Speechless
Title: Speechless
Author: LaughtersMelody
Rating: G
Fandom: Supernatural
Disclaimer: It’s not mine, but if Kripke doesn’t want to keep Bobby, I’ll take him! He’d be good company for Dean! Um…not that I have Dean or anything… *shifty eyes*
Genre: General
Pairing: None, really, though mentions of Bobby and his wife.
Type: One-shot
Spoilers: Spoilers for “Dream A Little Dream Of Me,” and “Yellow Fever.”
Characters: Bobby
Secondary Characters: Minor OCs
Summary: Bobby Singer never planned on learning Japanese. Then again, he hadn‘t planned on a lot of things. Takes place pre-series. One-shot. Bobby POV.
A/N: I loved the moment in “Yellow Fever,” when we learned that Bobby can speak Japanese. This is my attempt to explain just how and why Bobby picked up that particular skill. :) On a cool note, Jim Beaver, who plays Bobby, really can speak Japanese.
A/N2: Early in season one, Sam questions Dean about the rock-salt shells for the shotgun. Because of that, I wrote this on the assumption that it was a fairly recent idea in the Supernatural world, and that in the past, when Bobby was young hunter, rock-salt wasn’t used that way.
As all ways, to God be the glory. Without Him, this story would never would have been finished. :)
I hope you enjoy it, and please let me know what you think!
~*~*~*~*~
Speechless
Bobby Singer was no stranger to hard work. Life is hard work, his daddy had always said. So, it didn’t really surprise him that hunting was hard work, too. He’d just never figured on the kind of hard work it would be.
Bobby sighed, shutting the book in front of him and leaning back in his chair. He let his gaze wander around his living room. Books, both old and new, lined just about every shelf, and when he’d started running out of room there, he’d taken to using the floor. A liberal coating of dust covered most of ‘em.
Josie would have a fit.
The thought came before he could stop it, and Bobby closed his eyes against it, trying to push the inevitable pain away. Even five years after his wife’s death, it still hurt, the pain as fresh as ever, a wound that would never heal.
Hunting was all he had left, the only way he could try to make up for…for what had happened. What he’d had to do. Maybe that was why he’d thrown himself into it like he had, tracked down every scrap of information he could find and tried to make himself a walking encyclopedia of all things supernatural.
It wasn’t easy. Bobby had always liked workin’ with his hands a whole lot more than he liked workin’ with his mind, but now he needed both. So, he spent most of his mornings trainin’ out in the yard, and his evenings buried in books. And night…night was for hunting.
Resisting the urge to sigh again, Bobby let his eyes drift to the window. It was just about dark outside, the last bits of blue in the sky turning inky black. Slipping off his trucker’s cap, Bobby ran a hand through his hair, then pulled the cap back down and stood, wincing a little as his knees protested. He’d gotten thrown into a tree a few hunts ago, and his legs hadn’t been happy with the abuse. Made sure he knew it, too.
Bobby snorted. At this rate, he’d be a crippled old man by the time he hit 35. If he got there, anyway. Only a handful of hunters managed to live that long. What were the chances that he’d actually be one of them?
Shaking off those thoughts, he headed for the kitchen. No sense hunting on an empty stomach. He threw a sandwich together and washed it down with a glass of water -- drinking anything stronger before a hunt was a bad idea, he’d learned that the hard way -- then went out to check his gear. He’d cleaned his weapons the night before, but you never could be too careful. He’d learned that the hard way too, and had the scars to show for it.
Satisfied that nothing was gonna backfire on him or jam just when he needed it, Bobby shut the trunk and slipped into the driver’s seat, smiling a little at the sound of the engine. It might not be much to look at, but his car had it were it counted. And, thankfully, country roads were real quiet at night, so it didn’t take too long to get to where he was going.
Bobby pulled in front of the house and checked the address he’d scribbled down -- just to make sure he wouldn’t go barging into the wrong place and scarin’ some poor, unlucky folks -- then grabbed his stuff, and headed up the walk.
He let his eyes wander as he went. The house was nice, with a fresh coat of paint, a manicured lawn, trimmed hedges, and a big garden tucked right beside it.
Josie would’ve loved this place.
Bobby shook his head. Thoughts like that were gonna get him killed one of these days if he wasn’t careful, and Josie wouldn’t have wanted that, even if maybe, a part of him did.
Drawing a deep breath, he shoved that thought back where it belonged, and shifted the pack he had slung over his shoulder. It didn’t weigh much for once, since he wasn’t carrying a whole lot. There wasn’t a reason to. This was just a look-see, a chance for him to get an idea of what he was up against. He had his rifle -- for all the good it would do if this really was a spirit -- a flashlight, some salt, and the key the family had given him a few days before, when they’d asked him for help getting rid of their ghost problem.
