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Disclaimer:
I do not own Supernatural.
Though, if I did there would be a serious shirt-shortage
and I'd be living in Dean's jacket.
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Warning:
This chapter contains quite a bit of foul language
and several bad attempts at humor.
Consider yourself warned.
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- Chapter 2 -
- Far From the Shore -
Part
of me says let it go
Everything must have a season
Round and
round it goes
And every day's the one before
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The get-together following the funeral service would've been enough to bore Ash to death. He was the best person to party with because he just didn't care, didn't let other people stop him from having a good time. I remember this stupid frat party we crashed after he got booted from MIT where Ash actually did the robot and people thought it was cool. Then there was this time in Denver in this yuppie's bar Ash managed to dig up some B.O.C., he nearly gave this old guy a heart attack he was laughing so hard at my brother's moves. Somehow I just don't think sitting in a bar eating and talking is the way Ashley—yeah, Ashley; let's just say Susan watched Gone With the Wind one too many times—would've liked to be remembered.
I get up and move to the jukebox. Ash liked Charlie Daniels but the band wouldn't have made it on his memorial playlist. I push a few buttons and hope the queue is relatively short. I'm moving back across worn floorboards when the door to the bar—a small out of the way place with a few too many dead animals on the wall—swings open, flooding the planks with white sunlight.
Seeing who it is, I quickly redirect and stroll over—barely quashing the urge to run like a child. He looks older but he's like a Timex, he's gonna last damn near forever. He's wearing worn flannel that probably smells like wood-smoke and thick soled steel-toed boots, looking every bit a redneck lumberjack if it weren't for his sparkling eyes and boyish face. A grin that's so big it folds the skin at the corners of his mouth, spreads across his face and his arms open, I'm reverted back to a six year old in pigtails with that one gesture and I all but skip the few remaining feet. I sigh into the rough fabric of his shirt as he enfolds me in a hug.
"How are yah, Angel?" It's the same burr a grizzly has, he's the same ornery old bear he was two years ago. I breathe deep the scent of pine and Old Spice, and I feel like I really have come home.
"I'm good, sir." He pulls me back and eyes me, his left eye squinted slightly—it never was the same after that feral demon tried clawing his face off. He nods, eyes still traveling. His gaze stops and he peers at me from beneath his eyebrows, watching for the reaction to his next statement.
"The food must be shit in England, yah look like a strong wind could blow yah away." I laugh and shake my head in the negative, Gramps has been desensitized by too many years of robust diner waitresses and now thinks all women should be shaped like pears.
"Nah, Gramps, the food is shit in Scotland." He chuckles and gestures to a table.
"Why don't we order something to eat and catch up?" I know it isn't really a request, his questions are usually thinly veiled orders, but I don't plan on refusing.
I gather up my nearly empty soda and messenger bag from the seat at the bar and settle into a booth in the back. Gramps is up at the bar getting a couple of brews—even though I'm not much of a drinker, it's his way of showing that he respects me as an adult and a fellow hunter, I'll down the bitter liquid with a smile—and ordering something greasy, no doubt.
I watch as he makes his way across the room with that swaggering confidence that I've never been able to mimic. Holding a pair of bottles, he stops briefly to chat with a few old acquaintances as the opening rift of a Lynard Skynard song plays in the background. Ash always said "Free Bird" was great but overplayed at funerals, I played it because it makes me laugh to imagine the grimace on his face. Ash pretty much thought Lynard Skynard was the only band worth listening to, not that I disagree, but I acknowledge that there's more than Southern rock in the world.
Gramps finally makes it to the table and he sits down with a loud exhalation of breath. Glancing at me from the side he smiles quirkily, blue eyes—something I didn't inherit, unfortunately—sparkling brightly beneath bushy eyebrows that resemble puffy clouds poised on the horizon of his forehead. He's laughing with me internally because we're both thinking the same thing: Man, he's gettin' old.
"So how was the huntin' across the pond?" It isn't a need to break the silence that prompts the question, but actual interest. I laugh leaning back into the vinyl seat, mind racing back to my childhood spent in much the same fashion.
