Heroes Rest -- a SPN/SoA crossover
Shows, you are BOTH breaking my heart. I started this after SoA broke my heart with 4.08 (Spoilers ahead.). Pecked the first half into my iPod and managed to synch it to my computer before the iPod went MIA. Then SPN broke my heart with 7.10...for a while, I wasn't sure I'd finish this, but if I do "retire" from SPN fandom, this is as good an epitaph as I can imagine.
Heroes Rest
Bobby Singer is having the damnedest dream. He's having a beer with a fellow he last saw in 1969. They’re sitting in a run-down bar called the Heroes’ Rest-it was right off the base where they’d done basic training.
Back in the day, this guy was a real ladies' man. He was tall and golden blond with a deep, rumbling voice that used to peel the panties off any gal he wanted. Now, he's an old man-of course, so's Bobby, and he hopes that this is just a dream, because he really doesn't want to revisit the Mekong Delta. Even the Apocalypse didn't look so bad after that hellhole.
"So how've you been?" Bobby asks. It's been forty-odd years, he can't for the life of him think of the guy's name.
"Can't complain, doesn't help," rasps his former comrade.
He's gone grey, which isn't surprising. He's thickened through the middle-again, not unusual after a few decades. What disturbs Bobby is the breathing tube running from the canister of air cradled in his lap.
"You don't look so good," Bobby says. "Anything I can do to help?"
"The son of a bitch shot me." For the first time, Bobby notices the bullet-hole centered on his chest. Long experience says it came from a shotgun. He blinks. At first, he’d thought they were both wearing fatigues, but now his old friend has on jeans and a bloody flannel shirt under a black leather vest.
"Can we get a bottle of tequila, sweetheart?" the other man asks the passing waitress. His voice wheezes. He's not the Romeo of years gone by, but the young woman brings the bottle and two glasses. She doesn't ask for money, doesn’t mention the bullet hole, and Bobby remembers, this is a dream.
"So, who shot you and why?" Bobby asks after they've knocked the first one back ‘For the ones who didn't make it’. This is an odd dream, but he's interested in whatever story his subconscious is about to come up with.
His companion sighs. "One of my best friends. After I got out, I went back home. Charming, California-it’s redwood country, God’s backyard."
That jogs loose a memory. The guy is Piney-it's short for something Bobby doesn't remember, but his mental Rolodex has cross-referenced pines and redwoods.
"You remember John Teller?"
"You two were from the same town, right? He offed you?"
Piney shakes his head. "John died twenty years back, but I just found out the truth about who and why a few weeks ago."
He goes on to tell a story of love and treachery and the ultimate betrayal by a man who'd been like a brother to them. "Clay shot me in cold blood," Piney concludes, "and he'll go after Tara next, because she has John Teller's letters, and they reveal how Clay and John's wife, Gemma were plotting against him."
During the telling of this tale, the Heroes’ Rest has faded away, and Bobby becomes aware that he's sitting up in bed in Rufus's cabin and that Piney's ghost is sitting on the chair he'd shed yesterday's clothes on.
That changes things. Bobby's spent enough time as a hunter that he knows this is a for-real ghostly visit, and that Piney won't rest peaceful unless something is done. Especially since that woman Tara is still out there, still at risk.
"I'm glad you came to me," Bobby says, and means it. "We had each other's backs in-country, that counts for something. I'm not about to let that murdering SOB get away with it."
"Hey, don't go getting yourself killed on my account, Singer!" Piney protests. "You don't want to mess with Clay Morrow-or SAMCRO."
Bobby chuckles. "Piney, if I told you some of the things I've tangled with over the years, you'd never believe me. And I'm still here."
Piney shakes his head. "All by yourself? That's crazy."
"I didn't say by myself. I've got some back-up I can call. Now, tell me more about this Clay Morrow...."
