i: The House

I watch the two young men walk away from me. They say goodbye to the lady I like. She is so grateful to them - as if she knows how hard it was for them to come back to me. I see another time as they leave my front door, the older one carrying the tiny brother in his arms. It makes me think how tall they have both grown. Has it really been so long for them since that awful night? They are bigger now, no longer tiny infants but strapping men of import.

The older one stops at the end of my path and he looks back at me. His expression is the same as his father's was. Does he know I am watching him? Does he know Time is immaterial in my world? His eyes drop and he walks on - he catches up with the younger one and they head to the car.

The car. She is still over there. She is still with them. And seeing that they still have her makes me feel that time doesn't so much pass for them as take existing things and remould them into something exactly the same yet entirely different. Time is linear for them, I know. But for the car and I, things will always be the same. There is no Time for us, everything just is. And yet… Some part of me is stuck in that moment, living within that night, and will never break free. I will always realise flames sprout in unnatural arrangements from the tiny cot, the precious room energised into a fireball that I know will take all of my insides. I will always feel the heat in my wooden joints, smell my paint and varnish warping, bubbling, melting.

It is a devastating night. It is terrifying, and soul-destroying, and merciless. It is all so senseless. And yet… And yet there is The Man. He will forever exist alongside my knowledge of that night - that awful night that I can see right now, not separated by Time or feelings. Nothing has changed, everything is still the same. It is still that night.

As I look out over the confusion and bustle of the firemen, the giant fire truck dwarfed by myself, the noise and smell and fear so thick in the air - as I see all of it just as I see it the first time - there he is. He just stands there, his sharp dark suit and neat yet thinning hair so incongruous to all around him. And yet not one person asks him to move back from the flames destroying my structural walls. Not one firefighter demands he seek shelter.

So he stands, watching me burn. And I see the tiny wisp of a smile that makes me worry. Something is not right, something is very foreign about this man. I know of the darkness in my nursery room. I know of the fear and anger of the father, barely able to turn his two little boys out of my front door before the inevitable takes my sturdy beams and turned them to cinders.

And then The Man takes one hand from his trouser pocket. His left hand. And he walks closer to me. I see him much more clearly; he is tall, jovial, omnipotent. And as he walks closer to the flames, I see he knows exactly that I am watching him, that I am forever in this moment. He knows. He knows.

His left hand comes up and I see his lips are moving slightly. He reaches out his hand as if to touch the fire. Still no-one calls to him, no-one makes any attempt to stop him. He simply reaches out and his fingers are swallowed by the flames.

And yet, they are not. His hand is unscathed, the flames dampening. He smiles to himself, watching the fire start to back away, start to retreat from his politely firm smile. Now I hear his words, now I realise he is singing.

"Once I rose above the noise and confusion, just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion. I was soaring ever higher, but I flew too high. Though my eyes could see I still was a blind man, though my mind could think I still was a mad man. I hear the voices when I'm dreamin', I can hear them say…"

And suddenly I feel compelled to let go of the fear, let go of the anger. So I burn, he makes me think, but I will not be destroyed. The secrets that my walls have kept for so many of their years will be unearthed; the keys to the plans this family needs will be discovered. I have already provided for them for two lifetimes - two little boys' lifetimes. I have stood since before they were born, and I shall stand for many more years than they have.

The Man is watching me. He lets his hand drop and he backs away. I can hear him sing again. He turns and walks, as if to head for the man and his two tiny boys, sitting on the hood of the car.

And then I lose him in the crowd. The smoke, the sounds of carefully controlled panic, the feeling of reassurance from the queer, apparently invisible man… They melt away. And I am still here as if that time before and this moment now are one and same. I watch the two young men - the very same tiny boys - and the car - the very same car - disappear from my kerb.

Now they are gone from the street. But I know they're not, not to me. They are always here, always the tiny boys, the warring teens, the angry young men. Always here.

