[Timed to October 14, just after this.]He'd spent a damned long time at that pool table, knockin' balls around like it would give him some sort of comfort, some piece of mind
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Ellen had been in the kitchen when she saw John head for the door, slamming it open and heading for the hills. Shit. No way this ended well. She headed off after him, only a few steps behind. He followed the path for some time, but before she knew it, he was out in the brush, striking through the jungle, almost purposefully heading for the deepest part of the underbrush. She kept up with him as best she could, hiking in his steps and trying to avoid too many sharp branches
( ... )
Though John had been caught up in his own thoughts, replaying that conversation with Sam and Veronica over and over in his mind, he had been aware that someone was following him. A hunter and an ex-Marine, there was no way in hell much of anything got past him. He hadn't thought enough to turn around and call the person off. If whoever it was wanted to follow him through the damned jungle to talk to him, he was going to lead them through some thick stuff, which was exactly what he had ended up doing.
The only people crazy enough to follow him were his boys and Ellen, and so John wasn't surprised at all to see Ellen Harvelle standing in front of him, looking for all the world like she'd just bested a bobcat.
"Go home, Ellen," John said wearily, not moving his cheek from its perch. "You look like shit."
She cocked an annoyed eyebrow at him. "Yeah, but I've been tracking your sorry ass through the jungle. I have an excuse." She shook her head. Typical Winchester. She was pretty sick of this shit. At least back home they'd come and go with their vague family drama, and she'd shake her head as she watched them head out of the Roadhouse, but here? Sometimes she felt like the only voice of reason in a band of escaped inpatients.
She took a couple steps forward, winced, and bent backwards, stretching her back. "Listen, Winchester," She winced again, half-gasping. Damn near musta pulled something hiking up the mountain. "I just hiked up a mountain after your Marine Corps-trained ass." She paused, furrowing her brow. "No way am I getting sent home like some kid because you're feeling moody." She nearly spat the last word, trying to get something real out of him for once. Something honest. She caught his eye, not backing down. "Spill it."
"Nobody asked you to track my 'sorry ass', now did they?" John challenged, lifting and jutting his chin out at her. His hand fell to his thigh, skin slapping against denim. Typical Harvelle. Stubborn as a damned mule, followed a body to hell and back without a second thought.
"I'm not feeling moody," he insisted, looking up into her flushed, tired face. "And I'm sure as hell not drunk enough to spill, so do us both a favor and quit while you're ahead."
She slid her hands to her hips and cocked an eyebrow at him. He was pissing her off. Typical. Stubborn versus stubborn. She remembered some of the arguments that John and Bill had... near steamed the wallpaper right off the walls, the stubborn pricks.
"John, if the people who loved you did only what they were asked or told, you would have been dead and alone years ago." Reminded her of those boys. His little soldiers. She narrowed her eyes. "Y'can't yell at us for doing something for you-- it's part of what you do when you care about someone." She paused, almost sighing. "You look like you could use someone to talk to, or yell at, even if I didn't bring the whiskey." She looked up at the structure he was sitting in front of. "Something tells me that getting drunk in a church is pushing God's tolerance, anyhow." Her eyes fell to him again, smiling softly. She raised both her eyebrows skeptically. "And slamming doors has never been a sign of someone with a good temper."
"God's been ignoring me for years, Ellen," John said tiredly. "Isn't gonna matter now."
Rolling his head from one side to the other, John frowned as he worked a crick in his neck out. His hand went to the nape of his neck, massaging slightly. Even if he worked the knot out, it wasn't going to erase the reasoning how it had gotten there in the first damned place.
Shit, if he didn't at least give Ellen a nibble as to what was goin' on, she was gonna make that knot a hell of a lot bigger than it already was.
"Sam's been lying to me, ever since I set foot on this island," he said tiredly. A beat, and then he cocked his head toward her, meeting her eyes. "Happy now?"
She bit back a snide remark about God; he wasn't a big part of their business, never really was. You'd think-- with the holy water, and sacred ground, and sending demons back to Hell, that they'd somehow come 'round to it, but... Somehow, in their line of work, y'didn't find a ton of religious folk. Most folks had more of a deep, well-earned respect for it, that nearly went to reverence, but true faith somehow got stuck somewhere in between sending up a prayer for another close one, and that bottle of whiskey at the bar.
She watched him work at his neck, the tension radiating from him. Needs a vacation. Island or not, John was holding on tooth and nail. She stared him down, not any tougher, but holding her ground. He looked like shit. And then--
He looked so tired, so worn down. He finished speaking and caught her eye, and she couldn't help her hands slipping from her hips, the sad look in her eyes. "Shit." Her eyes scanned the ground in front of her and a hand went to her lips, rubbing her mouth as she ran through the options.