0=0=0=0=0=0=0=0=0
The Harley roars down the deserted road. It’s well past midnight, and Clay is pushing the bike for all it’s worth, furious that he still doesn’t have John Teller’s letters. (His regret for Piney’s murder is a distant second to his regret at not having gotten that damning evidence.) His hands are throbbing, which redlines his vile mood a notch higher.
Then, as he rounds a bend, coming up on the junction of Charming Woods Road and Forest Parkway, he swerves to avoid the asshole standing in the middle of the road. Slowing the bike, Clay turns around and heads back. No clue who this shithead is, but he picked the wrong night and the wrong way to flag him down.
The guy is still standing there, and Clay’s lip curls as he gets a closer look. He’s probably a decade younger than Clay himself, dark hair, a well-groomed beard, wearing a tailored dark suit. There’s sure to be a broken-down Beemer around here somewhere, or some other fancy-pants luxury car. He’s probably one of Hale’s cronies, and that alone is good for a beating.
He aims the bike directly at the yuppie, who remains motionless. He zooms into the guy, who doesn’t flinch, it might be a deer-in-the-headlights thing-and plows right through him. Okay, that’s fucking weird.
It’s not like the man is transparent, or anything like that. He just wasn’t solid. He circles back a second time, and halts the bike maybe a yard away from the figure in the suit.
“If you’re through showing off your machismo, Mr. Morrow, I’d like to discuss some business with you.”
The guy knows his name. Clay doesn’t believe in ghosts, at least not the supernatural kind, but what else would account for him being able to ride right through the guy?
“What kind of business?” he asks cautiously.
“The usual sort. Something you want for something I want.”
The man’s accent is…British? Clay’s brain makes a connection. The Brits and the Irish hate each other; this mook probably wants him to sell out SAMBEL. Ain’t gonna happen.
“Oh yeah? And what do you think you’ve got that I want?”
The dark-haired man smiles and gives a little wave of his hand. “How do you fancy that?”
What? Clay feels a burst of well-being flood him. Suddenly, he feels more alert and energetic than he has in years, and…nothing hurts. His joints don’t ache, his back isn’t sore, and for the first time in more than a decade, his hands aren’t throbbing.
He uncurls his fingers from the handlebars and flexes them, incredulous.
No pain.
He’s dreaming, Clay thinks, bemused. Or maybe somebody slipped a few magic mushrooms onto his pizza and he’s tripping-but everything else feels real enough: The night air is cool, almost enough for him to see his breath. Between his legs, the bike’s engine rumbles and he can feel the heat through his jeans.
Nothing hurts. For a moment, he forgets about the guy in the suit, forgets about the murder he’s done, forgets about everything except how amazing it feels not to be in pain. He’s lived with chronic pain for so long that he’d forgotten how good-
The agony roars back over him.
“That’s what I have that you might want. The question is, will you meet my price?”
Clay wants to snarl that he’s no traitor, that he’ll take whatever he wants, but it feels like there’s ground glass in all of his knuckles. His fingers barely twitch at his command, let alone flex freely.
“What’s your price?” he asks from between clenched teeth.
“The continued life and health of Doctor Tara Knowles. You’ll leave her alone, and as long as she remains alive and well, you’ll be pain-free.”
How the hell does this mook-? Clay’s back to the “I must be dreaming” theory, but if that’s the case, what harm will it do? It’s not like he’s being asked to sell out SAMCRO or SAMBEL, he’ll figure out a way to shut Tara up, get John’s letters back….
“Okay, so I leave Tara alone, and I don’t hurt anymore? Fine with me. Do your thing.”
“Not so fast, Mr. Morrow. A few details. First, I will know if anything happens to Tara, and if you’re responsible for any harm coming to her, no matter how indirectly, all bets are off. Secondly, this isn’t a permanent arrangement. You’ll have ten years, and then-“ he pauses, purses his lips for a moment. “The pain will be worse. Much worse.”
“Sign me up,” Clay says. Ten years without pain? He’ll be an old man by then, he’ll be ready to step down and take it easy, but not yet. He’s got plans….
