New fic: Harness (Death’s own pale horses) and scholarly plough the sands.
Title: Harness (Death’s own pale horses) and scholarly plough the sands,
or,
The adventures of Bobby and Rufus in rural America
Author: reading_is_in
Chars: Bobby & Rufus
Rating: PG
Genre: Drama
Spoilers: Up to 7x10
Disclaimer: All recognized characters from ‘Supernatural’ are property of Eric Kripke/CW. This fan fiction is not for profit.
Summary: How Bobby met Rufus
A/N:The other night S2 and I watched 'Death's Door' (yeah we're up to Season 7 in her Supernatural education XD) and I found myself wishing for Bobby and Rufus backstory. Not sure how long this will be, but I enjoyed the writing and it's coming quite easily, so I imagine there's quite a bit to go. Title from Kipling's 'The Old Men' (1902).
1980.
1.
The vigilante doesn’t stick around. He offers some curt consolation for Karen, but he’s already packing his weapons and - things - before Bobby can grasp what he’s done:
“Sorry man, but the feds have been too close for my comfort since the border, and you know they ain’t itchin to hand a brother a fair trial in a town like this. No offense."
“No,” says Bobby. Smoke from the pyre smears gray whorls against the pale dusk. It burns Bobby’s dry eyes.
“You let that burn down to ash, right? You got that?”
“Got it.”
“Look, uh…” the stranger shifts, clearly out of his element now that the Thing is gone and body burning. “There’s a PO box down in Lincoln. 797. You need some advice on keeping the bastards outta this place, drop me a line there. I’ll get it when I get it.”
His departing exhaust is absorbed by the funeral smoke.
*
For a week he does nothing. Puts the closed sign up on the shop. Occasionally remembers that nightmares exist. Drinks. The crockery Karen last washed is dried rigid to the rack. Her cardigan hangs on a chair back. The burned the rugs soaked with her blood on her pyre, but there are drops dried into the bedroom floorboards from their last fight.
He should have told her whatever she wanted to hear.
On the seventh day Cilla Mills knocks the door, casserole in hand and teenage daughter in tow. Mrs. Mills is the sheriff's wife, and an intolerable gossip. She’s concerned because nobody’s seen him or Karen and the shop’s been closed, and just wanted to check that everything -
“Oh my sweet Lord Mr. Singer you look terrible. What happened?”
He tells her Karen left him because even if he is technically her murderer, if he spends the rest of his life in a jail cell he’ll never have a hope of finding answers.
“Oh my,” says Mrs. Mills, eyes dancing with delight, “But the two of you just seemed so happy together.”
“I thought so too,” he says. The teenager - Julie - Judy? - regards him with serious brown eyes and ignores her mother.
*
What was it? he writes on the postcard addressed to Lincoln, and signs it, Salvage yard, SD.
*
A second week passes. Cilla Mills has been back twice, under the pretense of bringing food but really to grill him for information about Karen’s departure. Because he’s a masochist, he says they fought over children, and that no, Karen doesn’t want to be contacted. Mrs. Mills looks judgmental and drops hints about what's natural for a woman.
The parish priest, Father Stephen, stops by to talk about counselling. Bobby hasn’t seen the inside of a church for twenty years or more, but Karen was a regular. Bobby looks at the man, with his round earnest face and his dog collar peeking modestly from between the cut of his corduroy sweater, his soft round belly testament to a life behind desks and pulpits. His memory offers up the image of the mad vigilante,
fierce, sharp and dark, all hard lines and rapidfire Latin as the Thing surged out o his dying wife. Father Stephen doesn’t stay.
“Still closed,” he snaps when the work phone won’t stop ringing.
“Like I told you, it was a demon.” The voice clicks into place right away.
“No, really,” says Bobby, then: “How did you get this number?”
The man chuckles. “I tracked that thing all the way from Iowa to your place, Singer - ain’t beyond me to use a phone book.”
“Oh.”
“And yeah, really. It was a demon. As in liteal, out of hell, human-possessing evil spirit. Ain’t that common to meet em topside this century - that’s why it took me a while to make the connections. Sorry again that I, uh, didn’t get to it sooner.”
“It’s not your fault,” Bobby says automatically. “How did you - uh, what did you do to it?
“Exorcised it. Sent it back to hell. It’s what I do. That and assorted nasties that most folks with better sense wouldn’t touch with a pole.”
“So it’s dead?”
“Technically it was dead already.”
“Can - can it come back?” Can it do to anyone else what it…?
“Probably not that one.” Pause. “Look Singer. Most people who come up against this stuff can’t forget it fast enough. Pretty rare for anyone to get in touch once I’m out of their hair. But I figured there was something different about you, and it looks like I was right. You ain’t the type who can just stick their head in the sand. So I’ll ask you how much you wanna know, but I’ll warn you first - once you’re in this, you’re in it. I ain’t known a single man does what I do who got up and walked away. So - last chance - how much do you want to know?”
