FIC: Don't Send Me No More Letters, No (1/1) COMPLETE
Title: Don’t Send Me No More Letters, No
Author:
kimonkey7
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: none (gen) John
Disclaimer: Not mine. Damn it.
SPOILERS: Specific for episodes 1X20 and 1X21 - takes place between Manning, CO and Salvation, Iowa.
Summary: He can only take so much, and have only so much taken from him.
A/N: Written for
apieceofcake, who was kind and generous enough to buy me in the last Sweet Charity auction. This story was inspired by the lyrics of “Empty Chairs at Empty Tables” from Les Miserables, which Jo sent as a possible prompt for Winchestery tale-telling. Thanks for the thinky and for letting me share, my dear. Beta’d by the equally generous and fantastic
pdragon76. Title taken from Bob Dylan’s ‘Desolation Row’.
After Daniel was killed, before Salvation, he went to Nebraska. Told the boys he needed to gather his research, said he’d meet up with them outside of Des Moines. They’d protested at first - all of them back together again - but he’d been firm, and they’d bent. He just needed a night.
It’d been a while, but Ellen always had an empty bed in the back, and he could put up with Ash if it meant some peace and pause. He needed to stop running, needed to drink and think without watching his back. Colorado to Iowa took a straight track through Nebraska.
Daniel Elkins. Jesus Christ.
She’d let him keep the bottle at the table which - in joints like hers - could spell a hell of a lot of trouble, but she knew him well enough. They both guessed he’d already wreaked the worst he could on Ellen Harvelle.
Tell Bill I said ‘hi,’ you old son of a bitch. I wish I’da done better by both of you.
The docking of jigger to lip stopped momentarily. He sloshed the whiskey forward in small salute, then tossed the inch of russet liquid down his throat in one go. The three drinks that had gone before numbed his belly to the heat of the alcohol; John Winchester was on his way to a good and solid drunk.
Still, he didn’t miss the occasional eye cast in his direction as Ellen tended to the needs of the Roadhouse. She finished clearing the table adjacent to his before she gave him direct attention. The bussing tray - piled with chicken bones, empty bottles, and a half-dozen ruddied napkins - rested on one hard-cocked hip.
“You doin’ all right, here?”
He brought lazy eyes to hers. “Doin’ great.”
She shooed a fat, late-season fly from her ear, flicked an eye to the liquid level in the bottle by his hand.
“You figure out your time frame?”
He knew she wasn’t asking when he was leaving. She was just trying to make a game plan. Formulate predictions about his stretch of Desolation Row; whether he’d take the exit marked Melancholy, or the one posted Angry Asshole. She’d been at a few of his dead ends.
“Just here for the night.”
She studied him for a second, gave a curt nod. “Good enough,” she said, then headed to the kitchen with the tray.
He watched her push through the swinging door, ran a hand over the brush on his chin. He moved to pour another drink, double-bounced the neck of the bottle off the rim of the tumbler. Knocked the glass onto its side, sloshing whiskey across the wood. The clank and his curse earned a pop-up from Ellen in the kitchen, her prairie dog imitation drawing John’s attention to the service pass behind the bar. He set down the bottle and showed her his palms. Pulled a chided smile that said, ‘I got it, officer. I’m slowin’ down right now.’
John had met Daniel Elkins back in 1986 through the small network of hunters he’d managed to assemble. Elkins had taken him under his wing - Master Po to his Grasshopper - teaching him loads of folklore and mythology, Latin and Greek, the finer points of smelting silver.
More than once, John had planned jobs that crisscrossed through Colorado, dropped both boys off at Jim Murphy’s for a week or ten days to run gigs with the hard-nosed older hunter. Later, he’d left Sam to Dean and trained over long weekends at Daniel’s cabin in the canyon.
John steadied his hand, made a clean attempt at pouring. Raised his glass and breathed in the aged oak of the bourbon. Brought the drink to his lips and sipped back a slow swallow.
He’d lost count of the number of things he’d killed over the past twenty years. The only measure he was making these days was closer or farther, hot or cold. If he could find the Demon-- He tipped back the tumbler, took a deeper drink. He hadn’t lost count of the friends and loved ones taken by the fight.
