Hey guys! So this is my first try at a oneshot, tell me what you think. The song in this story is called If We Ever Make It Home by Wade Bowen, for the story I used the acoustic version. I hope you enjoy the story.
The shrill ring of a phone pierces the air as I sit, beer in hand, at the table in the bunker. After a quick search in my pocket I realize that it's one of our old cells. With a sigh I place my drink on the wooden surface and stand to my feet, walking towards the cardboard box that sits in the corner. Quickly I pull the lid off and start searching for the ringing device. Finally my hands land on a grey flip phone and I open it, glancing at the number. Something about it looks familiar so I raise it to my ear.
"Hello?" A woman's voice floats across the other end of the line.
"Dean? It's Jenny Cooper." Why does that name sound so familiar? "You probably don't remember me, but we met a few years ago. I lived in your old house, there was a ghost, I think you called it a poltergeist."
Memories come flooding back. Lawrence, 2005, we saved Jenny and her kids from a flaming poltergeist in our old house and then...mom showed up.
"Dean, are you still there?" I finally find my voice again and nod.
"Um yeah I'm here. Yeah Jenny I remember you, what's up?"
"Well I got a package a few days ago with the name John Winchester on it and I was wondering if you wanted to come by and get it?" I glance at the clock, it's two pm, if I leave now I can be there and back by about ten.
"Yeah sure, I'll be there in a few hours."
"Ok." I hang up the phone and start heading to the car. Sam is out helping Eileen with a vamp hunt and wouldn't be back until late tonight, so I have plenty of time to run up to
Lawrence.
I grab my keys and head off towards the garage, slipping the cell into my pocket in case she calls back. When I enter the room I flip the lights on before walking to my car, sliding easily into the drivers seat. The familiar roar of the Impala's engine fills my ears and I grin, turning the radio on full blast. One of the perks of Sam not being here, I don't get any complaints about my music. With a grin I pull out onto the road and start driving towards my old home.
The three and a half hour drive to Lawrence passes by quickly, usually we drive upwards of ten hours for a case so this is nothing, and soon I'm pulling into the driveway. The house still looks the same, peeling white paint, dark roof, flowers in the front yard. Any other person would think this is the classic family house, unfortunately I know that house is as far from family friendly as is gets. As I climb the front steps to the porch I can't help the small smirk that creeps onto my face when I see the new door, last time we were here I did a number on it with an axe. I push the memory to the side as I reach up and knock on the door. Within a few moments the entrance opens and a blonde woman greets me.
"Dean, hi. It's been a while." I nod.
"Yeah it has. Good to see you Jenny." She moves over, motioning inside.
"Well come in. Your stuff's on the table."
I offer her a small smile before entering the all too familiar house. It looks almost the exact same as when we last left, the only difference is the replacement of the furniture that broke during the poltergeist. My eyes land on the staircase, the same staircase that leads to what used to be mine and Sammy's rooms. The same staircase that my mom took to her death. I shake my head to clear the images that immediately begin to pile up in my mind at the reminder of that night and avert my gaze to the table.
Two kids, or should I say teenagers, are sitting in the chairs by the piece of furniture. My eyes widen when I realize that they're her kids, they weren't even in double digits when I met them. Jenny comes up beside me.
"They sure have grown up huh?" Richie eyes me warily while Sari grins slightly.
"Definitely." I give the kids a small smile.
"Sari, you remember Dean don't you?" Her daughter nods eagerly.
"Him and his brother chased the monsters out of our house." I chuckle, nodding as I do so. I slowly make my way to the box on the table, spying the name John Winchester scrawled in black sharpie across the top.
"Where'd you say you found this?"
"It was in the mail a few days ago. The postman said that it had gotten lost in the mail years ago. They found it in the back of the office and decided to send it. I figured you'd want it." I nod, glancing at her with a confused expression.
"I thought you were gonna move. You know, the whole ghost thing didn't seem to sit too well with you." She shrugs.
"No one was looking to buy and I figured what are the odds of another ghost showing up in my house."
"Makes sense." I run my hand over the rough cardboard box. It's about three feet long and two feet wide, making it rectangular in shape. I glance at the return address; Bobby Singer November 2005. What would Bobby be trying to send my dad, especially since he knows he doesn't live here anymore. Carefully I lift the lid and peek inside. My heart skips a beat when I see it's contents.