( ... )
"Life," John said shortly. Huffing, he pushed himself to a standing position. His bones groaned in protest and John didn't blame them one bit; he'd trudged a damn coupla miles from the compound, he figured. The military had whipped him into shape and hunting had allowed him to stay in it. It wasn't like he was out of shape. He was just gettin' old. Matter of life, nothin' he could do about it. Not like he was even supposed to be alive again anyway.
"He's got someone here," John said to the wind, Ellen somewhere behind him. "And as much as I wanna be happy for the kid, I can't be. Hunting and having someone don't exactly work out. Not like I gotta tell you that."
Ellen nodded to his back. She took a slow breath, her jaw jutting out as he was talking. Bill. You arrogant sonuvabitch, you have the goddamn balls to bring Bill into-- "Veronica. You met Veronica." She played with lint in her pocket, quiet. Her senses were tingling, aware that John wasn't in a mood to deal with much of anything, let alone some of her sass. She took a slow breath in, letting it out through her nose. She chuckled under her breath for halfa second. It really wasn't funny, to be honest. "You don't have to tell me anything, John." Let alone some bullshit about it better to be alone in this life, than with the person you love. She shook her head. "And it works out just goddamn fine." She pulled her hands from her pockets and folded them across her chest, almost prepared for a blowout.
Sure, it worked out 'just goddamned fine'. That was why John Winchester was wearing a wedding ring as a symbol of commitment to a dead woman, why he was a goddamned widower and had to raise his boys without a mother and without a clue. That was why Sam had lost one girlfriend, why Dean and Sam had to grow up on the road, in cheap motels, and dumped off at friends of friends along the damned interstate.
"Sure it does," he said scathingly, hands clenching into fists. "It's like a goddamned American dream."
Turning around slowly, eyes flashing dangerously, he met Ellen's eyes. Hard.
"I'm not talkin' about this with you. This is between me and Sam."
Christ. The man was on a roll. On a fuckin' crusade. She narrowed her eyes at him. "John Winchester, don't you dare talk to me about the American Dream. We both know how hard this life is on the people we love, but that doesn't mean we don't get to love them." She had heard him saying it was between him and Sam, but all of a sudden, she couldn't stop herself, and it was between him and her. She took a step forward, jabbing her finger at him. "I cherish every goddamned second I had with Bill." She willed her voice not to waver, not to shake. "I knew he was a hunter. I knew what kind of life I was signing myself up for." Her eyes were hard, fierce. "Love was part of that life. And it's worth every. Last. Second."
She shook her head. "You can't tell him not to want that." She took a half a step backwards, deflated, almost hurt. "You can't, John." The fire was gone from her eyes, and she just tried not to think about Bill. Because sometimes, it did hurt too much.
On the most basic of levels, John understood where Ellen was coming from. He really did. But Ellen's situation and the Winchesters' had been different. They hadn't chosen the life willingly. It had been thrust upon them, thrust upon John...and the boys by proxy. They hadn't ever gotten to have a 'normal' family life, which is something Ellen had experienced more than they ever had, even though a hunter's life was far from normal
( ... )
Oh, John. It was moments like this that she just ached to go back and change it all, to give them a white picket fence life, a life with Mary and little league, a life in which she knew she would never have met them. Worth it, hands down. She shook her head as his shoulders deflated, the fight and overconfidence slipping out of him. Now she knew what was driving him so crazy-- a conversation with Sam about Veronica, one where John told his own son that he shouldn't want to be in love? Explains a lot.
She let out a breath, her shoulders sliding down. She licked her lips before pressing them together, cocking her head to look at him. She stepped forward, stopping when she was behind the rock he was slumped on. She reached forward, almost tentative, and let her hands fall to his shoulders, rubbing the sore muscle.
"Not your fault, John. None of it is." She worked at the muscle, the tension so close to the surface. There were knots over knots of muscle. Man needs to relax. Take a goddamn vacation.
He hadn't let anyone touch him like that in a damned long time. Didn't like it, generally. But with Ellen, it was just part of who she was and he wasn't going to begrudge her it. The woman had a need to take care of everyone, no matter if she tended to be a hardass and lash many a deadbeat with her sarcasm and pointed looks.
As her hands worked at the tension in his shoulders, John exhaled slowly. In spite of it all, his eyes began to slowly shutter as tension began to trickle away.
It didn't matter how many times Ellen or anyone else told John it wasn't his fault; most days it felt like it. Today was no exception.
