SPN Fic: The Guard
Late birthday present for counteragent, who is wise and funny and sweet and deserves epic amounts of fic written for her. <3
The Guard
Jo, Ellen, OFC, PG, 1,200 words
a/n: Written for halfamoon and belatedly for counteragent's birthday. Also for my spn_30snapshots table, prompt #4.
Summary: Jo and Ellen get an assist.
The air inside the train car went chill with the speed of a breath, making Jo remember winters at home, when the roadhouse door would open and let in a rush of cold before warmth settled around them all again. Used to be home, at least. Jo thought about it that way still, easy and automatic, even though she caught herself every time, knowing it wasn't any more.
Jo raised her shotgun while the hairs went up along her arm, under her flannel shirt, and behind her, she heard her mom make a noise like she was trying not to. Turning, Jo saw her with her shotgun aimed, breath rising in clouds. Her hand might've shook, but Jo wasn't sure. The light was dim in the rusted-out car, even if it was bright day outside, because the windows were so smeared with dust and grime.
"Jo," Mom said, and it was a signal between them, telling her to be ready, and then a warning.
A force smacked Jo in the chest, throwing her against the wall. She kept her grip tight on the gun, got off a shot but there was nothing to shoot at and the spray of rocksalt pattered into the opposite wall and the torn-up passenger seats. Jo heard a thud next to her and her mother grunted with pain.
They were both pinned. Jo felt the cold metal of the train car wall against her back. Stupid, to underestimate the ghost, but they had, even though Jo had spent days researching, handling paper so musty it made her sneeze. Stupid, stupid.
"Sonofabitch," her mother gritted out, as the air grew colder and frost started to crawl over the smudged windows.
It was growing difficult to breath, cold tightening around her chest. Jo dropped her shotgun. She heard her mother saying her name, thought that she should've done better, she should've known how strong the spirit would be if it was this old, she should've --
A voice shouted in Latin, and then the spirit materialized, its expression startled before there was a shotgun blast and it dispersed.
Jo and her mother slumped forward away from the wall, landing on their hands and knees. Gasping for breath, Jo grabbed her shotgun and jerked her head to get the hair out of her eyes, putting the gun to her shoulder as she got to her feet.
"Jesus, amateurs," the stranger said, a woman. She stared down the barrel of Jo's shotgun like it was a water pistol. "You want to stop pointing that thing at me?"
"Amateurs!" Jo felt a hot punch of resentment go through her, keeping her gun aimed.
Her mother was on her feet now. "You okay, Jo?" She asked.
"I'm fine. You all right?" Jo said, without looking away from the woman.
"Fine," said her mother, before she gently put her fingers on the barrel of Jo's shotgun and made her lower it.
The woman was about Jo's height, and looked like she was almost her mother's age, curvy, with long dark hair back in a braid, dark eyes, dressed in an army jacket and jeans. "We'd better go, now, before he comes back all pissed off."
She turned to the train car door, then climbed down into the sunlight.
Jo looked at her mother as they lowered their guns.
"Guess we should follow her, huh?" said Jo.
"Guess so."
Outside, they found the woman walking fast along the abandoned tracks, shotgun held down at her side.
"Hey," Jo called.
"Not until we're away," the woman shouted.
They followed her into the woods, back towards where they'd parked the truck.
"Okay," the woman said, setting her shotgun down on the hood of her car, a battered red Ford. She folded her arms. "Now, you can talk. Mind telling me what you two are doing in my town, messing with old Henry Barnes' ghost?" "
"Thank you for the help. I'm Ellen." Mom put out her hand, and the woman shook it. "And this is my daughter Jo."
"Call me Nicole," the woman said. Her hand was calloused and dry and warm when she shook Jo's hand. "Not Nikki, just Nicole."
"We heard rumors about the hauntings here," Jo said, "and decided to come take care of it." Despite her irritation, Jo couldn't help studying this woman, the thin white scar on her lower arm, just showing beneath the simple colored string bracelets she wore, blue and white and brown. Jo had seen more men who wore scars like that, who had that much ease with a shotgun, than women. "What did you mean, your town?"
Nicole eased herself up onto the car so she could sit. "I mean, this is where I live, I look after it, and I'm not used to strangers wandering through, getting our ghosts all worked up. Used to get the occasional hunter, ten years or so back, but most of them know now not to bother."
The ghost of Henry Barnes wasn't the only spirit they'd been researching.
"I'm sorry, I don't understand," Mom said, with the kind of smile Jo had seen her use again and again on difficult customers -- the smile that was gracious, with an edge.
