying. He dropped it into the curve of the hubcab like it was a gold nugget. When John nodded a somewhat less than heartfelt thank-you, the kid beamed at him.
"Did you broke your arm?" the little girl asked.
He had to retrieve the phone from where it'd flipped to on the road. "The hell's going on?" Deacon asked when John pressed the phone to his ear with the hand that wasn't throbbing.
"The bad words are gonna float in space," the boy said.
"Over Lake Michigan," his brother announced. "Not space, you turd."
His mother yanked on his arm until he yelped.
"Changing a tire," John said into the phone. "Taking a little longer than I figured. Then I'm headed to California."
"Sam's gone off with Dean," Deacon told him.
"What?"
"Sam. Went. With. Dean."
Grimacing, John returned the phone to its cradle between his shoulder and his jaw and set to work on the remaining lug nut. He offered thanks to every deity whose name he could recall when it came loose without incident. "Went where with Dean?" he asked quietly. Mind spinning. The last Sam had gone anywhere with Dean - other than someplace local, someplace within an hour's drive of Portland - was back in '05, back when the boys had found Mary's notes in an abandoned motel room. They'd faxed the scribbled pages to him a few days later. He still had the copies, folded up in the back of his own journal, currently stashed in the glove box of his truck.
Time was, she'd write him notes. Would leave them propped against the sugar bowl on the kitchen table, or taped to the bathroom mirror.
"Defiance," Deacon said.
"Come again?"
"Defiance, Ohio. About fifty miles outside of Toledo."
John lifted the flat free, frowning at the nail embedded deep in the rubber. Chances were, the Griswolds (their name was Fussbender, something like that) had been driving on it for days. Hadn't noticed the tire was getting mushy.
Chances were, they hadn't checked anything other than the gas gauge.
Maybe they hadn't even checked that.
"What's in Defiance?" he asked.
"Woman named Barnes. Pamela Barnes. Word is, she's one of the best psychics in that part of the country."
"Psychic," John said.
"Dean said she's got intel."
"Good intel?"
"What's intel?" the little girl asked. "Is that a bad word?"
He had to give those kids one thing: they were contributing, even if what they were contributing was of no earthly help. Their parents, on the other hand, hadn't lifted a finger. They'd had no clue where to find the spare, or the jack.
They were watching him like he was the guy from AAA.
John closed his eyes for a moment. Drew in a long, deep breath and tried to convince himself that his wrist didn't hurt. That he was lucky it wasn't broken. That he'd be on his way in a few minutes, and he could forget the whole thing had happened. Some Advil, a decent dinner, some sleep; he could put the whole thing behind him.
"You know anything about her?" he asked Deacon.
"Bits and pieces."
"She worth talking to?"
"More than anybody else you've talked to in the last thirty years? I don't know. Dean seems to think it's worth the trip."
"He went and got Sam."
He fit the spare into place. Cranked on the lug nuts one by one. Put the hubcab back where it belonged.
When he stood up, his hips and lower back creaked a protest.
None of the Fussbenders said a damn thing. Not when he peered in at the gas gauge. Not when he walked back to his truck, lifted the gas can out of the back and toted it over to the Suburban. Not when he spun off the Suburban's gas cap and poured a couple of gallons of gas into the tank. They just went on watching him, like he was the guy from AAA and they'd called him to come deal with their breakdown.
Fuck me running, he thought, but it was more out of weary resignation than distress.
They'd come east out of L.A., they'd said. The best part of four hundred miles of pure, empty desert, and they'd aimed to do it in a car full of stuffed animals and suitcases and dog toys, without enough gas, on a slowly deflating tire.
"You're good now," he said with a smile that had no humor behind it.
The man - Papa Fussbender - reached out to shake his hand. When Fussbender drew back, he'd left a twenty tucked into John's palm.
John watched them drive away, off toward Phoenix.
With any luck, they'd actually get there.
There weren't a lot of people - himself included - who'd just linger on the phone without bitching when a couple of minutes went by without anything being said. He figured most of the people who were like that were starry-eyed lovers. Or the hopelessly senile. "Twenty-eight years," he said into the tiny mic when he lifted the phone back to his ear. "Not a word. I don't much know what I want any more. If I found her, I have no idea what I'd say."
