Harness (Death’s own pale horses) and scholarly plough the sands, 2/?
Title: Harness (Death’s own pale horses) and scholarly plough the sands,
or,
The adventures of Bobby and Rufus in rural America
Author: reading_is_in
Chars: Bobby & Rufus
Rating: PG
Genre: Drama
Spoilers: Up to 7x10
Disclaimer: All recognized characters from ‘Supernatural’ are property of Eric Kripke/CW. This fan fiction is not for profit.
Summary: At some level, Bobby understands that he's peering into a very deep rabbit hole here.
Bobby looks again at his scrawl on the notebook paper: 214 Eastern Ave. He shrugs and kills the engine. Apparently the vigilante wants to meet him in broad daylight at an all-American diner. A faded sign displays a milkshake, burger and the name Lora’s Lunchbox in blocky letters. What had he been expecting, the Bat Cave?
It’s a little after 11, too early for the lunch rush, and the only other customers are an elderly couple and a family in matching t-shirts proclaiming their love for Florida. Mom, Dad and a couple of kiddies arguing over ice cream: it’s obscene, what with Karen dead. There’s a middle aged woman behind the till, and a younger waitress who approaches when Bobby takes a booth.
“What’ll you have?” she asks without interest.
“Uh…”
“If you’re staying you gotta order.” She casts an eye over Bobby and he realises he probably looks like a bum.
“Coffee,” he says: “Black.”
“Coming right up.”
A couple of people look when the vigilante enters, twenty minutes late - not because he’s openly carrying, but because Sioux Falls is, to be frank, a pretty White city, and some people are bigots are some are just curious. It isn’t something Bobby’s given much thought before.
“Rufus!” says the woman behind the counter, brightening notably. “Ain’t seen you in a dog’s year. You look good.”
“Thanks Lora.”
“You want a beer?”
“Two," he gestures briefly to Bobby and slides into the booth across from him.
“Rufus?” Bobby raises both eyebrows.
“Rufus Turner,” says the man shortly. “You’re Robert Singer of Singer Salvage. Bobby to the locals.”
“So are you - some kind of PI?”
Turner glances around. The family are packing up and leaving, and the elderly couple have lost interest.
“I’m a hunter,” Turner says quietly. “You know demons are real. So are ghosts, werewolves, various monsters, witchcraft….I hunt them. If they can be killed, I kill em. If they can’t….” he shrugs, letting Bobby infer from experience.
“Rufus lifted a hex my ex-husband cast on the diner,” says Lora, coming over herself to set their beers down.
“You need anything else you let me know. It’s on the house.” Rufus nods, dismissing her.
“What - wait- monsters?” Bobby asks. “As in Dracula, Frankenstein?”
“Hell no!” Turner looks pissed, as though the very concept is an insult to his professional pride. “Pretty much everything the movies tell you is bullshit. And don’t even get my started on that Anne Rice lady. She’s either possessed, or crazier than a shithouse rat. Might have to look into that…” he muses.
“Are you - some kind of secret service?” Bobby asks. “I mean do you work for the government?”
Turner laughs so hard he practically chokes on his beer. “For the government! Naw, Singer, no-one employs us. There’s a kind of a - network …places hunters go, folks you know you can call on for info or help in an emergency. But so far as organization goes that’s it.”
“Are you crazy?” Probably not the smartest question, but really it’s all Bobby’s got left.
“All hunters are at least a little crazy,” Turner shrugs, then his face hardens. “Besides, folks got their
reasons. Maybe you’d recognise a few of them.”
Bobby hesitates then nods. “I understand.”
“No, you don’t. But you’re willing and you sure as hell want a shot at the evil that’s out there after what it did to your wife, am I right?”
“I…I think so.”
“Alright then,” Turner nods. Bobby wants to ask how he’d gotten started but senses it would be an extremely bad idea. Turner reaches down for the battered holdall he’s slung under the table and produces a huge stack of local newspapers that start out crisp and get increasingly tattered. “Start readin’. First step to a successful hunt is a solid investigation. I gotta go, but I’ll call you around 6 tonight. You’re lookin’ for anything related to Baker’s Pharmacy over on 8th Street.”
“Wait - there’s a demon in the pharmacy?”
Turner snorts. “Man, don’t be ridiculous. I ain’t startin you on no demon hunt, that's high-level. Consider this the training wheels of the hunting world. Baker’s Pharmacy is haunted.”
*
Turner has several more stacks of papers in his car: a beat-up , Bobby realises he didn’t ask for a phone number. Their relationship is utterly one-sided. If Turner decides to ditch him at any time, or if Bobby wants information, there is nothing he can do about it. He supposes you owe a man that once he saves your life and all.