Memories flood my mind at the sight of the object inside and my hands shake as I slide it back shut. Jenny eyes me carefully.
"Dean? Are you ok?" I nod slowly, the traces of a grin marring my face.
"Yeah." I breathe. "I haven't seen this since..." Since the fire. I thought for sure that it must've burned. "Thank you." My companion places a hand on my shoulder.
"I'm just glad that it will finally get back to its rightful home."
"Me too." I glance at the clock on the wall and see the time, 6:00pm. I've got to go. With a sigh I turn to face Jenny. "Thanks for this, but I've got to get going." She nods. After a small wave at the kids I follow her to the door, awkwardly holding the large box in my arms as we go. The two of us walk out onto the front porch and I give her a nod before starting to leave.
"It was good to see you, Dean. Thanks, for everything."
"You too Jenny."
I make my way to the car, somehow managing to retrieve the keys from my pocket on the way. I carefully prop the box up against the black metal before opening the back door and placing it in the back seat. With a grunt I slam the door shut and hop into the driver's seat, putting the keys into the Impala's ignition. The engine roars to life and I pull away from the house, watching as it fades away in the rear view mirror.
The bunker is completely silent as I sit in my bedroom, staring at the simple cardboard box sitting on my bed. I'm almost afraid to open it in fear that it's contents will disappear, in a way it would be worth it to just leave it in that box and never have to see the damn thing again. No matter how many excuses I come up with to avoid opening the container, I can't shake the voice in my head telling me that I can't just ignore it and pretend that I never found the item. With a sigh I stand from my chair and walk over to the side of my mattress, reaching for the surface with shaking hands.
My movements still when I brush against the lid, noticing for the first time the yellowing piece of paper tucked in the side of the box. I carefully pull it out, unfolding the material before looking at the words scrawled across the lines.
John,
This thing's been sitting in my living room since you left on that vamp hunt six months ago and I'm tired of it collecting dust in the corner. I've tried calling you but you're obviously not answering, so I'm doing the only thing I know to do. I'm just gonna send it to your old address and hope that it makes its way back to you, I know it's got a lot of memories for you and the boys.
P.S. If you don't start answering your damn phone, so help me God I'm gonna find you and beat your ass, if you're not already dead. So call me back, ya idjit.
Sincerely,
Bobby Singer
A small smile greets my face, quickly followed by a frown. This was right after Dad went missing, right after I'd pulled Sam back into the life. I shake my head before turning back to the box and, taking a deep breath, I pull the lid off and gaze at its contents.
A guitar, Dad's guitar, sits carefully arranged in the space, surrounded by memories of a simpler time. With a sigh I grasp the wood and pick it up, sitting down on the edge of the bed as I do so. I pull it into my lap before beginning to examine the precious instrument.
A thin layer of dust covers its surface from the man years without use and, after carefully wiping it away, I finally get a look at the piece of my childhood that I thought had been lost long ago. It's once rich tan color has faded to a dull brown, the cost of the constant wear and tear that comes from a hunter's life that it had been subjected to over the course of its life. Fingerprints are worn down into the grain the neck from years of reoccurring song choice, I can't help imagining John sitting on the porch strumming away. He'd get it out and play for Sammy, Mom, and I back when I was a kid, even after her death there'd be those rare nights when I'd catch him strumming Hey Jude across the strings. I continue down its frame until I find the chip in the left side from the many months it spent riding around in the backseat of the Impala. My eyes land on the initials JW carefully carved into the body of the instrument and I can't help the smile that graces my features.
Decades worth of history reveal themselves in the worn wood of the guitar, each nick and scrape on its surface highlights a different cherished memory. My hands tremble as I gently run my fingers over the six rust coated strings, remembering the melodies that used to float them. Slowly I lift the object from my lap and maneuver it into a familiar position. My fingers rest easily in the worn grooves on its neck and my other arm drapes across the body comfortably. Cautiously I play a few chords, just waiting for it to come parts in my hands. Much to my surprise it stays in one piece and, not only that, by some miracle it's still somewhat in tune. Out of habit I glance around the room before instinct takes over and I begin to strum a familiar tune, the only song I know.
My fingers glide across the old strings, every note bringing back memories of a time when monsters were just stories and demons were just in my imagination.
Is anybody out there searching
Has anybody lost the way
Am I the only one who's hurting
Today
My voice floats quietly through the bunker, it sounds foreign even to my own ears. I haven't actually sang in a long time, since I was a kid really. It almost feels weird to let it go.
