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telarynTitle: Self-Reflection
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
telaryn
Word Count: 1600
Fandom: Supernatural, Angel
Characters: John Winchester, Lindsey McDonald
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None really.
Disclaimer: No ownership implied, no profit obtained.
Summary: John finds unexpected help by the side of the road.
Author's Note: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
angst_bingo's Round 3, for the prompt "stranded".
John Winchester was in Nebraska when the money ran out. It didn’t happen often, but occasionally the job was too distracting and the credit card companies were too on the ball. He said a silent prayer of thanks as he left the motel parking lot that he’d gassed up the truck before Citibank managed to catch up with “Mr. Creever’s” suspicious card activity. Worst came to worst, he’d make his way to The Roadhouse and grovel until Ellen Harvelle agreed not to blow his brains out.
In the meantime, he could sleep in the truck. He’d done it before – there was also camping equipment stowed in the back if he found a likely place and if the weather held. The more immediate problem was food. He could steal enough to keep him going until he reached The Roadhouse, and then he was pretty sure Ellen would at least feed him for the boys’ sake.
What the hell are you doing? John sighed heavily, cursing himself for not turning the radio on right away. Silence and the road were a deadly combination when it came to self-reflection, and self-reflection was something he couldn’t afford in anything more than very limited doses these days.
“I’m surviving,” he said out loud into the stillness. His boys were grown, they were making their own way in the world – all he needed to do now was survive long enough to find the demon that had ruined his life and make the bastard pay. And if surviving meant that he had to be a little bit more of a criminal than he was on a daily basis - than you taught your boys to be - until he got back on his feet, John supposed he could live with that.
After all, he hadn’t chosen this life. ..it had chosen him, and it wouldn’t let him go until he saw this thing done.
Before he could completely twist himself up, John turned on the radio. He was well out of range of any regular stations, but Dean had somehow managed to get him an in-dash CD player for his last birthday. The unit had been installed while he slept – the work done so professionally John had driven almost two hundred miles before he realized anything was different.
Steppenwolf was in the player – John thought about it for a few moments, and decided that the edge of psychedalia suited his mood. It was the kind of music they’d listened to in Vietnam, during their down time – hard edged, hopeful, and carrying with it memories of basements and beads, black-lights and turntables – all the stuff he and his buddies missed out on getting shipped overseas as young as they had.
The opening strains of “Don’t Step on the Grass, Sam” came on, and John clicked it over to the next track without thinking about it. His youngest son was making his own way in the world, and in spite of John’s raging paranoia and ineffective parenting, it looked like Sam was going to have that normal life Mary had always wanted for their boys. Dean was another story; the boy had been too old when the fire happened – too aware. Add in John’s need to have an extra set of eyes to watch Sam full time, and he knew his eldest child was forever ruined for anything like a normal life.
The only thing he’d been able to do for Dean was not stand in his way when the boy started showing an interest in hunting on his own. The farther he was away from John at this stage of his life, the better off Dean would be. I know it’s not what you wanted for them, he thought, watching the white line slip by, but it was the best I could do.
Highway driving in Nebraska tended to be the proverbial double-edged sword. If you could resist white line fever, the areas on either side of the asphalt tended to be flat and open enough that there were few surprises. As such, John saw hazard lights flashing by the side of the road about two miles before he could make out enough detail to see what was going on. When the red shielded spots on the top side of his cab illuminated a battered truck by the side of the road with the hood up, John pulled over without thinking twice.
The driver of the crippled vehicle had been half-hidden as he parked, checking different things under the hood like he knew what he was doing. He straightened when John got out of his own truck; stepping into the clear with a wary, but not hostile expression.
“Need some help?” John called, keeping his stance easy, and his hands in the open. His instincts had prompted him to stop, but experience said there was no need to be stupid about things. Too many Good Samaritans ended up shot as thanks for their efforts on behalf of a fellow traveler.
The stranger was quiet for a long moment, before nodding. “I do,” he said. “I should have had her serviced back in Lincoln, but I figured I could push things until I reached Los Angeles.” He snorted softly. “And unfortunately I know just enough about engines to get myself in trouble.” He was older than John’s sons, but not by much – and as he continued walking closer to the traveler, John found himself thinking again about Dean.
“Name’s John,” he said, sticking out his hand.
The younger man’s eyes ticked to John’s left side, and John knew instantly that he’d seen the flash of shoulder holster when his jacket gapped. He said nothing, however, taking John’s hand in a firm grip. “Lindsey.”