Deacon didn't say anything for a minute.
John knew better than to suggest his old friend was either starry-eyed or senile.
"You headed to Defiance?" Deacon asked finally.
"Yeah," John said. "I guess I am."
* * * * *
Legends are told in bits and pieces, spread by word of mouth over the years. This is the story of Mary Campbell's family: the husband to whom she told the truth of who she was. The son who grieved the loss of her so deeply that he spent half his life on the road alone, searching for her. And the son who found success, and love, and peace ... until things went a little bit sideways.
I'll be posting a piece every day (possibly skipping a day here and there, depending on RL) for the next couple of weeks. Each piece is self-contained. They're told in chronological order, so it's best if you start at the beginning -- but you can probably skip around without being swamped with "Huh? What?"s.
Got a favorite character who died on Show? Stick around -- they'll probably turn up, alive and kicking. :)
Part One: Dean and Jo
Part Two: Dean, Sam, and Jessica
CHARACTERS: John, Deacon, OCs
GENRE: Gen (AU)
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1411 words
LEGEND
By Carol Davis
Part Three: John and Deacon
"Where are you?"
"You my mother?" John said into the tiny cell phone clamped between his left shoulder and his jaw. "She's been gone a long time, but as I remember it, she was prettier than you. And a lot less of a pain in my ass."
"Answer the question, Choir Boy."
"Arizona."
"Which is a long way from where you said you'd be. Thanksgiving at Mama Chang's? That ringing any bells?"
"Mister?" the little girl said.
"John?" Deacon said.
John settled back onto his haunches. Worked his shoulders in circles to coax the kinks out. He'd done his best to ignore what was looming in the peripheral of his left eye, but it was like pretending the sky wasn't there. Five of 'em: Dad, Mom, two boys and a girl. Six, if you counted the dog. They were lined up on the pavement, watching him like he was Pay Per View.
"Is it broke?" the little girl asked.
Dark green Suburban. He'd seen it in the distance as he rolled along the I-10 west of Phoenix: parked half on the shoulder and half off in the dust alongside the road, sitting there deader than roadkill with Dad and Mom and the rug-munchers all staring at the flat that had brought their little road trip to a screeching halt. No spare and no jack in sight, and the whole crew looked as mournful as if they'd mowed down Bambi, Thumper and Flower.
He'd been half inclined to keep going.
"Headed to Cali," he muttered into the phone.
"For -?"
"Got a stop to make."
"Then you're headed…north?"
The little girl moved closer and leaned in to peer at the flat. He'd managed to wrestle two of the lug nuts free, but the third was a gold-plated bitch, on there tighter than if it'd been super-glued. For all John knew, it had been super-glued.
"Mama Chang figuring on slitting her wrists if I don't show up?"
"I don't know that there is a Mama Chang," Deacon said.
The string of invective John let loose when the lug nut sprang free and the wrench slammed into his wrist made the little girl jerk back a couple of paces, eyes and mouth all blown wide open. She went hustling back to her mother as John fumbled for the nut, gingerly flexing his wrist and figuring his whole forearm would end up purple and green by sundown.
"Maybe I should -"
John looked over at the guy, the Clark Griswold of this little expedition, with none of Chevy Chase's fashion sense.
"Sorry," he said.
He was. Had been for a good twenty minutes now.
"You're like Ralphie's dad," one of the little boys commented, pointing at the set-aside hubcab John was using to store the nuts. "He said a whole lotta bad words when Ralphie lost those little things." Grinning, and tickled pink with himself for having made the connection with what was probably a holiday favorite for his well-scrubbed and GAP-outfitted family, the kid hustled over to retrieve the nut that had gone flying. He dropped it into the curve of the hubcab like it was a gold nugget. When John nodded a somewhat less than heartfelt thank-you, the kid beamed at him.
"Did you broke your arm?" the little girl asked.
He had to retrieve the phone from where it'd flipped to on the road. "The hell's going on?" Deacon asked when John pressed the phone to his ear with the hand that wasn't throbbing.
