Borrowing Billy | PG-13 | Bobby/Ellen
Title: Borrowing Billy
Author: lackadaisy
Characters/Pairing: Bobby/Ellen, Castiel, (Sam, Dean, Jo, Pamela, and Ash are mentioned in the background)
Genre: Romance
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1,928
Summary: Ellen's too old for this. She didn't realize how much she wanted her child to live until it was taken from her, 'borrowed' by an angel.
There was a night, a few weeks after they finally buried Dean. Ellen had stopped round to check on him, just to make sure his head was still on his shoulders, and maybe to pick up the stray empty liquor bottles. Someone had to, Sam couldn't be found. Bobby didn't have anyone else. She hadn't thought at the time what it meant that she thought he had her.
She'd found him, crumbled about his desk, a half drained whiskey bottle still encased in his gnarled old hand. Nearly got herself shot rousing him, it being late afternoon and all. Let herself in. Ellen had never seen Robert like this. She was loathe to imagine how Sam, or Dean might feel seeing him in his current state. He was the immovable mountain, the rock and the hard place, the unwavering strength, and the source of all the answers in the world. If push came to shove, there's no doubt a hell hound would turn away from this man, rather come home to some great and terrible wrath than attempt to drag him down under.
Now, now he was just a man. He was full of grief with no output, an old man with nothing left but a broken adopted family made up of folk just as worn as he, and the world was filled with evil, literally. Demons everywhere, not enough fighting for good's side. When you're the resilience, the strength, who do you turn to, when you need to be weak for a little while?
It had been too long, longer than Ellen had wanted to admit, since she'd shared a bed with a man. She didn't count the few times she'd had to drag Ash upstairs and put him into her bed and lay there with him to keep him from sleep walking. That boy needed lookin' after. The fact that her mind called him boy said it all. So she blamed her reluctance to pull away on that need, and she wasn't going to lie and say it was awful. Robert was a man of many talents.
That morning after had been surprisingly not nearly as awkward as she may have expected it to be. It was comfortable, and common, as if they'd gone through it before. Nothing special to it, he made waffles and she made bacon and eggs, and coffee and they sat down to breakfast together. They didn't mention the night before, despite the fact that she was wearing day old women's briefs and one of his plaid button down flannels at the kitchen table.
Ellen had cleaned the kitchen a bit beyond the necessary tidying up and didn't notice. She'd wanted to get back to the rebuilt roadhouse, she'd left it in Jo's surly hands. Her daughter had come home for the funeral that she hadn't been allowed to attend, and was helping out around the bar amidst the grief. They were all grieving in their own ways. Ellen supposed that it showed her frame of mind how she left her bra at his house, tucked her ragged hair into one of his spare trucker caps, and was out the door in her jeans and boots, with his flannel shirt still on.
*-*-*-*-*
She hadn't gone back for the bra until the unthinkable happened.
“I'm too old for this,” Ellen said to herself, wiping down the ol' bar without really seeing it. She might as well be moving the dirt around for all she was concentrating.
“Then sell the old place and buy some cottage to wrinkle in,” Jo suggested blithely ignorant to what her mother had actually meant. She was putting chairs up on the tables in preparation for sweeping the floor.
Ellen hadn't thought twice about missing her monthly. At her age it was bound to happen because menopause was a sure thing. She'd be spotty for a year or two and then stop. Then the sickness had started, and then the appetites, the mood swings, and she'd told herself it couldn't be. The weight she was putting on was her letting herself go. It's not like she had the best of metabolisms, and then she'd gone to the store, gotten herself a test, almost numbly. It read positive. She had a daughter in her early twenties, and she was pregnant. Again. This...
It wasn't even that she wasn't in the frame of mind to raise another child, it was just unhealthy, for herself and for the baby. There was a reason that women her age didn't have children. Her bones were wearing, her body worn and torn. She didn't have the wear-with-all to sustain a child in her aging body.
*-*-*-*-*
Ellen was still wondering where she got the courage to do this when she knocked on his door. He answered it looking far better than he had during their last encounter. He didn't smell like alcohol this time, almost seemed...peaceful. She wasn't sure if that was a good sign or not.
“Ellen,” he said gruffly, surprised, “c'mon in, was just bout to rustle up something for lunch.”
She nodded wordlessly and followed him into the house, screen door shutting meekly behind her with a clang. Together they entered the kitchen and Ellen was sharply reminded of that morning that had felt so natural, like a habit. Nothing out of the ordinary. She fought off a nostalgic smile, this was not the place for that.
“I'm pregnant,” she announced bluntly, her voice oddly flat.