"Good, you would not believe how massive the pixie population is, though." They might not be the scariest of creatures, but they weren't exactly easy to get rid of either, kinda like cockroaches.
"You spent two years hunting fairies?" He's laughing at me, with me, and pitying me in one sound: a warm chuckle that rumbles up from the deep. Of course, he would know that I'd been bored me to death hunting the same thing repeatedly.
"Mostly; I got a couple werewolves, a banshee, and even a few possessions." He sips his beer, grinning into the lip of the bottle. We don't make light of what we do, West's take our responsibilities very seriously, but sometimes laughter is the best way to cope with something.
"What about you, Gramps?" I wait until he's taking a swig of his beer, timing is everything. "Been catching up on your knitting?" He inhales sharply and chokes a little, but once he stops gagging and beating on his chest he laughs heartily.
"Yeah," he looks me square in the eye, "the cabin is covered in doilies, can't see the couch beneath 'em all; and that's without the embroidery." His faux sincerity makes the statement that much funnier. My cheeks ache, picturing Gramps' "hunting lodge" covered in frills, and my mind races to come up with a good retort.
"That what made you late, had to finish your latest cross-stitch?" I'm smiling so hard my jaw is aching and my chest is heaving with pent up laughter.
"Nah, actually," his gaze is serious but he's still smiling, "I got caught in that storm on my way through the pass." I nod, remembering how hard it was to navigate the Appalachians. His face sobers,"How was the service?"
"It was good, standard, really." I'm bobbing my head as I speak, nodding at thin air, somehow unable to meet his gaze. Searching for something to say, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. "Richard is doing a job in Tulsa."
The silence that follows his huff of irritation is filled with the arrival of two burgers that almost stretch off their plates, ringed with a pile of golden French fries. Gramps gives the waitress a smile I've seen a million times before, it doesn't matter that she's probably younger than me or that he doesn't actually have any interest in her. The West secret weapon is charm, it's a weapon I have yet to master, and it's oozing from his expression. The waitress asks if we need anything else, Gramps shakes his head, and she scurries off blushing.
He leans back in his seat, sending me a self-assured grin—I can tell he's rejoicing in the fact that 'he still has it.'
"Ellen's convinced me to stick around and work here for a while." I dip a few golden potato sticks into some ketchup while I say it.
He looks up from his burger to ask wryly, "She twist your arm?"
I'm smiling and shaking my head. "Not really, gettin' tired of pixies and leprechauns anyways." His teeth, he still has most of them, sink into his burger, "I'm waiting for my gear to get here in the mail, and then I gotta run down to Missouri and grab my stuff outta storage." I take a moment to savor my own artery-clogging sandwich.
"You got wheels?" He takes a swig from his bottle, and I pause to wipe ketchup off my cheek with a paper napkin.
"Yeah, I left Ash the Pontiac, and it's still in the parking lot. Needs some work; Lord knows, Ash didn't know a fan belt from a radiator." I laugh at my own joke, playing with my salty fries.
"He was a good boy," Gramps looks upward, mentally sifting through his memory, "not much of a hunter, if I remember. But he was sharp." We share a smile of remembrance. Ash was sixteen when he went with us on his first hunt, he wasn't so bad at the research but during the actual operation he nearly shot himself in the foot.
"Yeah." I watch as his big hand wraps around the plastic container sitting next to the sugar packets and then lift it towards his plate. "You know that stuff is bad for your blood pressure, right?" Gramps stops, saltshaker poised over his own gargantuan pile of potatoes.
"You only live once, Angel." I smile, remembering. That's pretty much the West family creed in a nutshell.
"Charles," Bobby announces his presence in the form of a greeting and I continue eating while they shake hands. Gramps invites Bobby to pull up a chair, which he does and the two start talking about fishing. Gramps is in the middle of a story—the one about me and my Snoopy fishing pole—when Ellen strides over.