He gasps with pleasure as the blissful feeling of non-hurting normalcy returns. “Oh, yeah,” he sighs.
“One final thing: You need to kiss me.”
“Bullshit!” Pain explodes, it’s like his hands have been slammed into a wood-chipper. “Okay, okay! I’ll do it!”
And he does.
0=0=0=0=0=0=0=0=0
Bobby’s phone rings, and he interrupts a wild tale of combating the Seven Deadly Sins to answer it. Piney’s been listening patiently, if skeptically to Bobby’s hunting stories, and occasionally contributing exploits of his own. Too bad he didn’t know Bobby was in South Dakota all those years, he could’ve dropped by once in a while on the way to Sturgis, stayed in touch.
“Well, your friend Clay’s been taken care of,” Bobby says, putting down the phone. “Crowley just made a deal with him. Hands off Tara, and Clay’s hands don’t hurt.”
Piney shakes his head. “That’s better than he deserves. Clay murdered John, murdered me, and he’s leading the Sons down a bad road.”
“Yeah, but this way, his soul for-sure winds up in hell, and from what I hear, that makes a tour in ‘Nam look like an afternoon at the movies. Best I can do.”
“Hey, I appreciate it. It’s more than I expected.” Piney wheezes gently for a moment. “I didn’t think anybody could do anything about Clay.”
“Like the song says, ‘I’ve got friends in low places’.”
“Take care of yourself, Bobby.” He seems to be listening to something only he can hear. “It’s time for me to go.”
“It was good to see you. Give my regards to the ones who didn’t make it. Tell ‘em I’ll be along soon enough.”
Piney nods. His figure brightens, grows youthful again with a flicker of light, and then he fades away.
There’s a suggestion of dawn outside the cabin window. There’s not much point trying to go back to sleep; Bobby drags himself out of bed and puts on a pot of coffee.
He hasn’t had much rest tonight (he doesn’t think calling Crowley was particularly heroic), but Bobby’s spent most of his life fighting dark forces and protecting innocent people. He’s done his duty and then some. He’s one of the good guys.
Time enough for rest when he’s dead.
The end.
.
Heroes Rest
Bobby Singer is having the damnedest dream. He's having a beer with a fellow he last saw in 1969. They’re sitting in a run-down bar called the Heroes’ Rest-it was right off the base where they’d done basic training.
Back in the day, this guy was a real ladies' man. He was tall and golden blond with a deep, rumbling voice that used to peel the panties off any gal he wanted. Now, he's an old man-of course, so's Bobby, and he hopes that this is just a dream, because he really doesn't want to revisit the Mekong Delta. Even the Apocalypse didn't look so bad after that hellhole.
"So how've you been?" Bobby asks. It's been forty-odd years, he can't for the life of him think of the guy's name.
"Can't complain, doesn't help," rasps his former comrade.
He's gone grey, which isn't surprising. He's thickened through the middle-again, not unusual after a few decades. What disturbs Bobby is the breathing tube running from the canister of air cradled in his lap.
"You don't look so good," Bobby says. "Anything I can do to help?"
"The son of a bitch shot me." For the first time, Bobby notices the bullet-hole centered on his chest. Long experience says it came from a shotgun. He blinks. At first, he’d thought they were both wearing fatigues, but now his old friend has on jeans and a bloody flannel shirt under a black leather vest.
"Can we get a bottle of tequila, sweetheart?" the other man asks the passing waitress. His voice wheezes. He's not the Romeo of years gone by, but the young woman brings the bottle and two glasses. She doesn't ask for money, doesn’t mention the bullet hole, and Bobby remembers, this is a dream.
"So, who shot you and why?" Bobby asks after they've knocked the first one back ‘For the ones who didn't make it’. This is an odd dream, but he's interested in whatever story his subconscious is about to come up with.
