Thank God for Voicemail
Note: This was an entry for the Fanfic writing contest with the KazCon convention in Lawrence, Kansas in early August 2007. We were asked to write a scene not shown for the Season 1 episode 'HOME'. This was the scene I chose.
Maintenance was the signature of an ex-mechanic, ex-Marine who knows his truck's dependability could mean the difference between life or death under the right circumstances. John Winchester was just such a man.
John was up to his armpits in truck motor when the call came in. His phone was buried beneath the heavy jacket on the seat of his trusty black chariot, muffling the chirping ringtones.
Installing the last fresh plug and wire, John paused to wipe his hands on a towel. Oil change, new plugs and wires and his trustworthy road companion should be good for a long while. With a satisfied smile, he opened the passenger door, grabbed the now warm brew he'd bought an hour before, and popped the tab. Rubbing his hand over his graying beard, he tipped his head back enjoying a long gulp before he donned his jacket to fend off the cool Colorado air.
Ready to chuck his phone into his breast pocket, he suddenly noticed a missed call, a message. Alarms sounded mentally, Dean never called unless it was serious.
John had ostracized himself from the company of his beloved sons months before, when he had become aware of the renewed presence of the 'thing' that had killed his wife.
For years there'd been nothing, then suddenly telltale signs were cropping up in far flung places. One occurrence had been near Palo Alto just before Sam's sweetheart died. How John wished he could have seen that one coming!
He triggered the voicemail button and was staggered to hear Dean's usually rock-steady, clear voice coming through the line sounding tortured, on the edge of tears and faltering as he spoke.
"Dad.. I know I've left you messages before.. I don't even know if you get 'em.. but I'm with Sam.. and we're in Lawrence and there's something in our old house.. I don't know if it's the thing that killed Mom or not.. but I don't know what to do. So whatever you do, if you could get here.. Please.. I need your help, Dad."
John stared at the phone, more shaken than he would have admitted. Dean… back in Lawrence? Dean had sworn he'd NEVER set foot in Lawrence again! And John knew he'd meant it.
He winced, his mind a kaleidoscope spinning through the mental snapshots of that night and the year that followed. There was his Mary in a halo of consuming flame…Sam in his crib…Sam in Dean's small arms…the firemen… But mostly, there was Dean…that beautiful, little blonde-haired boy whose big, bottle-green eyes stared so intensely into John's when they were eye to eye.
Dean had spent so many weeks muted by the horror of his mother's death. It seemed to John that when the boy finally found his tongue again, he had already moved onto the path towards the strong, inwardly-turned man he would become.
For only a few short weeks, Dean had spoken of Mary only once or twice a day. But after that winter passed, John came to know his firstborn's true self, his strength. He could see the child earnestly watching his father's face and eyes as he spoke, searching for and reading his moods and thoughts with an understanding far beyond his tender years.
At only four years of age, Dean's perceptive side had already kicked into high gear, seeing that the very mention of his mother brought quick moisture to his father's sad eyes. As a result, the once bubbly, active Dean had stopped bringing up that particular subject. John had accepted the gesture gratefully. Some days, Dean tried for hours to make his father's eyes smile again, though at the time John had been too consumed with grief to see.
It had nearly torn out John's still grieving heart, though the night John passed by the boys' room and heard that sweet, clear little voice coming from Sam's crib. He'd known for weeks that Dean had been climbing into his tiny brother's crib, wrapping the baby in his protective arms while they slept. But until that night John had been unaware of the soft singing of Mary's bedtime lullaby or the soft patter of Dean telling Sammy how much he'd have liked their mom, how pretty and sweet she was and how someday she'd come back to them.
John had stood there listening, his cheeks glistening with tears.
That night Dean had ended his little dialogue with a big-brotherly admonishment. "Sammy, just remember not to talk about Mommy when Daddy is here 'cuz it makes Daddy cry."
John had ached to go into that room, draw his grown-up little man into a strong fatherly embrace and just hold him until the pain subsided. Instead, the Marine in him had gone to the kitchen and poured himself a whiskey in hopes of finding numbness. Totally out of character, John had cried himself to sleep that night vowing to never let Dean see the pain in his eyes again.
Now, hearing that tortured voice, the pain was back in full force.
For months now, John had been investigating dozens of new leads over thousands of miles. The cattle deaths, strange weather patterns with electrical storms and extreme temperature fluctuations all played some part in this demon's scenario. He was now certain it was a demon, but there were still other parts to this equation, other unknown values.
He'd heard rumors of evil plans regarding Sam and the other children who'd had childhoods skewered by their mothers' deaths, but so far, all unsubstantiated. Thin tales had surfaced about a weapon, an antique gun with the power to conquer even a demon. Even tracking each lead, he'd been able to corroborate so little.
If my boy is in Lawrence risking his life and his brother's, this threat is real! I know I'm nowhere near prepared to do a battle with this creature!! I don't know what we're up against or even how to fight it. God, if you're listening.. protect my boys and give me just a little more time… please.
He snapped open the phone and searched its memory, found the number he needed and hit 'dial'.
He put the phone to his ear, cursing. "Damn it, no answer! I HATE voicemail. Damn it!"
But the love of his boys, won out over anything else in the world. His deep whiskey-voiced baritone filled the cab of the truck, "Missouri, this is John Winchester. I need your help. My boys are in Lawrence… something about the old house… Will you watch over them 'til I get there? You've got my number. Call me if it's the same evil back again!"
John slammed the phone shut and turned his concentration towards the road ahead.
Ready or not! Here I come! Dean and Sam will not stand alone against this thing. It's my fight... Been my fight from the start... I'll be the one to end it!
Gunning the big beast's motor, he roared onto the road heading northeast towards Lawrence.