He dug the key out of his pocket when he reached the front door, keeping one hand on his rifle while the other turned the lock. The door creaked open slowly, and Bobby raised his gun.
It was dark inside, and quiet…no sign of anything strange. Bobby kept his rifle up just the same though, and started forward.
At first, nothing happened.
The house looked as nice on the inside as it did on the outside, the family’s Japanese-American heritage plain as day. They were a proud family, nice too. All of ‘em, mom, dad, and the kids had been holed-up in a hotel for the last month. Hopefully, Bobby would be able to give ‘em some good news when this was over.
And speak of the spirit…
Bobby shivered as the temperature suddenly dropped about twenty degrees. He tightened his grip on his gun, and reached for the salt. Times like this, he wished somethin’ fierce that somebody’d figure out a way to fire salt-rounds.
All thoughts vanished a minute later though, when an irate voice sounded through the house. It was loud but muffled, and it seemed to be comin’ from the living room.
Bobby crept forward silently, and peered around the corner.
Sure enough, there was the spirit.
He was pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace, gesturing wildly with his hands and ranting…in something that sounded an awful lot like Japanese.
‘Course, Bobby’s luck being what it was, that happened to be the moment the spirit realized he was there. The spirit’s eyes narrowed. He pointed at Bobby and said something else in rapid-fire Japanese.
Bobby blinked.
The man looked aggravated and repeated what he’d said.
“Uh,” Bobby tried, feelin’ like an idjit and probably soundin’ like one too, “hablo Inglés?”
The spirit chucked a picture frame at his head.
~*~*~*~*~
Bobby sighed -- something he seemed to be doing a lot lately -- and rubbed a hand over the bruise on his forehead. He was black and blue in more than a few places, and sitting in front of his desk all mornin’ doin’ research wasn’t helping. At least it hadn’t taken long to figure out who the spirit was, though. A little bit of digging into the family records had turned up a photo of the man he’d seen. Apparently, their grandfather had decided to stick around after his death.
The family said the trouble had started two months ago, when their grandmother had died…maybe their grandfather had stuck around for her. Now that she was gone, and presumably moved-on to where ever she was supposed to go, Mr. Yamamoto was venting his frustration on the rest of his family.
He hadn’t seriously hurt anyone yet, just made a mess of things and scared the family stiff, but that could change. He was probably gonna get angrier as time passed, and Bobby didn’t want to take any chances.
There was just one problem: if the records were right, the Yamamoto’s grandfather had been cremated, and his ashes, apparently, had been sent back to Japan to his family’s ancestral village, per his wishes.
Bobby had checked, too, nothing had been left behind…no locks of hair, not so much as a hangnail, near as he could tell, and just his luck -- the family had donated all of their grandfather’s belongings to a Japanese-American museum ten years after his death. The museum, it turned out, was halfway across the country, so unless Mr. Yamamoto was haunting his family long-distance, he wasn’t connected to an object either. That left just one option. Ghosts could latch on to people. It didn’t happen often, but it did happen. And if that was the case, short of takin’ out the whole family, his best bet for getting’ rid of the spirit was to convince him to move on.
That was hard enough to pull off with a normal spirit, though. Spirits hung on to things real tight, and letting go was usually the last thing they wanted to do. What was he supposed to do with a spirit that only spoke Japanese? He’d gotten to know a handful of other hunters in the last five years, but he was pretty sure none of them spoke a word of Japanese. Bobby snorted. Some of ‘em barely managed English.
The family was out too. He’d asked. Besides the fact that they were terrified to go anywhere near the ghost, none of them spoke Japanese either. And he wasn’t too keen on trying to track someone down who did know the language.
It wasn’t pride. He knew better than to let pride keep him from askin’ for help when he needed it. But being a hunter had made him paranoid. He’d learned real quick that it didn’t have to be supernatural to be evil. He didn’t want anyone watching his back that he didn’t trust a hundred percent.
Bobby sighed.
There was only one thing left to do. And if he was gonna do it, he’d better get started.
He pushed himself out of his chair and towards the nearest bookshelf. It wasn’t hard to find what he was looking for. The Yellow Pages didn’t exactly blend in with the rest of his library.
He flipped through the pages absently, until he got to the list of near-by colleges. He settled on one, reached for his phone, and dialed the number. It rang a couple times before someone picked up.
“Anderson College. Foreign Languages Department. How can I help you?”
“I was wonderin’, how exactly does a fella go about learning Japanese?”
Fin
~*~*~*~*~
A/N: Dedicated to sophie_deangirl for her incredible friendship!
Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think!
Take care and God bless!