Ash sauntered into the bar from his room in the back, nodded at the only other patrons in the Roadhouse; a pair of flannel shirts running nine-ball over worn felt. He grabbed a PBR from behind the bar, downed half of it, and then made his way to the table in the corner.
“John.”
“Ash.”
“I heard about Elkins,” he said, tossing a swatch of hair off his shoulder.
“Word travels fast.”
“As a virgin on prom night.” Ash took a thoughtful pull from his Pabst. “I think it was Jean Giraudoux who said, ‘I'm not afraid of death. It's the stake one puts up in order to play the game of life.’ Mighta been Gordie Howe. Either way--” He lifted his beer and tipped the neck toward John, “sorry for your loss.”
John nodded. “Thanks.”
Ellen cleared her throat behind Ash, elbowed around him with a heaping plate of chicken, corn, and greens. “Do me a favor and run a keg, Ash,” she said as she set the food in front of John, nudging the whiskey bottle to the side.
“Now, why would I wanna do that?” Ash asked.
“Because you haven’t settled your tab in over a month,” she said over her shoulder. “And because I asked you to.”
“I was just gonna have a drink with--”
She turned on him, arms crossing her chest. “Last time you two drank together, I had to separate you with a baseball bat and a seltzer bottle. I think you oughtta run that keg, like I asked.”
Ash pursed his lips, tried to make it seem like he had a choice in the matter.
“Hang tough,” he said to John, pointing a rock-star finger at him. “I’ll catch you on the flipside.” He drained the rest of his beer, laid a long, low belch behind Ellen’s back, and headed for the cold room.
John shook his head. “You didn’t have to do that.”
They both pretended he meant the dinner she’d made him.
“I’m not gettin’ up at the crack of dawn to make you a hangover breakfast, so you better eat up tonight.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, the whiskey carving a growl through his voice. He kept his eyes on the plate while she stood there silent for a long beat, knew she was going to offer condolences and her ear.
“I’m sorry about Daniel. I never knew him except by reputation, but I know he was a friend of yours.”
“He was a good man,” John said. “One of the best hunters I ever met. Stubborn old bastard saved my ass on more than one occasion.” His words were heavy, thick with drink. He leaned back from the table, pushed a warm breath out through his nose, and dropped his hands in his lap. “I appreciate you lettin’ me ride this out here.”
“You can stay more than one night, you know. Jo won’t be back from my sister’s place for a coupla days, and I can keep Ash busy on a whole buncha stuff.”
He smiled soft, gently shook his head. “I’ve got business in Iowa tomorrow.”
He had his boys in Iowa tomorrow, safe beside him again. Had the Colt and his research and a lead on the goddamned demon that had started him down this road with Mary. The taste of it all - the promise of culmination - was thick on his tongue, as heady and intoxicating as the alcohol in his blood.
“It’s been a while, John. Business could wait.”
“Not this business,” he said, then quick-scrubbed both hands through the scruff on his cheeks. “I thank you for the offer, though. You’re good people, Ellen.”
She raised an eyebrow, served him a half-smirk from one corner of her mouth.
“Don’t go developin’ some expectation of hospitality, Winchester. You know if you act up, I’ll toss you out on your ear.”
“Yeah, you’ve done that once or twice,” he chuckled, then caught her eyes. “Always left the door opened a crack, too.” He nodded in quiet thanks.
She nodded back, then pointed at his plate. “Eat your dinner. And finish those greens. You look anemic as a goddamned vampire.”
*******************************************************************
They were just outside of Salvation - riding the lip of the storm they’d been outrunning since Des Moines - when the call came.
“Hey, Caleb.”
“John. Where are you?”
“Iowa. Why? What’s goin’ on?”
There was a long pause on the other end of the staticky line.
“Caleb? You there?”
“Jim Murphy’s dead, John.”
The wheel of the truck jerked a fraction in his hand.
“John?”
Sparks danced up and down his spine, and his eyes flicked to the rain-blurred silhouette of the Impala in the rear-view. “Yeah. I heard you. What the hell happened?”