Today they have done something no-one else could, for a woman and her young son just when she needed them. And in return she gives them keepsakes. To the older man, they are proof his memories were not fabricated. To the younger one, they are records of a time he cannot remember. But the lady passes them on - she keeps the memories alive. That is why I was not burnt to the ground, that is why The Man was there that night - to make sure I still stood, to make sure she would choose me as her new home, to make sure she passed on the memories from before that horrible night.

The young lady, holding her son, closes my front door to the empty street, to the terrifying ordeal, to the world which she used to believe held no monsters. The heavy sound of wood against wood is reassuring - I was nearly destroyed, but I was rebuilt.

And I can almost hear The Man's voice, whispering to me, crossing through Time as if it were nothing: It is the way of things that survive.

.

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ii: The Car

He's pissed and he's trying to find something to play that he can take loud. If he could hear me, he'd know I'm begging for a bit of AC/DC. Bad-ass, I'm telling you. He opens my glovebox and for a moment I'm just lovin' the way he rifles through stuff with those purposeful fingers, know what I mean?

Then he pulls out a tape. My passenger, riding shotgun and making damn sure my driver knows he don't like it, starts moaning. He gets a woooah, back away from the angry dude face in reply and it looks like he's just gonna stuff his fingers in his ears and tough it out. It's going to be one of those drives, I can tell.

So Driver backs me round and we're off. Sounds like a fair few miles are expected - that's cool. I can rumble along with his hands on my wheel, especially as the tape he's just shoved in my slot a little roughly turns out to be Kansas. It's halfway through a song - the one about being all wayward and screwed. Shotgun leans back and makes an effort to fling all his attention at the window, like he's gotta make it stick to save the world. Driver relaxes a little and the only sound inside my bodyshell is the guitar of Kerry Livgren.

And the song's playing loud and I'm thinking, I've heard this a thousand times, sure. But the first time I heard it? Broke my heart, man. And don't tell me cars don't have hearts - don't make me clog up my carburettor again. Took Driver a whole day to de-gunk it after I worked myself up over that that little punk egging me.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, the song. Sweet. I do like a bit of Kansas. Driver likes it too - he's already doing that real quiet, real soft sing-along voice I love. Shotgun's still ignoring the world just cos he don't like it, but hey, what else is new with that kid?

The song. Driver turns it up and starts humming along to the guitar. Nice. I could just purr along and take this all evening and all night. Except… Except the song just makes me think of that first time I heard it.

It was that bad day to trump all bad days: the day the old man's house went up like a Roman candle. I can still see him sitting on my hood, clear as a rabbit in my Halogen bulbs, with Shotgun so tiny in his arms and Driver sat next to him. Shotgun's wailing and snivelling - again, nothing changes with that kid - and Driver's like all silent with some dangerous mix of pent-up anger and despair. I guess he never changes, either. And there's the old man, watching his home burn down and he's got this wild look in his eye. Made me shiver on the inside, watching him take in the whole thing with those glassy eyes. Man, I did not want to get in his way. It wasn't really anger, I don't think. It was more like the way a wounded animal just begs for something to go at it so it has a legitimate reason to give it a good kicking, you know?

And I'm watching their home go up and I'm thinking, this is so not fair. This is not how it's supposed to go - I mean, what did they ever do wrong? I always had a soft spot for this family. Not my first, but definitely my favourite. I was so glad the old man took that strange guy's advice and rolled me off the used car lot. He was always so good to me, and now Driver is too - perhaps better, if truth be told. So while I'm there thinking all this fire business is about as much fun as having a suspension strut replaced without grease, I'm also thinking it's weird that there's this dude hanging round the burning building.

Cos he's just kinda standing there, hands in pockets, watching. And while everyone else is running round ordering or shouting or asking or what-not, he's just standing like he's got all the time in the world.

It's obvious the old man don't see him, and I can see little teeny baby Shotgun don't see him, and in fact there's not one person milling round ground zero as gives any indication he's there.