-Laughter
Author: LaughtersMelody
Rating: G
Fandom: Supernatural
Disclaimer: It’s not mine, but if Kripke doesn’t want to keep Bobby, I’ll take him! He’d be good company for Dean! Um…not that I have Dean or anything… *shifty eyes*
Genre: General
Pairing: None, really, though mentions of Bobby and his wife.
Type: One-shot
Spoilers: Spoilers for “Dream A Little Dream Of Me,” and “Yellow Fever.”
Characters: Bobby
Secondary Characters: Minor OCs
Summary: Bobby Singer never planned on learning Japanese. Then again, he hadn‘t planned on a lot of things. Takes place pre-series. One-shot. Bobby POV.
A/N: I loved the moment in “Yellow Fever,” when we learned that Bobby can speak Japanese. This is my attempt to explain just how and why Bobby picked up that particular skill. :) On a cool note, Jim Beaver, who plays Bobby, really can speak Japanese.
A/N2: Early in season one, Sam questions Dean about the rock-salt shells for the shotgun. Because of that, I wrote this on the assumption that it was a fairly recent idea in the Supernatural world, and that in the past, when Bobby was young hunter, rock-salt wasn’t used that way.
As all ways, to God be the glory. Without Him, this story would never would have been finished. :)
I hope you enjoy it, and please let me know what you think!
~*~*~*~*~
Speechless
Bobby Singer was no stranger to hard work. Life is hard work, his daddy had always said. So, it didn’t really surprise him that hunting was hard work, too. He’d just never figured on the kind of hard work it would be.
Bobby sighed, shutting the book in front of him and leaning back in his chair. He let his gaze wander around his living room. Books, both old and new, lined just about every shelf, and when he’d started running out of room there, he’d taken to using the floor. A liberal coating of dust covered most of ‘em.
Josie would have a fit.
The thought came before he could stop it, and Bobby closed his eyes against it, trying to push the inevitable pain away. Even five years after his wife’s death, it still hurt, the pain as fresh as ever, a wound that would never heal.
Hunting was all he had left, the only way he could try to make up for…for what had happened. What he’d had to do. Maybe that was why he’d thrown himself into it like he had, tracked down every scrap of information he could find and tried to make himself a walking encyclopedia of all things supernatural.
It wasn’t easy. Bobby had always liked workin’ with his hands a whole lot more than he liked workin’ with his mind, but now he needed both. So, he spent most of his mornings trainin’ out in the yard, and his evenings buried in books. And night…night was for hunting.
Resisting the urge to sigh again, Bobby let his eyes drift to the window. It was just about dark outside, the last bits of blue in the sky turning inky black. Slipping off his trucker’s cap, Bobby ran a hand through his hair, then pulled the cap back down and stood, wincing a little as his knees protested. He’d gotten thrown into a tree a few hunts ago, and his legs hadn’t been happy with the abuse. Made sure he knew it, too.
Bobby snorted. At this rate, he’d be a crippled old man by the time he hit 35. If he got there, anyway. Only a handful of hunters managed to live that long. What were the chances that he’d actually be one of them?
Shaking off those thoughts, he headed for the kitchen. No sense hunting on an empty stomach. He threw a sandwich together and washed it down with a glass of water -- drinking anything stronger before a hunt was a bad idea, he’d learned that the hard way -- then went out to check his gear. He’d cleaned his weapons the night before, but you never could be too careful. He’d learned that the hard way too, and had the scars to show for it.
Satisfied that nothing was gonna backfire on him or jam just when he needed it, Bobby shut the trunk and slipped into the driver’s seat, smiling a little at the sound of the engine. It might not be much to look at, but his car had it were it counted. And, thankfully, country roads were real quiet at night, so it didn’t take too long to get to where he was going.
Bobby pulled in front of the house and checked the address he’d scribbled down -- just to make sure he wouldn’t go barging into the wrong place and scarin’ some poor, unlucky folks -- then grabbed his stuff, and headed up the walk.
He let his eyes wander as he went. The house was nice, with a fresh coat of paint, a manicured lawn, trimmed hedges, and a big garden tucked right beside it.
Josie would’ve loved this place.
Bobby shook his head. Thoughts like that were gonna get him killed one of these days if he wasn’t careful, and Josie wouldn’t have wanted that, even if maybe, a part of him did.
Drawing a deep breath, he shoved that thought back where it belonged, and shifted the pack he had slung over his shoulder. It didn’t weigh much for once, since he wasn’t carrying a whole lot. There wasn’t a reason to. This was just a look-see, a chance for him to get an idea of what he was up against. He had his rifle -- for all the good it would do if this really was a spirit -- a flashlight, some salt, and the key the family had given him a few days before, when they’d asked him for help getting rid of their ghost problem.