"I've lived here my whole life, and I keep the people safe. I know which ghosts will just let things be if you let them be, and which go out of their way to hurt people, and plus you think I haven't already tried to send Henry Barnes to his final rest? No one knows where his remains are. He behaves himself unless you go running in with rock salt and shotguns. I deal with the big stuff, mostly, we get the usual passing through, shapeshifters, wraiths, sirens..." Nicole shrugged. "Beheaded a vamp last week."
"So you just...stay here?" Jo knew the concept of a base to return to in between hunts, and she knew about hunters that had no permanent address, for most of their lives. "You don't travel around?"
"No. It's my job to look after this place," Nicole said. "I know, hunters are supposed to have itchy feet, they travel the country looking for trouble. But while they're wandering around, who's looking after home? Huh?" Then she smiled, and it made her look younger and warmer, someone who might swap stories with them over a beer instead of chasing them off with a shotgun. "This is home. I like it here."
"Hey, you want to let us buy you a drink back in town?" Jo's mother asked, and Jo could sense her softening. Mom had always looked after home while Dad was off hunting, and had done it with a shotgun and silver knife and rock salt if she had to.
Nicole tucked a piece of stray dark hair behind her ear and pursed her lips a moment, considering. She slid off her car, grabbed up her shotgun and went around to the trunk to put it away. "Sure," she said. "That'd be nice. The thing is," she said, slamming the trunk shut again, "after that, I'll want you to be on your way."
"But maybe we could help..." Jo began.
"Jo." Nicole held up her hand. "Don't need it, or want it. A little tip? A really good way to get yourself killed is to spend a lot of time working with other hunters."
There was a long silence before Mom said, "That's cynical of you."
"No, it's common sense. Working with others makes you sloppy, and makes you vulnerable."
Jo saw her mother catch her lower lip between her teeth. Then she let out a breath. "Well, it sounds lonely, so we'll buy you that drink first at least, before we get out of your hair. All right?"
"Sounds fair," said Nicole, and nodded towards Jo. "And this one here, maybe I should give her some pointers."
"I do okay," Jo said, feeling heat rising to her face.
"You can always learn more. Unless you think okay is good enough?" Nicole's eyebrows went up as she fixed Jo with a stare.
"No."
"Well, then. Let's go get some beer."
~end
The Guard
Jo, Ellen, OFC, PG, 1,200 words
a/n: Written for halfamoon and belatedly for counteragent's birthday. Also for my spn_30snapshots table, prompt #4.
Summary: Jo and Ellen get an assist.
The air inside the train car went chill with the speed of a breath, making Jo remember winters at home, when the roadhouse door would open and let in a rush of cold before warmth settled around them all again. Used to be home, at least. Jo thought about it that way still, easy and automatic, even though she caught herself every time, knowing it wasn't any more.
Jo raised her shotgun while the hairs went up along her arm, under her flannel shirt, and behind her, she heard her mom make a noise like she was trying not to. Turning, Jo saw her with her shotgun aimed, breath rising in clouds. Her hand might've shook, but Jo wasn't sure. The light was dim in the rusted-out car, even if it was bright day outside, because the windows were so smeared with dust and grime.
"Jo," Mom said, and it was a signal between them, telling her to be ready, and then a warning.
A force smacked Jo in the chest, throwing her against the wall. She kept her grip tight on the gun, got off a shot but there was nothing to shoot at and the spray of rocksalt pattered into the opposite wall and the torn-up passenger seats. Jo heard a thud next to her and her mother grunted with pain.
They were both pinned. Jo felt the cold metal of the train car wall against her back. Stupid, to underestimate the ghost, but they had, even though Jo had spent days researching, handling paper so musty it made her sneeze. Stupid, stupid.
"Sonofabitch," her mother gritted out, as the air grew colder and frost started to crawl over the smudged windows.
It was growing difficult to breath, cold tightening around her chest. Jo dropped her shotgun. She heard her mother saying her name, thought that she should've done better, she should've known how strong the spirit would be if it was this old, she should've --
A voice shouted in Latin, and then the spirit materialized, its expression startled before there was a shotgun blast and it dispersed.
Jo and her mother slumped forward away from the wall, landing on their hands and knees. Gasping for breath, Jo grabbed her shotgun and jerked her head to get the hair out of her eyes, putting the gun to her shoulder as she got to her feet.
"Jesus, amateurs," the stranger said, a woman. She stared down the barrel of Jo's shotgun like it was a water pistol. "You want to stop pointing that thing at me?"