“Bob and Terry Rogan were workin’ a job over in Butte, stopped by Jim’s to get some help with a translation. Found him in the sacristy, throat slit. Said he probably bled out a couple hours before.”
“Jesus.”
“They found traces of sulfur on him, John. In the main part of the church, too.”
The wipers made a pass across the windshield, but his vision stayed clouded for a second. “A demon?”
“Ain’t much else that leaves a stink like that.”
“How is that possible? A church is--”
“Hallowed ground. I know. This is somethin’ big, somethin’ nasty.”
John breathed a curse. It all coiled back to that yellow-eyed fucker. All of it, everything.
“I’m puttin’ out a call, pretty much everybody I know who’s in this. How soon can you get here?”
“I can’t.”
“John, please. You’re one of the best goddamned hunters I know. We’re talkin’ about Jim Murphy, here.”
John’s jaw popped and pulsed. Thunder rumbled to the south.
“I’ve got the Colt, Caleb.”
“What?”
“Elkins had it. I don’t know for how long, but he had it. And now I’ve got it.”
“Jesus Christ, John. You need to turn around and get to Lincoln.”
He stole another glance at the boys, just as a yellow branch of lightning cracked across the sky. “I’m headed in the right direction, Caleb. Trust me.”
The cell connection hissed and fuzzed, and John got just the end of Caleb’s frantic query.
“--you talkin’ about?”
“Listen to me. I’ve got a lead, and I’ve got the Colt. I’m gonna end this.”
“John--”
“This demon’s gonna die, Caleb. It’s not takin’ one more person from me or my family.” He checked once more on the boys behind him. “I promise you that.”
“I’m beggin’ you, John, please…”
He swallowed hard as the truck flew past the roadside sign: WELCOME TO SALVATION. He never wanted more for words to be true.
“I’ll call you,” he said, and clapped closed the cell. Tossed it on the seat beside him and dragged his hand over his face. His foot slid off the accelerator when he spotted the pull-off, and he nosed the truck onto the muddy track, black as old blood.
Author:
kimonkey7
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: none (gen) John
Disclaimer: Not mine. Damn it.
SPOILERS: Specific for episodes 1X20 and 1X21 - takes place between Manning, CO and Salvation, Iowa.
Summary: He can only take so much, and have only so much taken from him.
A/N: Written for
apieceofcake, who was kind and generous enough to buy me in the last Sweet Charity auction. This story was inspired by the lyrics of “Empty Chairs at Empty Tables” from Les Miserables, which Jo sent as a possible prompt for Winchestery tale-telling. Thanks for the thinky and for letting me share, my dear. Beta’d by the equally generous and fantastic
pdragon76. Title taken from Bob Dylan’s ‘Desolation Row’.
After Daniel was killed, before Salvation, he went to Nebraska. Told the boys he needed to gather his research, said he’d meet up with them outside of Des Moines. They’d protested at first - all of them back together again - but he’d been firm, and they’d bent. He just needed a night.
It’d been a while, but Ellen always had an empty bed in the back, and he could put up with Ash if it meant some peace and pause. He needed to stop running, needed to drink and think without watching his back. Colorado to Iowa took a straight track through Nebraska.
Daniel Elkins. Jesus Christ.
She’d let him keep the bottle at the table which - in joints like hers - could spell a hell of a lot of trouble, but she knew him well enough. They both guessed he’d already wreaked the worst he could on Ellen Harvelle.
Tell Bill I said ‘hi,’ you old son of a bitch. I wish I’da done better by both of you.
The docking of jigger to lip stopped momentarily. He sloshed the whiskey forward in small salute, then tossed the inch of russet liquid down his throat in one go. The three drinks that had gone before numbed his belly to the heat of the alcohol; John Winchester was on his way to a good and solid drunk.
Still, he didn’t miss the occasional eye cast in his direction as Ellen tended to the needs of the Roadhouse. She finished clearing the table adjacent to his before she gave him direct attention. The bussing tray - piled with chicken bones, empty bottles, and a half-dozen ruddied napkins - rested on one hard-cocked hip.