He dug the key out of his pocket when he reached the front door, keeping one hand on his rifle while the other turned the lock. The door creaked open slowly, and Bobby raised his gun.
It was dark inside, and quiet…no sign of anything strange. Bobby kept his rifle up just the same though, and started forward.
At first, nothing happened.
The house looked as nice on the inside as it did on the outside, the family’s Japanese-American heritage plain as day. They were a proud family, nice too. All of ‘em, mom, dad, and the kids had been holed-up in a hotel for the last month. Hopefully, Bobby would be able to give ‘em some good news when this was over.
And speak of the spirit…
Bobby shivered as the temperature suddenly dropped about twenty degrees. He tightened his grip on his gun, and reached for the salt. Times like this, he wished somethin’ fierce that somebody’d figure out a way to fire salt-rounds.
All thoughts vanished a minute later though, when an irate voice sounded through the house. It was loud but muffled, and it seemed to be comin’ from the living room.
Bobby crept forward silently, and peered around the corner.
Sure enough, there was the spirit.
He was pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace, gesturing wildly with his hands and ranting…in something that sounded an awful lot like Japanese.
‘Course, Bobby’s luck being what it was, that happened to be the moment the spirit realized he was there. The spirit’s eyes narrowed. He pointed at Bobby and said something else in rapid-fire Japanese.
Bobby blinked.
The man looked aggravated and repeated what he’d said.
“Uh,” Bobby tried, feelin’ like an idjit and probably soundin’ like one too, “hablo Inglés?”
The spirit chucked a picture frame at his head.
~*~*~*~*~
Bobby sighed -- something he seemed to be doing a lot lately -- and rubbed a hand over the bruise on his forehead. He was black and blue in more than a few places, and sitting in front of his desk all mornin’ doin’ research wasn’t helping. At least it hadn’t taken long to figure out who the spirit was, though. A little bit of digging into the family records had turned up a photo of the man he’d seen. Apparently, their grandfather had decided to stick around after his death.
The family said the trouble had started two months ago, when their grandmother had died…maybe their grandfather had stuck around for her. Now that she was gone, and presumably moved-on to where ever she was supposed to go, Mr. Yamamoto was venting his frustration on the rest of his family.
He hadn’t seriously hurt anyone yet, just made a mess of things and scared the family stiff, but that could change. He was probably gonna get angrier as time passed, and Bobby didn’t want to take any chances.
There was just one problem: if the records were right, the Yamamoto’s grandfather had been cremated, and his ashes, apparently, had been sent back to Japan to his family’s ancestral village, per his wishes.
Bobby had checked, too, nothing had been left behind…no locks of hair, not so much as a hangnail, near as he could tell, and just his luck -- the family had donated all of their grandfather’s belongings to a Japanese-American museum ten years after his death. The museum, it turned out, was halfway across the country, so unless Mr. Yamamoto was haunting his family long-distance, he wasn’t connected to an object either. That left just one option. Ghosts could latch on to people. It didn’t happen often, but it did happen. And if that was the case, short of takin’ out the whole family, his best bet for getting’ rid of the spirit was to convince him to move on.
That was hard enough to pull off with a normal spirit, though. Spirits hung on to things real tight, and letting go was usually the last thing they wanted to do. What was he supposed to do with a spirit that only spoke Japanese? He’d gotten to know a handful of other hunters in the last five years, but he was pretty sure none of them spoke a word of Japanese. Bobby snorted. Some of ‘em barely managed English.
The family was out too. He’d asked. Besides the fact that they were terrified to go anywhere near the ghost, none of them spoke Japanese either. And he wasn’t too keen on trying to track someone down who did know the language.
It wasn’t pride. He knew better than to let pride keep him from askin’ for help when he needed it. But being a hunter had made him paranoid. He’d learned real quick that it didn’t have to be supernatural to be evil. He didn’t want anyone watching his back that he didn’t trust a hundred percent.
Bobby sighed.
There was only one thing left to do. And if he was gonna do it, he’d better get started.
He pushed himself out of his chair and towards the nearest bookshelf. It wasn’t hard to find what he was looking for. The Yellow Pages didn’t exactly blend in with the rest of his library.
He flipped through the pages absently, until he got to the list of near-by colleges. He settled on one, reached for his phone, and dialed the number. It rang a couple times before someone picked up.
“Anderson College. Foreign Languages Department. How can I help you?”
“I was wonderin’, how exactly does a fella go about learning Japanese?”
Fin
~*~*~*~*~
A/N: Dedicated to sophie_deangirl for her incredible friendship!
Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think!
Take care and God bless!
-Laughter