The latest issues of the Argus Leader and Sioux Falls Weekly are heavily pen-marked. Seems a pharmacy assistant died last Wednesday. Girl went into the back room to fetch some stock, and when she hadn’t returned after several minutes the pharmacist went after her. She was dead of a heart attack. Massive amounts of the antihistamine Seldane were found in her system, which had been reported to cause irregular heartbeat in some patients. Family and friends reported shock: she was young, happy, had everything to live for. In Bobby’s experience that’s pretty much what people always say after a suicide. In the past, he wouldn’t have given the story more than the obligatory sympathetic skim, but Turner obviously thinks there’s more to it. Scrawled in the margin of the Eagle in messy capital letters is a note: PHARMACIST SAYS DRUG NOT STOCKED. DEFF. WEIRD.
Huh.
Bobby starts to work back through the pile of papers, feeling vaguely ridiculous. The next mention of Bakers is an advert in the back of the Weekly a few months ago. Then nothing. Why would there be? As months turn into years there are issues missing. It’s a shop. Then suddenly he opens the Argusfrom today’s date, 1976.
Another mysterious suicide. Same room.
Bobby reads the article carefully. Seems this was in the time of a different pharmacist, uncle to the current Baker. The piece is terser: there’s no mention of what drug or a coroner’s report. He checks for a copy of the Weekly but there’s nothing in Turner’s stacks for the whole month. Damn. He circles the article and puts that paper aside.
By the time Turner calls, 6pm exactly, he’s established a definite pattern. At least four people have died in the pharmacy now owned by the Baker family, the first in 1958. There’s more: in ‘57 the pharmacist, a Mr Gregory Bragg, lost his license. That last is a short notice in the back of the Argus, no details. Bobby almost misses it, and adrenalin jolts through him as he processes implications: it’s the first real emotion he’s felt since Karen died that isn’t pain or rage. At some level, he understands that he's peering into a very deep rabbit hole here. But he'd said, 'Everything', and he meant it.
“I can’t believe no-one’s noticed the pattern,” he says when Turner calls.
“Oh they’ve noticed alright,” Turner says. “People notice the supernatural all the time. They just don’t believe it. Most people are damn good at believing what they want to.”
“So - what do we do now? Does this Bragg want revenge-“
“Woah woah hold your horses,” Turner cuts him off. “Don’t go putting your slant on things till you’ve gathered the evidence. Otherwise you’ll be drawin’ conclusions you want to see - and a bad call in this game gets people dead.”
“So - what do we do next?”
“You do nothing. I am going to go talk the Baker guy.” Pause. “If you want I guess you come with. Just don’t - talk too much.”
Part Three
or,
The adventures of Bobby and Rufus in rural America
Author: reading_is_in
Chars: Bobby & Rufus
Rating: PG
Genre: Drama
Spoilers: Up to 7x10
Disclaimer: All recognized characters from ‘Supernatural’ are property of Eric Kripke/CW. This fan fiction is not for profit.
Summary: At some level, Bobby understands that he's peering into a very deep rabbit hole here.
Bobby looks again at his scrawl on the notebook paper: 214 Eastern Ave. He shrugs and kills the engine. Apparently the vigilante wants to meet him in broad daylight at an all-American diner. A faded sign displays a milkshake, burger and the name Lora’s Lunchbox in blocky letters. What had he been expecting, the Bat Cave?
It’s a little after 11, too early for the lunch rush, and the only other customers are an elderly couple and a family in matching t-shirts proclaiming their love for Florida. Mom, Dad and a couple of kiddies arguing over ice cream: it’s obscene, what with Karen dead. There’s a middle aged woman behind the till, and a younger waitress who approaches when Bobby takes a booth.
“What’ll you have?” she asks without interest.
“Uh…”
“If you’re staying you gotta order.” She casts an eye over Bobby and he realises he probably looks like a bum.
“Coffee,” he says: “Black.”
“Coming right up.”
A couple of people look when the vigilante enters, twenty minutes late - not because he’s openly carrying, but because Sioux Falls is, to be frank, a pretty White city, and some people are bigots are some are just curious. It isn’t something Bobby’s given much thought before.
“Rufus!” says the woman behind the counter, brightening notably. “Ain’t seen you in a dog’s year. You look good.”
“Thanks Lora.”
“You want a beer?”
“Two," he gestures briefly to Bobby and slides into the booth across from him.
“Rufus?” Bobby raises both eyebrows.
“Rufus Turner,” says the man shortly. “You’re Robert Singer of Singer Salvage. Bobby to the locals.”
“So are you - some kind of PI?”
Turner glances around. The family are packing up and leaving, and the elderly couple have lost interest.
“I’m a hunter,” Turner says quietly. “You know demons are real. So are ghosts, werewolves, various monsters, witchcraft….I hunt them. If they can be killed, I kill em. If they can’t….” he shrugs, letting Bobby infer from experience.
“Rufus lifted a hex my ex-husband cast on the diner,” says Lora, coming over herself to set their beers down.