John nodded, acknowledging Lindsey’s decision not to make an issue of the gun. It bought him a lot of points that he’d been observant enough to spot it in the first place, but calm enough not to immediately assume John had stopped for nefarious purposes. “So,” he said, breaking the silence at last. “Let’s see what’s going on, shall we?”
The problem proved simple to diagnose, and even simpler to fix, once John had retrieved his tool kit from the back of his own truck. Talk between them was confined mostly to the problem at hand, but at one point Lindsey let his guard down far enough to admit that he had a twin brother, and that Eliot was the more mechanically inclined of the two of them. John found himself reciprocating – he told Lindsey about Sam and his academic achievements, and spun a story about Dean that was plausible enough to the untrained ear.
“Stanford,” Lindsey said, nodding approvingly about Sam’s choice of schools. “Does he want to be a lawyer?”
John was suddenly embarrassed to realize that he didn’t know what Sam’s career goals were. He’d been paralyzed with terror at the thought of little Sammy striking out on his own, he’d lashed out, Sam had fought back, and that was where the matter still rested three years later. “Yeah,” he said, working his torque wrench to tighten a particularly troublesome bolt. The lie came easily, bolstered by the admission that “he’ll be a damn good one. Kid’s got a great head for facts and argues like nobody I’ve ever known.”
“Passion and brains,” Lindsey said. “It’s the best foundation you can hope for.” He hesitated for a second, then reached in his pocket and pulled a business card and passed it over. “If he’s looking for a summer internship, tell him to give me a call.”
John felt a momentary chill when he looked at the card and saw “Wolfram and Hart, Attorneys at Law”, with offices listed in major cities around the globe, but he could hardly back away from his lie at this point. “I will, thanks,” he said, nodding as he slipped the card into his own pocket. “Ready to fire this thing up?”
Lindsey had been skeptical, right up until the truck roared to full, healthy life. John listened to the different pieces of the engine doing their thing, and when he was certain he heard nothing out of the ordinary, he shut the hood with a solid, satisfying slam. “She’ll get you to Los Angeles,” he said, coming up to the driver’s side window. “You’ve got my word on that.”
“I believe you,” Lindsey said. Reaching out the open window, he pressed a folded stack of bills into John’s hand. “It’s been a real pleasure.”
John swallowed, stunned at the sincerity he saw in the younger man’s expression. “Glad I could help,” was all the response he could manage. He didn’t dare look at the money – his first impulse had been to refuse the payment, but given his circumstances he could hardly say no to whatever Lindsey had thought it fair to part with.
They said their good-byes, and it wasn’t until he was safely back in the cab of his own vehicle that John unfolded the soft, worn rectangles in his hand.
Two hundred dollars. The kind of money he would have been making for jobs as a legitimate mechanic by now. In his current circumstances the money was enough to keep him going for a few more days – until he could find a solid place to land.
As he pulled back onto the highway, and his cd player cycled up – John reached out and scrolled through the playlist until the opening strains of “Don’t Step on the Grass, Sam” filled the cab.
After he found a motel and got some dinner, he resolved to call Dean.
Author:
telarynWord Count: 1600
Fandom: Supernatural, Angel
Characters: John Winchester, Lindsey McDonald
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None really.
Disclaimer: No ownership implied, no profit obtained.
Summary: John finds unexpected help by the side of the road.
Author's Note: Written for
angst_bingo's Round 3, for the prompt "stranded".John Winchester was in Nebraska when the money ran out. It didn’t happen often, but occasionally the job was too distracting and the credit card companies were too on the ball. He said a silent prayer of thanks as he left the motel parking lot that he’d gassed up the truck before Citibank managed to catch up with “Mr. Creever’s” suspicious card activity. Worst came to worst, he’d make his way to The Roadhouse and grovel until Ellen Harvelle agreed not to blow his brains out.
In the meantime, he could sleep in the truck. He’d done it before – there was also camping equipment stowed in the back if he found a likely place and if the weather held. The more immediate problem was food. He could steal enough to keep him going until he reached The Roadhouse, and then he was pretty sure Ellen would at least feed him for the boys’ sake.
What the hell are you doing? John sighed heavily, cursing himself for not turning the radio on right away. Silence and the road were a deadly combination when it came to self-reflection, and self-reflection was something he couldn’t afford in anything more than very limited doses these days.