“You doin’ all right, here?”
He brought lazy eyes to hers. “Doin’ great.”
She shooed a fat, late-season fly from her ear, flicked an eye to the liquid level in the bottle by his hand.
“You figure out your time frame?”
He knew she wasn’t asking when he was leaving. She was just trying to make a game plan. Formulate predictions about his stretch of Desolation Row; whether he’d take the exit marked Melancholy, or the one posted Angry Asshole. She’d been at a few of his dead ends.
“Just here for the night.”
She studied him for a second, gave a curt nod. “Good enough,” she said, then headed to the kitchen with the tray.
He watched her push through the swinging door, ran a hand over the brush on his chin. He moved to pour another drink, double-bounced the neck of the bottle off the rim of the tumbler. Knocked the glass onto its side, sloshing whiskey across the wood. The clank and his curse earned a pop-up from Ellen in the kitchen, her prairie dog imitation drawing John’s attention to the service pass behind the bar. He set down the bottle and showed her his palms. Pulled a chided smile that said, ‘I got it, officer. I’m slowin’ down right now.’
John had met Daniel Elkins back in 1986 through the small network of hunters he’d managed to assemble. Elkins had taken him under his wing - Master Po to his Grasshopper - teaching him loads of folklore and mythology, Latin and Greek, the finer points of smelting silver.
More than once, John had planned jobs that crisscrossed through Colorado, dropped both boys off at Jim Murphy’s for a week or ten days to run gigs with the hard-nosed older hunter. Later, he’d left Sam to Dean and trained over long weekends at Daniel’s cabin in the canyon.
John steadied his hand, made a clean attempt at pouring. Raised his glass and breathed in the aged oak of the bourbon. Brought the drink to his lips and sipped back a slow swallow.
He’d lost count of the number of things he’d killed over the past twenty years. The only measure he was making these days was closer or farther, hot or cold. If he could find the Demon-- He tipped back the tumbler, took a deeper drink. He hadn’t lost count of the friends and loved ones taken by the fight.
Ash sauntered into the bar from his room in the back, nodded at the only other patrons in the Roadhouse; a pair of flannel shirts running nine-ball over worn felt. He grabbed a PBR from behind the bar, downed half of it, and then made his way to the table in the corner.
“John.”
“Ash.”
“I heard about Elkins,” he said, tossing a swatch of hair off his shoulder.
“Word travels fast.”
“As a virgin on prom night.” Ash took a thoughtful pull from his Pabst. “I think it was Jean Giraudoux who said, ‘I'm not afraid of death. It's the stake one puts up in order to play the game of life.’ Mighta been Gordie Howe. Either way--” He lifted his beer and tipped the neck toward John, “sorry for your loss.”
John nodded. “Thanks.”
Ellen cleared her throat behind Ash, elbowed around him with a heaping plate of chicken, corn, and greens. “Do me a favor and run a keg, Ash,” she said as she set the food in front of John, nudging the whiskey bottle to the side.
“Now, why would I wanna do that?” Ash asked.
“Because you haven’t settled your tab in over a month,” she said over her shoulder. “And because I asked you to.”
“I was just gonna have a drink with--”
She turned on him, arms crossing her chest. “Last time you two drank together, I had to separate you with a baseball bat and a seltzer bottle. I think you oughtta run that keg, like I asked.”
Ash pursed his lips, tried to make it seem like he had a choice in the matter.
“Hang tough,” he said to John, pointing a rock-star finger at him. “I’ll catch you on the flipside.” He drained the rest of his beer, laid a long, low belch behind Ellen’s back, and headed for the cold room.
John shook his head. “You didn’t have to do that.”
They both pretended he meant the dinner she’d made him.
“I’m not gettin’ up at the crack of dawn to make you a hangover breakfast, so you better eat up tonight.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, the whiskey carving a growl through his voice. He kept his eyes on the plate while she stood there silent for a long beat, knew she was going to offer condolences and her ear.
“I’m sorry about Daniel. I never knew him except by reputation, but I know he was a friend of yours.”