“Everything,” Bobby hears himself say. “All of it.”
Part Two
or,
The adventures of Bobby and Rufus in rural America
Author: reading_is_in
Chars: Bobby & Rufus
Rating: PG
Genre: Drama
Spoilers: Up to 7x10
Disclaimer: All recognized characters from ‘Supernatural’ are property of Eric Kripke/CW. This fan fiction is not for profit.
Summary: How Bobby met Rufus
A/N:The other night S2 and I watched 'Death's Door' (yeah we're up to Season 7 in her Supernatural education XD) and I found myself wishing for Bobby and Rufus backstory. Not sure how long this will be, but I enjoyed the writing and it's coming quite easily, so I imagine there's quite a bit to go. Title from Kipling's 'The Old Men' (1902).
1980.
1.
The vigilante doesn’t stick around. He offers some curt consolation for Karen, but he’s already packing his weapons and - things - before Bobby can grasp what he’s done:
“Sorry man, but the feds have been too close for my comfort since the border, and you know they ain’t itchin to hand a brother a fair trial in a town like this. No offense."
“No,” says Bobby. Smoke from the pyre smears gray whorls against the pale dusk. It burns Bobby’s dry eyes.
“You let that burn down to ash, right? You got that?”
“Got it.”
“Look, uh…” the stranger shifts, clearly out of his element now that the Thing is gone and body burning. “There’s a PO box down in Lincoln. 797. You need some advice on keeping the bastards outta this place, drop me a line there. I’ll get it when I get it.”
His departing exhaust is absorbed by the funeral smoke.
*
For a week he does nothing. Puts the closed sign up on the shop. Occasionally remembers that nightmares exist. Drinks. The crockery Karen last washed is dried rigid to the rack. Her cardigan hangs on a chair back. The burned the rugs soaked with her blood on her pyre, but there are drops dried into the bedroom floorboards from their last fight.
He should have told her whatever she wanted to hear.
On the seventh day Cilla Mills knocks the door, casserole in hand and teenage daughter in tow. Mrs. Mills is the sheriff's wife, and an intolerable gossip. She’s concerned because nobody’s seen him or Karen and the shop’s been closed, and just wanted to check that everything -
“Oh my sweet Lord Mr. Singer you look terrible. What happened?”
He tells her Karen left him because even if he is technically her murderer, if he spends the rest of his life in a jail cell he’ll never have a hope of finding answers.
“Oh my,” says Mrs. Mills, eyes dancing with delight, “But the two of you just seemed so happy together.”
“I thought so too,” he says. The teenager - Julie - Judy? - regards him with serious brown eyes and ignores her mother.
*
What was it? he writes on the postcard addressed to Lincoln, and signs it, Salvage yard, SD.
*
A second week passes. Cilla Mills has been back twice, under the pretense of bringing food but really to grill him for information about Karen’s departure. Because he’s a masochist, he says they fought over children, and that no, Karen doesn’t want to be contacted. Mrs. Mills looks judgmental and drops hints about what's natural for a woman.
The parish priest, Father Stephen, stops by to talk about counselling. Bobby hasn’t seen the inside of a church for twenty years or more, but Karen was a regular. Bobby looks at the man, with his round earnest face and his dog collar peeking modestly from between the cut of his corduroy sweater, his soft round belly testament to a life behind desks and pulpits. His memory offers up the image of the mad vigilante,
fierce, sharp and dark, all hard lines and rapidfire Latin as the Thing surged out o his dying wife. Father Stephen doesn’t stay.
“Still closed,” he snaps when the work phone won’t stop ringing.
“Like I told you, it was a demon.” The voice clicks into place right away.
“No, really,” says Bobby, then: “How did you get this number?”
The man chuckles. “I tracked that thing all the way from Iowa to your place, Singer - ain’t beyond me to use a phone book.”
“Oh.”
“And yeah, really. It was a demon. As in liteal, out of hell, human-possessing evil spirit. Ain’t that common to meet em topside this century - that’s why it took me a while to make the connections. Sorry again that I, uh, didn’t get to it sooner.”
“It’s not your fault,” Bobby says automatically. “How did you - uh, what did you do to it?
“Exorcised it. Sent it back to hell. It’s what I do. That and assorted nasties that most folks with better sense wouldn’t touch with a pole.”
“So it’s dead?”
“Technically it was dead already.”
“Can - can it come back?” Can it do to anyone else what it…?
“Probably not that one.” Pause. “Look Singer. Most people who come up against this stuff can’t forget it fast enough. Pretty rare for anyone to get in touch once I’m out of their hair. But I figured there was something different about you, and it looks like I was right. You ain’t the type who can just stick their head in the sand. So I’ll ask you how much you wanna know, but I’ll warn you first - once you’re in this, you’re in it. I ain’t known a single man does what I do who got up and walked away. So - last chance - how much do you want to know?”
“Everything,” Bobby hears himself say. “All of it.”
Part Two