"Amateurs!" Jo felt a hot punch of resentment go through her, keeping her gun aimed.
Her mother was on her feet now. "You okay, Jo?" She asked.
"I'm fine. You all right?" Jo said, without looking away from the woman.
"Fine," said her mother, before she gently put her fingers on the barrel of Jo's shotgun and made her lower it.
The woman was about Jo's height, and looked like she was almost her mother's age, curvy, with long dark hair back in a braid, dark eyes, dressed in an army jacket and jeans. "We'd better go, now, before he comes back all pissed off."
She turned to the train car door, then climbed down into the sunlight.
Jo looked at her mother as they lowered their guns.
"Guess we should follow her, huh?" said Jo.
"Guess so."
Outside, they found the woman walking fast along the abandoned tracks, shotgun held down at her side.
"Hey," Jo called.
"Not until we're away," the woman shouted.
They followed her into the woods, back towards where they'd parked the truck.
"Okay," the woman said, setting her shotgun down on the hood of her car, a battered red Ford. She folded her arms. "Now, you can talk. Mind telling me what you two are doing in my town, messing with old Henry Barnes' ghost?" "
"Thank you for the help. I'm Ellen." Mom put out her hand, and the woman shook it. "And this is my daughter Jo."
"Call me Nicole," the woman said. Her hand was calloused and dry and warm when she shook Jo's hand. "Not Nikki, just Nicole."
"We heard rumors about the hauntings here," Jo said, "and decided to come take care of it." Despite her irritation, Jo couldn't help studying this woman, the thin white scar on her lower arm, just showing beneath the simple colored string bracelets she wore, blue and white and brown. Jo had seen more men who wore scars like that, who had that much ease with a shotgun, than women. "What did you mean, your town?"
Nicole eased herself up onto the car so she could sit. "I mean, this is where I live, I look after it, and I'm not used to strangers wandering through, getting our ghosts all worked up. Used to get the occasional hunter, ten years or so back, but most of them know now not to bother."
The ghost of Henry Barnes wasn't the only spirit they'd been researching.
"I'm sorry, I don't understand," Mom said, with the kind of smile Jo had seen her use again and again on difficult customers -- the smile that was gracious, with an edge.
"I've lived here my whole life, and I keep the people safe. I know which ghosts will just let things be if you let them be, and which go out of their way to hurt people, and plus you think I haven't already tried to send Henry Barnes to his final rest? No one knows where his remains are. He behaves himself unless you go running in with rock salt and shotguns. I deal with the big stuff, mostly, we get the usual passing through, shapeshifters, wraiths, sirens..." Nicole shrugged. "Beheaded a vamp last week."
"So you just...stay here?" Jo knew the concept of a base to return to in between hunts, and she knew about hunters that had no permanent address, for most of their lives. "You don't travel around?"
"No. It's my job to look after this place," Nicole said. "I know, hunters are supposed to have itchy feet, they travel the country looking for trouble. But while they're wandering around, who's looking after home? Huh?" Then she smiled, and it made her look younger and warmer, someone who might swap stories with them over a beer instead of chasing them off with a shotgun. "This is home. I like it here."
"Hey, you want to let us buy you a drink back in town?" Jo's mother asked, and Jo could sense her softening. Mom had always looked after home while Dad was off hunting, and had done it with a shotgun and silver knife and rock salt if she had to.
Nicole tucked a piece of stray dark hair behind her ear and pursed her lips a moment, considering. She slid off her car, grabbed up her shotgun and went around to the trunk to put it away. "Sure," she said. "That'd be nice. The thing is," she said, slamming the trunk shut again, "after that, I'll want you to be on your way."
"But maybe we could help..." Jo began.
"Jo." Nicole held up her hand. "Don't need it, or want it. A little tip? A really good way to get yourself killed is to spend a lot of time working with other hunters."
There was a long silence before Mom said, "That's cynical of you."
"No, it's common sense. Working with others makes you sloppy, and makes you vulnerable."
Jo saw her mother catch her lower lip between her teeth. Then she let out a breath. "Well, it sounds lonely, so we'll buy you that drink first at least, before we get out of your hair. All right?"
"Sounds fair," said Nicole, and nodded towards Jo. "And this one here, maybe I should give her some pointers."
"I do okay," Jo said, feeling heat rising to her face.
"You can always learn more. Unless you think okay is good enough?" Nicole's eyebrows went up as she fixed Jo with a stare.
"No."
"Well, then. Let's go get some beer."
~end