Perhaps that hadn't been the best moment, she hadn't been looking at him, her eyes rooted to the tile. He'd been sipping at a mug of coffee at the moment, and spat it out, coughing horribly for the next several minutes.
“What?” he spluttered. That tone of voice was usually followed by 'you idjits', and a cuff to the head. If she were either of the Winchester boys, that is. A subtle sadness curled around her heart and tugged insistently, its tiny fingers embedded, but with little strength these days.
“I'm pregnant,” she repeated. It was harder the second time.
“You, no...how?”
“You were there, Robert.”
He fidgeted at the name, and took another, somewhat sobering gulp of coffee before saying, “Yeah, but...out our age...?”
Ellen appreciated that he said 'our' instead of 'your.'
She nodded, “I know.”
“Well...you think...I mean, what're your plans?”
Ellen sighed and collapsed into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. She was wearing the shirt she'd taken from him by accident. The irony wasn't lost on her, though she chose to ignore it as he clearly was. Maybe he hadn't noticed.
“Let things run their course...see if it survives, I suppose,” she mumbled, “it's not likely it will, so nippin' it in the bud seems a bit over the top...”
“I see,” Bobby conceded distantly, as though he didn't really 'see', more that he was just saying something to fill the empty spaces.
*-*-*-*-*
Ellen thought that perhaps it had been her nonchalance, her easy expectation that the child would miscarry, that led it to live. It came far too early, barely over four months in the oven and it was out, this tiny fragile thing, far too big for its age. She knew from having Jo, and having attended several friends' labors, that the baby she'd carried was of the size and health of a seven month old. It just didn't make any sense.
She named her son William Dean, and to herself called him Billy D. After the two boys she'd lost that meant so much to her, both in entirely different ways. She'd had the strangest dream right after the birth. Bobby had been at her side, asleep in the uncomfortable hospital chair and Jo on her other side, reluctantly accepting.
The dream had taken her to an idyllic place. A lake surrounded by tall, guarded evergreens, and the water was smooth, undisturbed. She felt safe there, at its edge. She was wearing Robert's flannel shirt and his cap. A woman she didn't know, had never seen before in her life came to her side and sat with her, watching the water.
“Beautiful, isn't it?” the woman said.
“It really is,” Ellen agreed, at peace as people usually are in dreams of this nature.
“Ellen,” the woman hummed, her voice was musical and sweet, “your life has been good, and you have made me proud, like so many of my children.”
Ellen felt warm underneath this woman's praise, though she wondered who she was. She definitely wasn't Ellen's mother.
“I am your eternal mother, not your blood mother,” the woman answered her thoughts.
She didn't give Ellen a chance to consider that before saying, “You will wake soon, so listen to me, my darling, your new son, as beautiful as this place, as you, is a gift from me. He will soon grow, as pure creation and be a vessel for one of my winged children, you understand?”
Ellen didn't understand and made to tell this woman so, but was told, “It will be alright, my son will explain it all to you.”
And then Ellen had woken up, tired and groggy, to breast feed her new baby boy, amazed that she could.
*-*-*-*-*
Ellen hadn't thought about the dream at all since then. Too much was happening. Dean was back from the dead, Robert had called her to tell her the news immediately. They weren't living together or even together 'together.' But she guessed they kept in contact more than usual, and he came to visit their son frequently enough, sometimes staying the weekend at the new roadhouse.
She was on her way upstairs to check on her baby that minute, a phone tucked under her ear, listening to Bobby. Dean's resurrection was a mystery. Sam hadn't done it, and clearly whatever had was scaring the holy hell out of Lillith and her armies. Apparently Bobby and Sam and Dean had visited a local psychic woman to try and summon it, to find out what it could be, and simply seeing the thing had burned her eyes out. The poor thing.
Ellen entered the makeshift nursery that one end of her bedroom had become. She froze suddenly, the phone slipping from her fingers. A young man stood in her room, stark naked, looming over her child's crib, which was suddenly empty. His hair was a dusty russet brown, and his skin a weathered tan, very faint and littered with freckles. When he turned to face her, she saw that his eyes were blue, and wide, curious.
“You are my vessel's blood mother,” the man blurted, his voice almost reverent, “thank you, I and my father appreciate your service.”
“Who the hell are you and what have you done with my...my Billy...?” Ellen demanded, though the pieces were already clicking together in her mind. The dream drifting back to her hazy and obscure.
“I am Castiel, and I have...borrowed your...Billy,” the man said, “although he is more mature than when you saw him last.”
“You aren't my son,” Ellen snapped, “where's my son?”
“Indeed I am not, but this is his body I am possessing, so he is right here, in a way.”
“...He will soon grow, as pure creation and be a vessel for one of my winged children, you understand?”