“You need anything else you let me know. It’s on the house.” Rufus nods, dismissing her.
“What - wait- monsters?” Bobby asks. “As in Dracula, Frankenstein?”
“Hell no!” Turner looks pissed, as though the very concept is an insult to his professional pride. “Pretty much everything the movies tell you is bullshit. And don’t even get my started on that Anne Rice lady. She’s either possessed, or crazier than a shithouse rat. Might have to look into that…” he muses.
“Are you - some kind of secret service?” Bobby asks. “I mean do you work for the government?”
Turner laughs so hard he practically chokes on his beer. “For the government! Naw, Singer, no-one employs us. There’s a kind of a - network …places hunters go, folks you know you can call on for info or help in an emergency. But so far as organization goes that’s it.”
“Are you crazy?” Probably not the smartest question, but really it’s all Bobby’s got left.
“All hunters are at least a little crazy,” Turner shrugs, then his face hardens. “Besides, folks got their
reasons. Maybe you’d recognise a few of them.”
Bobby hesitates then nods. “I understand.”
“No, you don’t. But you’re willing and you sure as hell want a shot at the evil that’s out there after what it did to your wife, am I right?”
“I…I think so.”
“Alright then,” Turner nods. Bobby wants to ask how he’d gotten started but senses it would be an extremely bad idea. Turner reaches down for the battered holdall he’s slung under the table and produces a huge stack of local newspapers that start out crisp and get increasingly tattered. “Start readin’. First step to a successful hunt is a solid investigation. I gotta go, but I’ll call you around 6 tonight. You’re lookin’ for anything related to Baker’s Pharmacy over on 8th Street.”
“Wait - there’s a demon in the pharmacy?”
Turner snorts. “Man, don’t be ridiculous. I ain’t startin you on no demon hunt, that's high-level. Consider this the training wheels of the hunting world. Baker’s Pharmacy is haunted.”
*
Turner has several more stacks of papers in his car: a beat-up , Bobby realises he didn’t ask for a phone number. Their relationship is utterly one-sided. If Turner decides to ditch him at any time, or if Bobby wants information, there is nothing he can do about it. He supposes you owe a man that once he saves your life and all.
The latest issues of the Argus Leader and Sioux Falls Weekly are heavily pen-marked. Seems a pharmacy assistant died last Wednesday. Girl went into the back room to fetch some stock, and when she hadn’t returned after several minutes the pharmacist went after her. She was dead of a heart attack. Massive amounts of the antihistamine Seldane were found in her system, which had been reported to cause irregular heartbeat in some patients. Family and friends reported shock: she was young, happy, had everything to live for. In Bobby’s experience that’s pretty much what people always say after a suicide. In the past, he wouldn’t have given the story more than the obligatory sympathetic skim, but Turner obviously thinks there’s more to it. Scrawled in the margin of the Eagle in messy capital letters is a note: PHARMACIST SAYS DRUG NOT STOCKED. DEFF. WEIRD.
Huh.
Bobby starts to work back through the pile of papers, feeling vaguely ridiculous. The next mention of Bakers is an advert in the back of the Weekly a few months ago. Then nothing. Why would there be? As months turn into years there are issues missing. It’s a shop. Then suddenly he opens the Argusfrom today’s date, 1976.
Another mysterious suicide. Same room.
Bobby reads the article carefully. Seems this was in the time of a different pharmacist, uncle to the current Baker. The piece is terser: there’s no mention of what drug or a coroner’s report. He checks for a copy of the Weekly but there’s nothing in Turner’s stacks for the whole month. Damn. He circles the article and puts that paper aside.
By the time Turner calls, 6pm exactly, he’s established a definite pattern. At least four people have died in the pharmacy now owned by the Baker family, the first in 1958. There’s more: in ‘57 the pharmacist, a Mr Gregory Bragg, lost his license. That last is a short notice in the back of the Argus, no details. Bobby almost misses it, and adrenalin jolts through him as he processes implications: it’s the first real emotion he’s felt since Karen died that isn’t pain or rage. At some level, he understands that he's peering into a very deep rabbit hole here. But he'd said, 'Everything', and he meant it.
“I can’t believe no-one’s noticed the pattern,” he says when Turner calls.
“Oh they’ve noticed alright,” Turner says. “People notice the supernatural all the time. They just don’t believe it. Most people are damn good at believing what they want to.”
“So - what do we do now? Does this Bragg want revenge-“
“Woah woah hold your horses,” Turner cuts him off. “Don’t go putting your slant on things till you’ve gathered the evidence. Otherwise you’ll be drawin’ conclusions you want to see - and a bad call in this game gets people dead.”
“So - what do we do next?”
“You do nothing. I am going to go talk the Baker guy.” Pause. “If you want I guess you come with. Just don’t - talk too much.”
Part Three