She smiled, working at his shoulders. She kneaded the muscle slowly with her knuckles, working toward his neck. She let out a slow breath, her eyes focused somewhere around John's left ear. She kneaded her hands into his back and watched as he slowly let out a breath. She smiled again, broader. Let it out, you big lump. She leaned into her hands, trying to work out the tension.
She licked her lips nervously, not quite sure what to say, if anything. He was pulling a pretty traditional Winchester-- taking the weight of the world on his shoulders. She just wished she could take a little of the load. Her thumbs rubbed down his neck along his spine, working down along his shoulder blades. She sighed softly, letting herself relax as she worked his muscles.
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The only people crazy enough to follow him were his boys and Ellen, and so John wasn't surprised at all to see Ellen Harvelle standing in front of him, looking for all the world like she'd just bested a bobcat.
"Go home, Ellen," John said wearily, not moving his cheek from its perch. "You look like shit."
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She took a couple steps forward, winced, and bent backwards, stretching her back. "Listen, Winchester," She winced again, half-gasping. Damn near musta pulled something hiking up the mountain. "I just hiked up a mountain after your Marine Corps-trained ass." She paused, furrowing her brow. "No way am I getting sent home like some kid because you're feeling moody." She nearly spat the last word, trying to get something real out of him for once. Something honest. She caught his eye, not backing down. "Spill it."
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"I'm not feeling moody," he insisted, looking up into her flushed, tired face. "And I'm sure as hell not drunk enough to spill, so do us both a favor and quit while you're ahead."
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"John, if the people who loved you did only what they were asked or told, you would have been dead and alone years ago." Reminded her of those boys. His little soldiers. She narrowed her eyes. "Y'can't yell at us for doing something for you-- it's part of what you do when you care about someone." She paused, almost sighing. "You look like you could use someone to talk to, or yell at, even if I didn't bring the whiskey." She looked up at the structure he was sitting in front of. "Something tells me that getting drunk in a church is pushing God's tolerance, anyhow." Her eyes fell to him again, smiling softly. She raised both her eyebrows skeptically. "And slamming doors has never been a sign of someone with a good temper."
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Rolling his head from one side to the other, John frowned as he worked a crick in his neck out. His hand went to the nape of his neck, massaging slightly. Even if he worked the knot out, it wasn't going to erase the reasoning how it had gotten there in the first damned place.
Shit, if he didn't at least give Ellen a nibble as to what was goin' on, she was gonna make that knot a hell of a lot bigger than it already was.
"Sam's been lying to me, ever since I set foot on this island," he said tiredly. A beat, and then he cocked his head toward her, meeting her eyes. "Happy now?"
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She watched him work at his neck, the tension radiating from him. Needs a vacation. Island or not, John was holding on tooth and nail. She stared him down, not any tougher, but holding her ground. He looked like shit. And then--
He looked so tired, so worn down. He finished speaking and caught her eye, and she couldn't help her hands slipping from her hips, the sad look in her eyes. "Shit." Her eyes scanned the ground in front of her and a hand went to her lips, rubbing her mouth as she ran through the options. ( ... )
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"He's got someone here," John said to the wind, Ellen somewhere behind him. "And as much as I wanna be happy for the kid, I can't be. Hunting and having someone don't exactly work out. Not like I gotta tell you that."
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"Sure it does," he said scathingly, hands clenching into fists. "It's like a goddamned American dream."
Turning around slowly, eyes flashing dangerously, he met Ellen's eyes. Hard.
"I'm not talkin' about this with you. This is between me and Sam."
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She shook her head. "You can't tell him not to want that." She took a half a step backwards, deflated, almost hurt. "You can't, John." The fire was gone from her eyes, and she just tried not to think about Bill. Because sometimes, it did hurt too much.
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She let out a breath, her shoulders sliding down. She licked her lips before pressing them together, cocking her head to look at him. She stepped forward, stopping when she was behind the rock he was slumped on. She reached forward, almost tentative, and let her hands fall to his shoulders, rubbing the sore muscle.
"Not your fault, John. None of it is." She worked at the muscle, the tension so close to the surface. There were knots over knots of muscle. Man needs to relax. Take a goddamn vacation.
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As her hands worked at the tension in his shoulders, John exhaled slowly. In spite of it all, his eyes began to slowly shutter as tension began to trickle away.
It didn't matter how many times Ellen or anyone else told John it wasn't his fault; most days it felt like it. Today was no exception.
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She licked her lips nervously, not quite sure what to say, if anything. He was pulling a pretty traditional Winchester-- taking the weight of the world on his shoulders. She just wished she could take a little of the load. Her thumbs rubbed down his neck along his spine, working down along his shoulder blades. She sighed softly, letting herself relax as she worked his muscles.
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