“He was a good man,” John said. “One of the best hunters I ever met. Stubborn old bastard saved my ass on more than one occasion.” His words were heavy, thick with drink. He leaned back from the table, pushed a warm breath out through his nose, and dropped his hands in his lap. “I appreciate you lettin’ me ride this out here.”
“You can stay more than one night, you know. Jo won’t be back from my sister’s place for a coupla days, and I can keep Ash busy on a whole buncha stuff.”
He smiled soft, gently shook his head. “I’ve got business in Iowa tomorrow.”
He had his boys in Iowa tomorrow, safe beside him again. Had the Colt and his research and a lead on the goddamned demon that had started him down this road with Mary. The taste of it all - the promise of culmination - was thick on his tongue, as heady and intoxicating as the alcohol in his blood.
“It’s been a while, John. Business could wait.”
“Not this business,” he said, then quick-scrubbed both hands through the scruff on his cheeks. “I thank you for the offer, though. You’re good people, Ellen.”
She raised an eyebrow, served him a half-smirk from one corner of her mouth.
“Don’t go developin’ some expectation of hospitality, Winchester. You know if you act up, I’ll toss you out on your ear.”
“Yeah, you’ve done that once or twice,” he chuckled, then caught her eyes. “Always left the door opened a crack, too.” He nodded in quiet thanks.
She nodded back, then pointed at his plate. “Eat your dinner. And finish those greens. You look anemic as a goddamned vampire.”
*******************************************************************
They were just outside of Salvation - riding the lip of the storm they’d been outrunning since Des Moines - when the call came.
“Hey, Caleb.”
“John. Where are you?”
“Iowa. Why? What’s goin’ on?”
There was a long pause on the other end of the staticky line.
“Caleb? You there?”
“Jim Murphy’s dead, John.”
The wheel of the truck jerked a fraction in his hand.
“John?”
Sparks danced up and down his spine, and his eyes flicked to the rain-blurred silhouette of the Impala in the rear-view. “Yeah. I heard you. What the hell happened?”
“Bob and Terry Rogan were workin’ a job over in Butte, stopped by Jim’s to get some help with a translation. Found him in the sacristy, throat slit. Said he probably bled out a couple hours before.”
“Jesus.”
“They found traces of sulfur on him, John. In the main part of the church, too.”
The wipers made a pass across the windshield, but his vision stayed clouded for a second. “A demon?”
“Ain’t much else that leaves a stink like that.”
“How is that possible? A church is--”
“Hallowed ground. I know. This is somethin’ big, somethin’ nasty.”
John breathed a curse. It all coiled back to that yellow-eyed fucker. All of it, everything.
“I’m puttin’ out a call, pretty much everybody I know who’s in this. How soon can you get here?”
“I can’t.”
“John, please. You’re one of the best goddamned hunters I know. We’re talkin’ about Jim Murphy, here.”
John’s jaw popped and pulsed. Thunder rumbled to the south.
“I’ve got the Colt, Caleb.”
“What?”
“Elkins had it. I don’t know for how long, but he had it. And now I’ve got it.”
“Jesus Christ, John. You need to turn around and get to Lincoln.”
He stole another glance at the boys, just as a yellow branch of lightning cracked across the sky. “I’m headed in the right direction, Caleb. Trust me.”
The cell connection hissed and fuzzed, and John got just the end of Caleb’s frantic query.
“--you talkin’ about?”
“Listen to me. I’ve got a lead, and I’ve got the Colt. I’m gonna end this.”
“John--”
“This demon’s gonna die, Caleb. It’s not takin’ one more person from me or my family.” He checked once more on the boys behind him. “I promise you that.”
“I’m beggin’ you, John, please…”
He swallowed hard as the truck flew past the roadside sign: WELCOME TO SALVATION. He never wanted more for words to be true.
“I’ll call you,” he said, and clapped closed the cell. Tossed it on the seat beside him and dragged his hand over his face. His foot slid off the accelerator when he spotted the pull-off, and he nosed the truck onto the muddy track, black as old blood.