Save one. Y'know, I never thought about it like that before. But little Shortstuff, now Driver, I reckon he saw him. Just for a second. It was like he noticed this weird guy and blinked to get a better look. 'Course, once he blinked the mystery man was gone - just like in one of them film noir things you can see at the drive-in. Well, Driver pays for him and his chosen chick to go see it, but it ain't the celluloid he's glued to for ninety minutes, know what I mean? Anyway, maybe he's never thought about how he saw The Man again - maybe he don't remember cos he was so small back then.

But I remember very clearly - this guy goes up to the burning building and sticks his hand right in it, like he thinks he's some kinda fire extinguisher himself. Damn lucky not to lose his whole arm, if you ask me. But he doesn't - he just stands there, smiling, until the fire starts to shrink. Then he just backs up like he's standing over the edge of an inspection pit in the greasiest garage in Lawrence and slowly turns round.

And he's looking right at me. I mean, he's looking directly at me. It's freaky - and yet it's kinda soothing, right? I have no clue why. But he just puts his hands back in his pockets and saunters over like he's got all the time in the world.

And I'm thinking, the old man's gonna knock him on his ass if he tries to talk to him right now. And then what'll happen to Driver and baby Shotgun? But no-one sees him, no-one notices as he starts walking right toward me. And then I get it; he's looking at me. He sees me, man. He knows.

So he walks straight past what's left of my favourite family, huddled on the hood like damp cleaning rags in the trash. He walks straight past me, and damn me if he don't put his hand out and slide it down my rear wing.

I should have been upset. I should have been angry. But there was something… I don't know, just something about the touch of his hand. It was like it made me realise that, yeah, ok, they've lost their home and the old lady - who I liked a whole lot, by the way - but they've still got me. I'll be stickin' with them for a while, and they need me. And yeah, ok, so maybe I need them a little too. Who else is gonna let little Driver bounce around on their rear seats, or have him sit next to his old man in the passenger seat, trying to read maps for him? It's just those three and me - the four Muska-thingies, and it feels like we'll always be together.

So anyway, where was I? Oh yeah - The Man. He's patting me like I should know how important I am to my family, and then there's this quiet voice, so quiet I almost don't catch it, and he's telling me: It is the way of things that survive. So I'm trying to figure it out, right? But then there's this snatch of a tune, of words right by my tail lights. And as he's walking into the busy night, I can hear him.

"Masquerading as a man with a reason, my charade is the event of the season. And if I claim to be a wise man it surely means that I don't know. On a stormy sea of moving emotion, tossed about I'm like a ship on the ocean. I set a course for winds of fortune but I hear the voices say…"

And I'm thinking, son of a bitch, ain't that the catchiest song I've heard in a long time? So on nights like tonight, and on drives like this one, when Shotgun's doing his best to not let his head explode, and Driver's pissed as all Hell but really trying not to take it out on the younger one, it's good to hear that song. Maybe even those two get the same feeling when they hear it as I do: someone's watching us, someone's in control, someone's there to acknowledge what we do. I just don't know who that someone is. Maybe it's The Man after all.

Then again, if someone really was in control, really was watching us - then maybe there wouldn't have been a fire in the first place.

Aw, screw it. I just want to listen to the song, y'know. Thing is, with this family? You never know how long they're gonna be around. So I'm going to make the most of it right here. Ssshhh, listen - Driver's starting to sing real loud and even Shotgun's trying not to hum along. That's ma driver, able to bring Shotgun round with a well-timed bit of snark and a good song. Don't interrupt 'em now, I wanna hear him sing like he'll never stop.

.

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iii: The Man

Dean, Dean, Dean, I say, finally! I mean, it's about time. Really, it is. Sometimes that boy really does take the biscuit - and the tin. If he knew how I'd been watching him and his family right from that awful, awful night in 1983, perhaps he would talk to me with a little more… gratitude. Perhaps he would 'cut me some slack', as he would no doubt say.

