Story: Narrate by youthere
Disclaimer: I own'em! I own'em! They're mine!... wait, who was that guy with the glowing hand...?
Spoilers: References No Exit and IMTOD, but rather harmlessly.
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INTERLUDE
He sat on a musty chair in his mustier basement, staring at the endless stacks of boxes. He had already checked everywhere else and the boxes in the basement were that bloody straw. The one you find yourself clutching, even when you know it's about as useful as a fire extinguisher in Hell. Most of them were filled with plain crap, he knew; nothing there. But he also knew he'd end up going through every last one of them, anyway.
He took a deep breath and then blew it out forcefully, trying to dispel the weariness creeping ever deeper into his bones. He had hardly slept in a week, but that was about the only thing he hadn't done. He'd dug up books he'd forgotten existed and called contacts he'd been sure were dead by now. He'd experimented with just about every spell, ward or combination thereof, that he thought were even remotely likely to work, and even with the ones he knew were hogwash.
Hell, he'd even tried that stupid Ouija board Sam had left at the house after John passed. Now, there was something he'd never thought he'd be caught dead using, so to speak.
And what he'd also done was listen on the phone as Sam's voice grew more desperate by the day. He'd known the shit was really hitting it some two days ago, when Sam had gone from sounding tired and scared, to exhausted and positively panicked. The only thing that had kept him from rushing to the young man's side was the fact that, the steaming pile of nothing he had in South Dakota was still better for info than any pile anywhere else.
But it hadn't been easy, sticking with his library. He knew this was where he'd be most useful, but every instinct was screaming at him to go be with the (his) boys. He'd found himself wondering when exactly he'd grown so attached to the Winchester brothers, but had quickly given up on the question. They were family now and that was simply that.
He ran his palm over his scruffy beard, hand coming away greasy. Among the things he hadn't really taken time for in the last few days was showering and, to be honest, even he was starting to feel a bit too grizzled.
He dove into the stack of boxes with a grunt. He knew there was nothing there, but it was all he could do at the moment and then he would sure as hell do it. Because the Winchester brothers had Bobby Singer in their corner.
X
She sat back in her booth and slowly swirled her whiskey. This was a matter of patience more than anything else. She felt like a prospector, kneeling in frigid Alaska mud hoping for a small shimmer of something worthwhile in his big pan of crap.
She was good at it; shifting through information, teasing it out of reluctant sources, balancing out favors, knowing when to give trust and when to ask for it. Maybe she no longer had a bar counter for her sources to lean on, but that didn't mean they were gone. She still had people to call on and she'd contacted every last one of them for the Winchesters. She had talked and listened and pushed and wheedled, called in favors and tracked down friends of friends of friends. She was still waiting for a call from a source she'd only tracked down today. He wouldn't be able to help, she already knew that. But she had to try.
She couldn't pinpoint the exact moment that John's boys had become her responsibility, but bottom line; they were. She couldn't fail them. Not those two.
She sighed and swirled the drink again, not quite having an appetite for it anymore. Involuntarily, her mind drifted back. To the time she had hated John Winchester with a fervent violence, the gaping pit inside her still fresh and all consuming. The time when it seemed hate was the only thing she had that was strong, that could keep her from simply collapsing in on herself.
But that was a long time ago and she had learned how to hold on, and eventually how to be all right. How to wake up every morning and smile at her little girl. She wondered if John had ever really gotten there.
She was startled out of her thoughts by the sound of the phone ringing, her contact finally getting back to her. She knew he couldn't help, but she'd try him anyway. If there was one thing Ellen Harwelle knew how to do, it was persevere.
X
He decided to call it smoke, since the alternative was a collective condensation of body heat. Whatever it was made it near impossible to see the bar, and as for seeing the bartender standing behind it, that was a lost cause. Hoping that, with some odd kind of professional skill, the man ( he was pretty sure it was a man; no woman would set a foot in here, for sure ) could see him, he made a vague drinking motion and accepted what was poured for him. He couldn't see the selection of bottles, but he figured the place couldn't exactly be a gourmet's wet dream, anyway.
He perched himself on a bar stool, squinted into the dim room and waited for Jim to show up. He had good news; the shipment would be arriving early, putting them days ahead of schedule. Jim's contact would be pleased, and that guy was really someone you wanted to keep happy.
But the shipment was obviously the only thing that would be arriving early. He ended up sitting at the aging counter for hours, downing three large godawful beers and feeling the absence of a pool table something fierce.
He couldn't really remember what had caused him to strike up a conversation with the ruffled looking man sitting next to him nursing a bourbon. It was one of those bar chats you just find yourself trapped in without quite knowing how. The kind that sooner or later always swings 'round to "the one that got away".
In fact they'd only been talking for about twenty minutes when, sure as the tides, Bourbon Man swung into a description of a leggy blond from a long time ago. A veritable angel this woman seemed to have been, and he found himself doubting she'd have ever spared as much as a glance for the alcohol marinated heap of looser sitting next to him. At some point in the description he couldn't stomach any more and snorted into his glass.
"Come on man. If you're gonna tell stories, at least give me something I haven't heard a million times before."
Bourbon Man simply laughed, not the least bit offended, and then leaned a bit more heavily on the counter.
"Something new, eh? Hell buddy, now that I think I can do for ya..."
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AN: Just a deep breath before I start trying to pull the brothers out of that swamp I seem to have marched them into... If only it were that easy in real life, eh?
And, as always, reviews make my day. No, seriously: you should see me preen :)