That was the day Ellen lost her son. It was the second time she'd lost a Bill.
Author: lackadaisy
Characters/Pairing: Bobby/Ellen, Castiel, (Sam, Dean, Jo, Pamela, and Ash are mentioned in the background)
Genre: Romance
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1,928
Summary: Ellen's too old for this. She didn't realize how much she wanted her child to live until it was taken from her, 'borrowed' by an angel.
There was a night, a few weeks after they finally buried Dean. Ellen had stopped round to check on him, just to make sure his head was still on his shoulders, and maybe to pick up the stray empty liquor bottles. Someone had to, Sam couldn't be found. Bobby didn't have anyone else. She hadn't thought at the time what it meant that she thought he had her.
She'd found him, crumbled about his desk, a half drained whiskey bottle still encased in his gnarled old hand. Nearly got herself shot rousing him, it being late afternoon and all. Let herself in. Ellen had never seen Robert like this. She was loathe to imagine how Sam, or Dean might feel seeing him in his current state. He was the immovable mountain, the rock and the hard place, the unwavering strength, and the source of all the answers in the world. If push came to shove, there's no doubt a hell hound would turn away from this man, rather come home to some great and terrible wrath than attempt to drag him down under.
Now, now he was just a man. He was full of grief with no output, an old man with nothing left but a broken adopted family made up of folk just as worn as he, and the world was filled with evil, literally. Demons everywhere, not enough fighting for good's side. When you're the resilience, the strength, who do you turn to, when you need to be weak for a little while?
It had been too long, longer than Ellen had wanted to admit, since she'd shared a bed with a man. She didn't count the few times she'd had to drag Ash upstairs and put him into her bed and lay there with him to keep him from sleep walking. That boy needed lookin' after. The fact that her mind called him boy said it all. So she blamed her reluctance to pull away on that need, and she wasn't going to lie and say it was awful. Robert was a man of many talents.
That morning after had been surprisingly not nearly as awkward as she may have expected it to be. It was comfortable, and common, as if they'd gone through it before. Nothing special to it, he made waffles and she made bacon and eggs, and coffee and they sat down to breakfast together. They didn't mention the night before, despite the fact that she was wearing day old women's briefs and one of his plaid button down flannels at the kitchen table.
Ellen had cleaned the kitchen a bit beyond the necessary tidying up and didn't notice. She'd wanted to get back to the rebuilt roadhouse, she'd left it in Jo's surly hands. Her daughter had come home for the funeral that she hadn't been allowed to attend, and was helping out around the bar amidst the grief. They were all grieving in their own ways. Ellen supposed that it showed her frame of mind how she left her bra at his house, tucked her ragged hair into one of his spare trucker caps, and was out the door in her jeans and boots, with his flannel shirt still on.
*-*-*-*-*
She hadn't gone back for the bra until the unthinkable happened.
“I'm too old for this,” Ellen said to herself, wiping down the ol' bar without really seeing it. She might as well be moving the dirt around for all she was concentrating.
“Then sell the old place and buy some cottage to wrinkle in,” Jo suggested blithely ignorant to what her mother had actually meant. She was putting chairs up on the tables in preparation for sweeping the floor.
Ellen hadn't thought twice about missing her monthly. At her age it was bound to happen because menopause was a sure thing. She'd be spotty for a year or two and then stop. Then the sickness had started, and then the appetites, the mood swings, and she'd told herself it couldn't be. The weight she was putting on was her letting herself go. It's not like she had the best of metabolisms, and then she'd gone to the store, gotten herself a test, almost numbly. It read positive. She had a daughter in her early twenties, and she was pregnant. Again. This...
It wasn't even that she wasn't in the frame of mind to raise another child, it was just unhealthy, for herself and for the baby. There was a reason that women her age didn't have children. Her bones were wearing, her body worn and torn. She didn't have the wear-with-all to sustain a child in her aging body.
*-*-*-*-*
Ellen was still wondering where she got the courage to do this when she knocked on his door. He answered it looking far better than he had during their last encounter. He didn't smell like alcohol this time, almost seemed...peaceful. She wasn't sure if that was a good sign or not.
“Ellen,” he said gruffly, surprised, “c'mon in, was just bout to rustle up something for lunch.”
She nodded wordlessly and followed him into the house, screen door shutting meekly behind her with a clang. Together they entered the kitchen and Ellen was sharply reminded of that morning that had felt so natural, like a habit. Nothing out of the ordinary. She fought off a nostalgic smile, this was not the place for that.
“I'm pregnant,” she announced bluntly, her voice oddly flat.
Perhaps that hadn't been the best moment, she hadn't been looking at him, her eyes rooted to the tile. He'd been sipping at a mug of coffee at the moment, and spat it out, coughing horribly for the next several minutes.
