TITLE: LEGACY
AUTHOR: L C BROTHERTON
RATING: T
DISCLAIMER: Kripke owns all the good toys. I'm just taking them to my playground and promise to return them when I'm finished.
Please review! Flames will be used to make toasted marshmallows and hot cocoa.
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---------------------------------------------------SUPERNATURAL -----------------------------------------------
He doesn't acknowledge you from where you are standing on the first step leading up to the wrap-around porch. He sits on a bench of rough-hewn cedar, and his attention seems fixed on the sharp point that he's methodically whittling on a short stick of wood. His pocketknife is gripped in a gnarled hand.
He's old--older than you'd imagined—and he probably doesn't even know that you're here. He doesn't look up as you clear your throat loudly and take the next step, purposely putting your foot down heavily to make more noise.
"You keep stomping up my steps like that and when Lizzie's cake falls, I'm gonna bust a gut laughing when she flies out here and kicks your butt, kid," he warns in a low voice, not bothering to look up to see your face flush with embarrassment as you halt mid-step, prepared to land another loud footfall on the next step.
"We already have a subscription to the local paper, don't want a water softener or vinyl siding, and don't even waste your time trying to sweet-talk Lizzie into looking at a new vacuum cleaner," he tells you casually, then chuckles. "Ain't no sweet-talkin' Lizzie into nothin' if her mind ain't already set on it."
"I'm, uh, not here to give you a sales pitch on anything," you reply and feel ridiculous at the wave of nervous nausea that sweeps through you, but you can't help it. This is him, the legend, and if you weren't frozen to the spot where you stand, you'd be six quick and breathless steps away from touching history.
He nods curtly, continues whittling while maple chips gather between his boots. "That's good, 'cause we ain't in the buying mood."
An uncomfortable silence collects in the air between you and the old man, so you shift anxiously where you stand. After a moment, the screen door opens and a little girl with a curling brown ponytail parks herself next to the old man on the bench. Swinging her bare feet, she grins at you, and you guess her age to be around four or five---six at the very oldest, judging from the gaps in her smile where tiny white teeth used to be.
"How come you wanna be a hunter?" she asks you. The question is abrupt and unexpected, but asked with the same breathless enthusiasm as, "Why is the sky blue?"
You have no immediate answer for the little one who is wiggling a loose tooth with her finger.
"Your mommy will be very sad when you get killed--and you will get killed--but at least you'll get to see your daddy again when you die." Her dark green eyes lock onto yours as her bright grin fades.
The old man laughs and folds the pocketknife closed before he slides it into his pocket. He scoops the little bringer of gloom onto his lap and presents her with the product of his handiwork.
"Here--made you somethin'," he says, still chuckling over her grave announcement, seeming oblivious to your obvious discomfort. "Don't go losin' this one, ya hear me?"
She holds the sharpened stake in her small, pudgy hand, eyeing it speculatively as she stabs at the air with it. She grins and scampers off his lap, hopping off the porch to disappear around the corner of the house.
The old man straightens, brushes woodchips from his pants and silently appraises you with a half-smile. They said he was older than a hundred, but you'd never have pegged him at much past sixty until you see his eyes. If you had to judge his age based on what you see in those dark, hazel eyes, he'd be a thousand-years-old if he was a day.
"So, did you come here to stand and stare at me all day, or did you have a purpose behind it?" he asks and his eyes almost twinkle with a private mischief that he may or may not spring on you. "Don't pay Lenell any mind. She's only five---and isn't always right about what she Sees."
Before you can ask if Lenell was the little doomsayer, he yells toward the house. "Lizzie, we got company. Some cold brews would be lookin' pretty good about now!"
He motions toward a patio set placed at a corner of the porch. As you mount the final steps, you can't help but notice that his gait is smooth and unfettered. The spring in his step belies the century and more that he's lived. He takes a seat and leans around the corner to watch the little girl swinging the stake in the air like it's a butterfly net.
"Lenelle, keep your arm straight when you do that!" he shouts out unexpectedly, a slight frown crossing his face. "You're not practicing to pop soap-bubbles, girl! You'll just make something mad if you're gonna poke at it like that! If you're not gonna do it right, go back inside and help your mama."
The little girl gives him a disparaging look and corrects her attack form, earning her a thumbs up from the old man. "That's my girl," he nods in approval.
The screen door bangs closed and you glance up to see a beautiful brunette woman carrying a serving tray of snacks toward the table.
"Hey, where's the beer?" the old man protests as the young woman parks an iced tea in front of him and one in front of you.
She raises an eyebrow at him. "It's nine in the morning," she chastises him, shaking her head with a bemused smile.
"Well, you'll be sorry if I die in the next half hour and you denied the last request I ever made," he warns her lightly, a slight pout in his voice.
"Lennie, is Grandpa going to die in the next half hour?" she calls over to the little blonde who is now straight-arming her stabbing technique, impaling the forsythia bushes with vigor.
"Nope!" comes the cheerful reply.
Your hostess kisses the old man on the cheek and pats his arm in a placating manner. "See, Grandpa, you've got at least another day in you after all," she continues, putting out a plate of warm chocolate-chip cookies.
"Lennie's only five--she's not always right!" he challenges, snatching a cookie from the top of the pile.
"I'll be inside, if you need anything else," she says and leaves, a light fragrance of citrus and magnolia blossoms trailing in her wake.
Casting an errant glance toward the little girl whose attention has waned against attacking the hedges in favor of a playing with a pair of tiger-striped kittens, he leans back in his chair. "So, tell me why you're here. You didn't come here by accident."
His words are a sweeping understatement of that particular reality. It took six months of asking the right questions at the right time to the right people before you had the name and address of a Catholic priest in northern Illinois who was even willing to speak with you about a "situation" that had arisen in your family's home. He'd listened respectfully, nodding in all the appropriate places. After expressing an appropriate amount of sympathy for the losses your family had suffered, and the dead you'd buried, he'd scribbled a telephone number and a name. He couldn't guarantee, he'd warned you, but that person might—might— be able to help you.
"Winchester" was the name he'd underlined several times. He'd offered a quick blessing to you and sent you on your way, and now you wondered how this elderly man was supposed to deliver your family from hell.