His companion sighs. "One of my best friends. After I got out, I went back home. Charming, California-it’s redwood country, God’s backyard."
That jogs loose a memory. The guy is Piney-it's short for something Bobby doesn't remember, but his mental Rolodex has cross-referenced pines and redwoods.
"You remember John Teller?"
"You two were from the same town, right? He offed you?"
Piney shakes his head. "John died twenty years back, but I just found out the truth about who and why a few weeks ago."
He goes on to tell a story of love and treachery and the ultimate betrayal by a man who'd been like a brother to them. "Clay shot me in cold blood," Piney concludes, "and he'll go after Tara next, because she has John Teller's letters, and they reveal how Clay and John's wife, Gemma were plotting against him."
During the telling of this tale, the Heroes’ Rest has faded away, and Bobby becomes aware that he's sitting up in bed in Rufus's cabin and that Piney's ghost is sitting on the chair he'd shed yesterday's clothes on.
That changes things. Bobby's spent enough time as a hunter that he knows this is a for-real ghostly visit, and that Piney won't rest peaceful unless something is done. Especially since that woman Tara is still out there, still at risk.
"I'm glad you came to me," Bobby says, and means it. "We had each other's backs in-country, that counts for something. I'm not about to let that murdering SOB get away with it."
"Hey, don't go getting yourself killed on my account, Singer!" Piney protests. "You don't want to mess with Clay Morrow-or SAMCRO."
Bobby chuckles. "Piney, if I told you some of the things I've tangled with over the years, you'd never believe me. And I'm still here."
Piney shakes his head. "All by yourself? That's crazy."
"I didn't say by myself. I've got some back-up I can call. Now, tell me more about this Clay Morrow...."
0=0=0=0=0=0=0=0=0
The Harley roars down the deserted road. It’s well past midnight, and Clay is pushing the bike for all it’s worth, furious that he still doesn’t have John Teller’s letters. (His regret for Piney’s murder is a distant second to his regret at not having gotten that damning evidence.) His hands are throbbing, which redlines his vile mood a notch higher.
Then, as he rounds a bend, coming up on the junction of Charming Woods Road and Forest Parkway, he swerves to avoid the asshole standing in the middle of the road. Slowing the bike, Clay turns around and heads back. No clue who this shithead is, but he picked the wrong night and the wrong way to flag him down.
The guy is still standing there, and Clay’s lip curls as he gets a closer look. He’s probably a decade younger than Clay himself, dark hair, a well-groomed beard, wearing a tailored dark suit. There’s sure to be a broken-down Beemer around here somewhere, or some other fancy-pants luxury car. He’s probably one of Hale’s cronies, and that alone is good for a beating.
He aims the bike directly at the yuppie, who remains motionless. He zooms into the guy, who doesn’t flinch, it might be a deer-in-the-headlights thing-and plows right through him. Okay, that’s fucking weird.
It’s not like the man is transparent, or anything like that. He just wasn’t solid. He circles back a second time, and halts the bike maybe a yard away from the figure in the suit.
“If you’re through showing off your machismo, Mr. Morrow, I’d like to discuss some business with you.”
The guy knows his name. Clay doesn’t believe in ghosts, at least not the supernatural kind, but what else would account for him being able to ride right through the guy?
“What kind of business?” he asks cautiously.
“The usual sort. Something you want for something I want.”
The man’s accent is…British? Clay’s brain makes a connection. The Brits and the Irish hate each other; this mook probably wants him to sell out SAMBEL. Ain’t gonna happen.
“Oh yeah? And what do you think you’ve got that I want?”
The dark-haired man smiles and gives a little wave of his hand. “How do you fancy that?”
What? Clay feels a burst of well-being flood him. Suddenly, he feels more alert and energetic than he has in years, and…nothing hurts. His joints don’t ache, his back isn’t sore, and for the first time in more than a decade, his hands aren’t throbbing.
He uncurls his fingers from the handlebars and flexes them, incredulous.
No pain.
