SPN FIC - Legend (Part Sixteen: Dean and Jo - a/k/a The Conclusion)
I'd heard whispered bits of the story since I was a kid. Just after Halloween, back in '83, the demon Azazel had crept into the nursery of a baby boy, intending to drip blood into the child's mouth and turn him into demon spawn. But Mary Campbell was waiting for him. She had a gun a stranger had brought to her family ten years before: a gun that could kill anything. She used it to kill Azazel that night. Saved her child. Then she disappeared.
Legends are told in bits and pieces, spread by word of mouth over the years. This is the story of Mary Campbell's family: the husband to whom she told the truth of who she was. The son who grieved the loss of her so deeply that he spent half his life on the road alone, searching for her. And the son who found success, and love, and peace ... until things went a little bit sideways.
Part One: Dean and Jo
Part Two: Dean, Sam, and Jessica
Part Three: John and Deacon
Part Four: Missouri and Pamela
Part Five: Sam and Dean
Part Six: John, Mary, Dean and Sam
Part Seven: Dean and Pamela
Part Eight: Deanna and Samuel
Part Nine: Sam and Missouri
Part Ten: John and Dean
Part Eleven: The Intruder
Part Twelve: Sam, Meg, and Samuel
Part Thirteen: Dean, the Hellhound, and Deanna
Part Fourteen: Deanna and Samuel
Part Fifteen: The Legend
CHARACTERS: Dean and Jo
GENRE: Gen (AU)
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 535 words
LEGEND
By Carol Davis
Sixteen: Dean and Jo
A year had gone by, the next time I saw that old black Chevy. There were wildflowers blooming alongside the road, black-eyed Susans and a lot of goldenrod, swaying in the wind and the dust as the Chevy came grumbling up the gravel toward the roadhouse.
I remembered a man who tasted of Jack and a bowl of chili. A man more covered with scars than anybody his age ought to be. A man who took his time, and who seemed to think more of me than he did of himself.
I met him outside, arms folded, trying hard not to smile as he climbed out of the car. It was coated with road grime, and so was he.
"Big crowd," he said.
There were just a couple of trucks in what we called a parking lot: mine, and one other.
"It's our off season," I told him.
He pushed the car door shut, just hard enough for the latch to connect, then stood with a hand laid on the edge of the roof. It'd leave a print when he took the hand away, I thought, but the car was so smudged and splattered, it wouldn't be all that noticeable.
"You been off-roading?" I asked.
He grinned at that, then snorted softly. "Not by choice."
"There's a hose out back."
"And a tub upstairs."
It was my turn to snort.
There'd been a lot of news drifting through the grapevine since the last time I saw Dean Winchester, most of it in the last few months. After almost thirty years of being nothing more than a myth, his mother had come back home. She'd murdered a demon, ate two meat loaf sandwiches, did some talking and some listening, then hit the road again.
This time, she took her husband with her.
She'd been seen a lot since then. They had.
You can turn your back on a rumor, most of the time. I hadn't paid much attention to anything I'd heard about Mary Campbell Winchester, my whole life - up until I met her son.
"I can scramble you up some eggs," I said. "If you're hungry."
He looked on past me for a minute, then shifted his weight and looked back the way he'd come. Some of the dust he'd raised was still hanging in the air.
"I heard," I said.
When he turned back to me, he was wearing an expression I couldn't quite figure out.
"Toast?" he said.
"White or wheat?"
He got up close to me faster than I expected.
Wrapped an arm around my waist, leaned in and kissed me. This time, he tasted of beer, and apple pie, and there was a looseness, an ease to him that was brand new.
"Told somebody once that that wasn't my life," he said quietly.
"Oh?"
"But this is."
He was asking a question. I'd had it asked of me before.
This time, I thought I might say yes.
Again, he looked back the way he'd come, at the clumps of black-eyed Susans drifting in the breeze, at the rutted gravel of the road, at the horizon.
"Lotta evil sons of bitches out there," he said.
"Come get your eggs," I told him.
* * * * *
Legends are told in bits and pieces, spread by word of mouth over the years. This is the story of Mary Campbell's family: the husband to whom she told the truth of who she was. The son who grieved the loss of her so deeply that he spent half his life on the road alone, searching for her. And the son who found success, and love, and peace ... until things went a little bit sideways.
Part One: Dean and Jo
Part Two: Dean, Sam, and Jessica
Part Three: John and Deacon
Part Four: Missouri and Pamela
Part Five: Sam and Dean
Part Six: John, Mary, Dean and Sam
Part Seven: Dean and Pamela
Part Eight: Deanna and Samuel
Part Nine: Sam and Missouri
Part Ten: John and Dean
Part Eleven: The Intruder
Part Twelve: Sam, Meg, and Samuel
Part Thirteen: Dean, the Hellhound, and Deanna
Part Fourteen: Deanna and Samuel
Part Fifteen: The Legend
CHARACTERS: Dean and Jo
GENRE: Gen (AU)
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 535 words
LEGEND
By Carol Davis
Sixteen: Dean and Jo
A year had gone by, the next time I saw that old black Chevy. There were wildflowers blooming alongside the road, black-eyed Susans and a lot of goldenrod, swaying in the wind and the dust as the Chevy came grumbling up the gravel toward the roadhouse.
I remembered a man who tasted of Jack and a bowl of chili. A man more covered with scars than anybody his age ought to be. A man who took his time, and who seemed to think more of me than he did of himself.
I met him outside, arms folded, trying hard not to smile as he climbed out of the car. It was coated with road grime, and so was he.
"Big crowd," he said.
There were just a couple of trucks in what we called a parking lot: mine, and one other.
"It's our off season," I told him.
He pushed the car door shut, just hard enough for the latch to connect, then stood with a hand laid on the edge of the roof. It'd leave a print when he took the hand away, I thought, but the car was so smudged and splattered, it wouldn't be all that noticeable.
"You been off-roading?" I asked.
He grinned at that, then snorted softly. "Not by choice."
"There's a hose out back."
"And a tub upstairs."
It was my turn to snort.
There'd been a lot of news drifting through the grapevine since the last time I saw Dean Winchester, most of it in the last few months. After almost thirty years of being nothing more than a myth, his mother had come back home. She'd murdered a demon, ate two meat loaf sandwiches, did some talking and some listening, then hit the road again.
This time, she took her husband with her.
She'd been seen a lot since then. They had.
You can turn your back on a rumor, most of the time. I hadn't paid much attention to anything I'd heard about Mary Campbell Winchester, my whole life - up until I met her son.
"I can scramble you up some eggs," I said. "If you're hungry."
He looked on past me for a minute, then shifted his weight and looked back the way he'd come. Some of the dust he'd raised was still hanging in the air.
"I heard," I said.
When he turned back to me, he was wearing an expression I couldn't quite figure out.
"Toast?" he said.
"White or wheat?"
He got up close to me faster than I expected.
Wrapped an arm around my waist, leaned in and kissed me. This time, he tasted of beer, and apple pie, and there was a looseness, an ease to him that was brand new.
"Told somebody once that that wasn't my life," he said quietly.
"Oh?"
"But this is."
He was asking a question. I'd had it asked of me before.
This time, I thought I might say yes.
Again, he looked back the way he'd come, at the clumps of black-eyed Susans drifting in the breeze, at the rutted gravel of the road, at the horizon.
"Lotta evil sons of bitches out there," he said.
"Come get your eggs," I told him.
* * * * *