He stands there and hisses insults and jibes as if he's the only one allowed to be upset about the way things are turning out. I tell him he's lucky - he gets to shoot things, ride around in his classic car and fornicate with any one (or two) of those willing women that seem to fall into his lap. I tell him to get back on the horse, get back to what he loves doing. After all, how many other people get away with what he does?

But he will never understand what I've done - for him, for his family. Ok, so I can't be there every single time something threatens to tear his life asunder. I'm an angel, not a personal wish-granter. But who stopped the fire from devouring the entire house? Who made sure it would still stand, so other folks could move in, bring the family full circle? No no no - you don't have to thank me, it is my job, after all. And who made sure they hung on to that classic car of his? Again, you don't have to thank me. It would just be nice if I could tell him about that night.

You see, everyone saw all the details a little differently. They're human, they're bound to do so. But I was the only one capable of truly standing back and watching it all pan out exactly as The Boss intended. Yes, it was cruel. Yes, it seemed like The Almighty was punishing them - but you have to be ruthless when pruning, and if there comes a time when the rot gets too far? Well hey, you not only have to kill the termites, but demolish the house, too. Just to be sure. And so it goes… Rot had to be stopped. Demons had to think they had achieved their goal. And yes, innocent people had to be sacrificed.

But as I stood there, watching the fire and the humans run around so valiantly, trying to save everything they could, I understood the Masterplan. Finally. I've never been one to second guess The Boss - obviously - but I was always just taking it all on faith, not even bothering to try and work it out.

And then that night.

The fire. The house, burning, hissing, smoking, collapsing. John and his two dear, dear little boys, watching dumbly from the classic I knew it was my duty to make them keep. Firefighters being brave, neighbours being nosy, and humans being humans. Most of all - demons being demons.

The smoke was thick in the air, the sirens and flashing red lights casting strange, magnificent patterns of extra-ordinary beauty on the entire heart-breaking scene. Oh, it was impressive! And in the chaos of the night, I finally saw it.

The plan was so simple, so easy to read once I realised the right way up the paper went. So I went to the house. I made sure it would be around for machinations to come. I went to the car, I made sure it would be available to, ah… service the Winchesters for many years.

I will never be certain if little Dean saw me. I will never be perfectly clear on how he could have done, either. I would say it's funny how the world works, except that I know it isn't. It's blood, and pain, and heartbreak, and horror. It's tears and unfairness, torture and lies. It's everything that is not fine and shiny and grand about true existence - but they already know that. Those two boys are already one step ahead of all the other mud-monkeys. They know it, they accept it, they no longer whine about it (I hope).

But it's one more thing, too. There's a language of the angels, a set of words we use only between ourselves. No human has ever heard us utter it in their company, and no human ever will. Well… that's half right. There is a word we use quite a lot these days, one that humans mistake for one of their words, and it's funny because they will never realise what it really means. And if I tried to explain it, it would be so complicated. I'd have to go with… a little bit Schadenfreude. A little bit determination. A little bit selflessness. A little bit resignation. A little bit pride in your work. A little bit… hmm, I guess 'kick-ass' is how Dean would describe it. All of these things. And it's a new word, only used in the last… oh, thirty years? Human ones, anyway.

The word?

Whinn'chehss'd:a.

Read that real fast now. Third time's a charm. You know, I feel it could be one of those days where I'm going to sing while I work. You know those days? Well if you do, maybe it's because of whinn'chehss'd:a and the things that happen because of it. It's quite a new thing, compared to me and mine, but it's just a minor variation on a theme. It is the way of things that survive. Puts me in mind of a very good evening's work. Excuse me if you hear me sing on my way out. I have places to be, events to help unfold, humans to nudge in the right direction…

"Carry on my wayward son, there'll be peace when you are done. Lay your weary head to rest.

Don't you cry no more…"

FIN