He’s dreaming, Clay thinks, bemused. Or maybe somebody slipped a few magic mushrooms onto his pizza and he’s tripping-but everything else feels real enough: The night air is cool, almost enough for him to see his breath. Between his legs, the bike’s engine rumbles and he can feel the heat through his jeans.
Nothing hurts. For a moment, he forgets about the guy in the suit, forgets about the murder he’s done, forgets about everything except how amazing it feels not to be in pain. He’s lived with chronic pain for so long that he’d forgotten how good-
The agony roars back over him.
“That’s what I have that you might want. The question is, will you meet my price?”
Clay wants to snarl that he’s no traitor, that he’ll take whatever he wants, but it feels like there’s ground glass in all of his knuckles. His fingers barely twitch at his command, let alone flex freely.
“What’s your price?” he asks from between clenched teeth.
“The continued life and health of Doctor Tara Knowles. You’ll leave her alone, and as long as she remains alive and well, you’ll be pain-free.”
How the hell does this mook-? Clay’s back to the “I must be dreaming” theory, but if that’s the case, what harm will it do? It’s not like he’s being asked to sell out SAMCRO or SAMBEL, he’ll figure out a way to shut Tara up, get John’s letters back….
“Okay, so I leave Tara alone, and I don’t hurt anymore? Fine with me. Do your thing.”
“Not so fast, Mr. Morrow. A few details. First, I will know if anything happens to Tara, and if you’re responsible for any harm coming to her, no matter how indirectly, all bets are off. Secondly, this isn’t a permanent arrangement. You’ll have ten years, and then-“ he pauses, purses his lips for a moment. “The pain will be worse. Much worse.”
“Sign me up,” Clay says. Ten years without pain? He’ll be an old man by then, he’ll be ready to step down and take it easy, but not yet. He’s got plans….
He gasps with pleasure as the blissful feeling of non-hurting normalcy returns. “Oh, yeah,” he sighs.
“One final thing: You need to kiss me.”
“Bullshit!” Pain explodes, it’s like his hands have been slammed into a wood-chipper. “Okay, okay! I’ll do it!”
And he does.
0=0=0=0=0=0=0=0=0
Bobby’s phone rings, and he interrupts a wild tale of combating the Seven Deadly Sins to answer it. Piney’s been listening patiently, if skeptically to Bobby’s hunting stories, and occasionally contributing exploits of his own. Too bad he didn’t know Bobby was in South Dakota all those years, he could’ve dropped by once in a while on the way to Sturgis, stayed in touch.
“Well, your friend Clay’s been taken care of,” Bobby says, putting down the phone. “Crowley just made a deal with him. Hands off Tara, and Clay’s hands don’t hurt.”
Piney shakes his head. “That’s better than he deserves. Clay murdered John, murdered me, and he’s leading the Sons down a bad road.”
“Yeah, but this way, his soul for-sure winds up in hell, and from what I hear, that makes a tour in ‘Nam look like an afternoon at the movies. Best I can do.”
“Hey, I appreciate it. It’s more than I expected.” Piney wheezes gently for a moment. “I didn’t think anybody could do anything about Clay.”
“Like the song says, ‘I’ve got friends in low places’.”
“Take care of yourself, Bobby.” He seems to be listening to something only he can hear. “It’s time for me to go.”
“It was good to see you. Give my regards to the ones who didn’t make it. Tell ‘em I’ll be along soon enough.”
Piney nods. His figure brightens, grows youthful again with a flicker of light, and then he fades away.
There’s a suggestion of dawn outside the cabin window. There’s not much point trying to go back to sleep; Bobby drags himself out of bed and puts on a pot of coffee.
He hasn’t had much rest tonight (he doesn’t think calling Crowley was particularly heroic), but Bobby’s spent most of his life fighting dark forces and protecting innocent people. He’s done his duty and then some. He’s one of the good guys.
Time enough for rest when he’s dead.
The end.
.