Must have got some bad directions
How'd we ever end up here
All this pain and desperation
And fear
My thoughts absentmindedly wander to my brother, how'd he ever end up here? How did he go from a law boy with a future, to a hunter with nothing to his name but some hand-me-down flannels and a demon killing knife? Oh right, it was me. I'm the one who drug him back to this dreadful life, who pulled him away from his only chance at a normal life. A frown adorns my face as I continue on to the chorus.
If we ever make it home
They'll be peace like we've never known
Nobody's gonna walk alone
We'll be leaning on each other
Every wall that we've built up high
Is gonna fall right before our eyes
Love will surely conquer hate
If we ever make it home
Dozens of faces flash before my eyes, faces of the friends we lost too soon. A beautiful blonde, her quick-witted mother, the blind psychic with a tattoo, a drunk genius with a mullet. The grizzled hunter in a blue baseball cap, the red head who ran off to Oz, the kid in advanced placement, the father who traded his life, and the mother who burned. Jo, Ellen, Pamala, Ash, Bobby, Charlie, Kevin, Dad, Mom. What else do we have to lose?
There's darkness in the daylight
As the devil works his trade
He's the first one to the gravesite
With a smile on his face
There's a flicker in the distance
Where a single candle glows
And another walking with us
Who knows
My fingers dance easily across the rough strings, each note filling the room with a soft cry. A single tear slips down my cheek as I continue to strum the chords, the seclusion of my room allowing me just this one moment of weakness. I close my eyes as I once again reach the chorus, my voice softly carrying on.
If we ever make it home
They'll be peace like we've never known
Nobody's gonna to walk alone
We'll be leaning on each other
Loving one another
Every wall that we've built up high
Is gonna fall right before our eyes
Love will surely conquer hate
If we ever make it home
Oh if we ever make it home
The last line comes out in a whisper, barely audible even to my own ears. Slowly I open my eyes and run my hand along the side of the guitar, smiling at the familiar feel.
"I thought you couldn't sing." The sudden voice breaks the comfortable silence and I leap to my feet, simultaneously setting the instrument down on the bed, and whip my 1911 out of my waistband. My tense muscles relax when my eyes land on my brother standing in the doorway, a slightly surprised look on his face.
"Dammit Sam! Don't sneak up on me like that." He puts his hands up in surrender, stepping into my bedroom.
"Sorry." I give him a half-hearted glare as he sits down on the mattress and I reluctantly do the same. He motions towards the guitar. "I didn't know you could play." I shrug.
"I learned after you left for Stanford. Dad was always either on a hunt or at a bar, so I decided I might as well figure it out." I watch as Sam's eyes roam over the instrument, obviously noticing the initials carved into the body.
"Was this Dad's?" I nod, picking up the object and handing it to him. He traces the letters with his fingers, lost in thought.
"Yeah. He used to play it for us when we were little." My brother gives me a clue fused look.
"Really?" I nod. "Hmm. I didn't remember."
"Well you were like a year old, so I didn't expect you to." He continues to examine the guitar and we lapse into a comfortable silence. After a few minutes of this, he turns to me.
"Do you think you could teach me?" I glance at him, slightly taken aback.
"Really?" He nods.
"Yeah."
"You don't really strike me as a musician little bro." He shrugs and I smile. "I guess I could teach you a few chords." I motion to the neck. "Ok take your left hand and put your ring finger on the fourth fret." Sam attempts to do as he's told. "That's the fifth fret. I thought lawyers knew how to count." He rolls his eyes, but the humor is obvious in his features.
"Technically I never was a lawyer, I just went to the school." He corrects his hold on the guitar, it's almost laughable how bad it is.
"You're not even on a fret anymore Sammy, geez. It's gonna take all night just to teach you one chord." My brother shoots me a glance.
"Well maybe if I had a better teacher..." A smirk adorns his face.
"Hey do you wanna just figure this out on your own?" No response. "Yeah that's what I thought." After a few seconds of silence I glance at him. "Bitch."
"Jerk." I grin before reaching over and fixing his hold on the neck of the guitar.
"Ok now strum the top string." Sam follows my directions, the sound being only slightly off pitch, and I give him a thumbs up. "Great. One down, five to go."
THE END
Well that's it for my first oneshot, I hope it wasn't too bad. Feel free to leave a review or two, I'd really appreciate it.