“What?” he spluttered. That tone of voice was usually followed by 'you idjits', and a cuff to the head. If she were either of the Winchester boys, that is. A subtle sadness curled around her heart and tugged insistently, its tiny fingers embedded, but with little strength these days.
“I'm pregnant,” she repeated. It was harder the second time.
“You, no...how?”
“You were there, Robert.”
He fidgeted at the name, and took another, somewhat sobering gulp of coffee before saying, “Yeah, but...out our age...?”
Ellen appreciated that he said 'our' instead of 'your.'
She nodded, “I know.”
“Well...you think...I mean, what're your plans?”
Ellen sighed and collapsed into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. She was wearing the shirt she'd taken from him by accident. The irony wasn't lost on her, though she chose to ignore it as he clearly was. Maybe he hadn't noticed.
“Let things run their course...see if it survives, I suppose,” she mumbled, “it's not likely it will, so nippin' it in the bud seems a bit over the top...”
“I see,” Bobby conceded distantly, as though he didn't really 'see', more that he was just saying something to fill the empty spaces.
*-*-*-*-*
Ellen thought that perhaps it had been her nonchalance, her easy expectation that the child would miscarry, that led it to live. It came far too early, barely over four months in the oven and it was out, this tiny fragile thing, far too big for its age. She knew from having Jo, and having attended several friends' labors, that the baby she'd carried was of the size and health of a seven month old. It just didn't make any sense.
She named her son William Dean, and to herself called him Billy D. After the two boys she'd lost that meant so much to her, both in entirely different ways. She'd had the strangest dream right after the birth. Bobby had been at her side, asleep in the uncomfortable hospital chair and Jo on her other side, reluctantly accepting.
The dream had taken her to an idyllic place. A lake surrounded by tall, guarded evergreens, and the water was smooth, undisturbed. She felt safe there, at its edge. She was wearing Robert's flannel shirt and his cap. A woman she didn't know, had never seen before in her life came to her side and sat with her, watching the water.
“Beautiful, isn't it?” the woman said.
“It really is,” Ellen agreed, at peace as people usually are in dreams of this nature.
“Ellen,” the woman hummed, her voice was musical and sweet, “your life has been good, and you have made me proud, like so many of my children.”
Ellen felt warm underneath this woman's praise, though she wondered who she was. She definitely wasn't Ellen's mother.
“I am your eternal mother, not your blood mother,” the woman answered her thoughts.
She didn't give Ellen a chance to consider that before saying, “You will wake soon, so listen to me, my darling, your new son, as beautiful as this place, as you, is a gift from me. He will soon grow, as pure creation and be a vessel for one of my winged children, you understand?”
Ellen didn't understand and made to tell this woman so, but was told, “It will be alright, my son will explain it all to you.”
And then Ellen had woken up, tired and groggy, to breast feed her new baby boy, amazed that she could.
*-*-*-*-*
Ellen hadn't thought about the dream at all since then. Too much was happening. Dean was back from the dead, Robert had called her to tell her the news immediately. They weren't living together or even together 'together.' But she guessed they kept in contact more than usual, and he came to visit their son frequently enough, sometimes staying the weekend at the new roadhouse.
She was on her way upstairs to check on her baby that minute, a phone tucked under her ear, listening to Bobby. Dean's resurrection was a mystery. Sam hadn't done it, and clearly whatever had was scaring the holy hell out of Lillith and her armies. Apparently Bobby and Sam and Dean had visited a local psychic woman to try and summon it, to find out what it could be, and simply seeing the thing had burned her eyes out. The poor thing.
Ellen entered the makeshift nursery that one end of her bedroom had become. She froze suddenly, the phone slipping from her fingers. A young man stood in her room, stark naked, looming over her child's crib, which was suddenly empty. His hair was a dusty russet brown, and his skin a weathered tan, very faint and littered with freckles. When he turned to face her, she saw that his eyes were blue, and wide, curious.
“You are my vessel's blood mother,” the man blurted, his voice almost reverent, “thank you, I and my father appreciate your service.”
“Who the hell are you and what have you done with my...my Billy...?” Ellen demanded, though the pieces were already clicking together in her mind. The dream drifting back to her hazy and obscure.
“I am Castiel, and I have...borrowed your...Billy,” the man said, “although he is more mature than when you saw him last.”
“You aren't my son,” Ellen snapped, “where's my son?”
“Indeed I am not, but this is his body I am possessing, so he is right here, in a way.”
“...He will soon grow, as pure creation and be a vessel for one of my winged children, you understand?”
That was the day Ellen lost her son. It was the second time she'd lost a Bill.