"The bad words are gonna float in space," the boy said.
"Over Lake Michigan," his brother announced. "Not space, you turd."
His mother yanked on his arm until he yelped.
"Changing a tire," John said into the phone. "Taking a little longer than I figured. Then I'm headed to California."
"Sam's gone off with Dean," Deacon told him.
"What?"
"Sam. Went. With. Dean."
Grimacing, John returned the phone to its cradle between his shoulder and his jaw and set to work on the remaining lug nut. He offered thanks to every deity whose name he could recall when it came loose without incident. "Went where with Dean?" he asked quietly. Mind spinning. The last Sam had gone anywhere with Dean - other than someplace local, someplace within an hour's drive of Portland - was back in '05, back when the boys had found Mary's notes in an abandoned motel room. They'd faxed the scribbled pages to him a few days later. He still had the copies, folded up in the back of his own journal, currently stashed in the glove box of his truck.
Time was, she'd write him notes. Would leave them propped against the sugar bowl on the kitchen table, or taped to the bathroom mirror.
"Defiance," Deacon said.
"Come again?"
"Defiance, Ohio. About fifty miles outside of Toledo."
John lifted the flat free, frowning at the nail embedded deep in the rubber. Chances were, the Griswolds (their name was Fussbender, something like that) had been driving on it for days. Hadn't noticed the tire was getting mushy.
Chances were, they hadn't checked anything other than the gas gauge.
Maybe they hadn't even checked that.
"What's in Defiance?" he asked.
"Woman named Barnes. Pamela Barnes. Word is, she's one of the best psychics in that part of the country."
"Psychic," John said.
"Dean said she's got intel."
"Good intel?"
"What's intel?" the little girl asked. "Is that a bad word?"
He had to give those kids one thing: they were contributing, even if what they were contributing was of no earthly help. Their parents, on the other hand, hadn't lifted a finger. They'd had no clue where to find the spare, or the jack.
They were watching him like he was the guy from AAA.
John closed his eyes for a moment. Drew in a long, deep breath and tried to convince himself that his wrist didn't hurt. That he was lucky it wasn't broken. That he'd be on his way in a few minutes, and he could forget the whole thing had happened. Some Advil, a decent dinner, some sleep; he could put the whole thing behind him.
"You know anything about her?" he asked Deacon.
"Bits and pieces."
"She worth talking to?"
"More than anybody else you've talked to in the last thirty years? I don't know. Dean seems to think it's worth the trip."
"He went and got Sam."
He fit the spare into place. Cranked on the lug nuts one by one. Put the hubcab back where it belonged.
When he stood up, his hips and lower back creaked a protest.
None of the Fussbenders said a damn thing. Not when he peered in at the gas gauge. Not when he walked back to his truck, lifted the gas can out of the back and toted it over to the Suburban. Not when he spun off the Suburban's gas cap and poured a couple of gallons of gas into the tank. They just went on watching him, like he was the guy from AAA and they'd called him to come deal with their breakdown.
Fuck me running, he thought, but it was more out of weary resignation than distress.
They'd come east out of L.A., they'd said. The best part of four hundred miles of pure, empty desert, and they'd aimed to do it in a car full of stuffed animals and suitcases and dog toys, without enough gas, on a slowly deflating tire.
"You're good now," he said with a smile that had no humor behind it.
The man - Papa Fussbender - reached out to shake his hand. When Fussbender drew back, he'd left a twenty tucked into John's palm.
John watched them drive away, off toward Phoenix.
With any luck, they'd actually get there.
There weren't a lot of people - himself included - who'd just linger on the phone without bitching when a couple of minutes went by without anything being said. He figured most of the people who were like that were starry-eyed lovers. Or the hopelessly senile. "Twenty-eight years," he said into the tiny mic when he lifted the phone back to his ear. "Not a word. I don't much know what I want any more. If I found her, I have no idea what I'd say."
Deacon didn't say anything for a minute.
John knew better than to suggest his old friend was either starry-eyed or senile.
"You headed to Defiance?" Deacon asked finally.
"Yeah," John said. "I guess I am."
* * * * *