"Angie, got someone here who has been dying to see you." I look away from Ellen to a petite blonde that's standing off to the side. It's the girl from the cemetery, but up close I recognize her immediately. I'm out of my seat in a matter of seconds.
"Oh my god, Joey?" I exclaim as I hug her fiercely, no doubt restricting airflow, and I barely hear her as she laughs and tells me not to call her that. I can see Ellen smiling at us both. It's a wonder I didn't recognize her, she's looks nothing like the dirt-covered tomboy I ran around with. We both pull back and smile at each other. I insist that she joins me, scooching into the corner of the booth so she can sit down.
"How are you?" Her brown eyes are slightly puffed around the edges, a sure sign she's been crying.
I reply, "good. You?" She smiles.
"I'm hunting now." I force a smile and congratulate her, but I look to Ellen over her head—she looks slightly lost, but the expression clears quickly.
"There are some people I'd like yah to meet, honey." She pauses gesturing to my food, "once you're finished eating, of course." I nod in response.
"Ellen," Gramps voice cut our conversation off and smoothly redirected Ellen's attention. I took the opportunity to catch up with an old friend.
"So, how have you been?" She fiddles with my empty soda can, twisting the pop top around and around, I wince once I realize that I've already asked that question. I'm not exactly a skilled conversationalist.
"Fine," she watches her fingers intently and I know she's bullshitting. "I'm gonna miss him." She looks up from the corner of her eye and this time it's my turn to avoid eye contact.
"Me too."
"I mean he was like a brother to me, yah know?" I nod because I do know. I look at my half-eaten hamburger and decide I'm not hungry anymore.
"So, do you know who your mom wants me to meet?" I think the change of subject is rather tactful.
"I'm not sure, but I have an idea or two." Her head turns, wonderfully straight hair sliding smoothly with the movement, and she nods towards her mom. I follow her gaze and see a pair of guys talking to the older Harvelle. One of them is majorly tall, but he tries to hide it by tucking his hands into his pockets and slumping over, he's utterly adorable with his floppy hair and lack of facial hair. The shorter one wears his skin as if it's a worn t-shirt, totally comfortable; he has the appearance that made James Dean so famous: aloof, cool, trouble.
"Who are they?" We're both still looking at them, but when I glance at Jo I can see that she only has eyes for Mister Dean, and the look she's giving him is more than lustful.
"Dean and Sam Winchester." There's that name again, it tickles something in the back of my mind, but whatever memory it is darts out of reach before I can grasp it. I don't even have to ask whether or not they're hunters, the way they carry themselves says it all, even Bigfoot can't hide that kind of vibe.
"Why d'you think your mom wants me to meet them?" She shrugs and turns back towards me.
"I'm guessing it's probably because they knew your brother." It makes sense, but it doesn't feel like it's the right answer. Ellen is planning something and my instincts are telling me it's something more than a simple introduction.
I motion for Jo to stand so I can slide out of the booth and make my way across the room. Jo stops next to me at the bar and I look to the giant, flashing my sweetest smile.
"Hi," dark eyes catch on my face from beneath a thick fringe of hair, "I'm Angie, Jo says you knew my brother."
(Notes:)
Ashley: There is no proof that this is actually his name, but I'm sadistic and've probably watched Gone With the Wind too many times, once was enough. If you don't know, Ashley was Scarlet's love interest (though, why I have no idea) in the movie.
Timex is a watch that "Takes a lickin' and keeps on tickin'."
James Dean Rebel Without a Cause, good movie. The movie did so well because James Dean had this great portrayal of all that is "bad boy" with his Levis and his leather jacket. I like the irony that they have the same name, somewhat.
Santana: the lyrics and the chapter title come from the Santana song "Just Feel Better."
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Okay, I know Jo is in this chapter, but don't worry she won't become a main character. I apologize for any and all errors, this chapter was un-beta'd, just like the last one, so I'm pretty much wandering around in the dark. The boys will actually speak in the next chapter. Sorry the chapters are so short but, generally, that's how I work.