“I’m surviving,” he said out loud into the stillness. His boys were grown, they were making their own way in the world – all he needed to do now was survive long enough to find the demon that had ruined his life and make the bastard pay. And if surviving meant that he had to be a little bit more of a criminal than he was on a daily basis - than you taught your boys to be - until he got back on his feet, John supposed he could live with that.
After all, he hadn’t chosen this life. ..it had chosen him, and it wouldn’t let him go until he saw this thing done.
Before he could completely twist himself up, John turned on the radio. He was well out of range of any regular stations, but Dean had somehow managed to get him an in-dash CD player for his last birthday. The unit had been installed while he slept – the work done so professionally John had driven almost two hundred miles before he realized anything was different.
Steppenwolf was in the player – John thought about it for a few moments, and decided that the edge of psychedalia suited his mood. It was the kind of music they’d listened to in Vietnam, during their down time – hard edged, hopeful, and carrying with it memories of basements and beads, black-lights and turntables – all the stuff he and his buddies missed out on getting shipped overseas as young as they had.
The opening strains of “Don’t Step on the Grass, Sam” came on, and John clicked it over to the next track without thinking about it. His youngest son was making his own way in the world, and in spite of John’s raging paranoia and ineffective parenting, it looked like Sam was going to have that normal life Mary had always wanted for their boys. Dean was another story; the boy had been too old when the fire happened – too aware. Add in John’s need to have an extra set of eyes to watch Sam full time, and he knew his eldest child was forever ruined for anything like a normal life.
The only thing he’d been able to do for Dean was not stand in his way when the boy started showing an interest in hunting on his own. The farther he was away from John at this stage of his life, the better off Dean would be. I know it’s not what you wanted for them, he thought, watching the white line slip by, but it was the best I could do.
Highway driving in Nebraska tended to be the proverbial double-edged sword. If you could resist white line fever, the areas on either side of the asphalt tended to be flat and open enough that there were few surprises. As such, John saw hazard lights flashing by the side of the road about two miles before he could make out enough detail to see what was going on. When the red shielded spots on the top side of his cab illuminated a battered truck by the side of the road with the hood up, John pulled over without thinking twice.
The driver of the crippled vehicle had been half-hidden as he parked, checking different things under the hood like he knew what he was doing. He straightened when John got out of his own truck; stepping into the clear with a wary, but not hostile expression.
“Need some help?” John called, keeping his stance easy, and his hands in the open. His instincts had prompted him to stop, but experience said there was no need to be stupid about things. Too many Good Samaritans ended up shot as thanks for their efforts on behalf of a fellow traveler.
The stranger was quiet for a long moment, before nodding. “I do,” he said. “I should have had her serviced back in Lincoln, but I figured I could push things until I reached Los Angeles.” He snorted softly. “And unfortunately I know just enough about engines to get myself in trouble.” He was older than John’s sons, but not by much – and as he continued walking closer to the traveler, John found himself thinking again about Dean.
“Name’s John,” he said, sticking out his hand.
The younger man’s eyes ticked to John’s left side, and John knew instantly that he’d seen the flash of shoulder holster when his jacket gapped. He said nothing, however, taking John’s hand in a firm grip. “Lindsey.”
John nodded, acknowledging Lindsey’s decision not to make an issue of the gun. It bought him a lot of points that he’d been observant enough to spot it in the first place, but calm enough not to immediately assume John had stopped for nefarious purposes. “So,” he said, breaking the silence at last. “Let’s see what’s going on, shall we?”
The problem proved simple to diagnose, and even simpler to fix, once John had retrieved his tool kit from the back of his own truck. Talk between them was confined mostly to the problem at hand, but at one point Lindsey let his guard down far enough to admit that he had a twin brother, and that Eliot was the more mechanically inclined of the two of them. John found himself reciprocating – he told Lindsey about Sam and his academic achievements, and spun a story about Dean that was plausible enough to the untrained ear.
“Stanford,” Lindsey said, nodding approvingly about Sam’s choice of schools. “Does he want to be a lawyer?”
John was suddenly embarrassed to realize that he didn’t know what Sam’s career goals were. He’d been paralyzed with terror at the thought of little Sammy striking out on his own, he’d lashed out, Sam had fought back, and that was where the matter still rested three years later. “Yeah,” he said, working his torque wrench to tighten a particularly troublesome bolt. The lie came easily, bolstered by the admission that “he’ll be a damn good one. Kid’s got a great head for facts and argues like nobody I’ve ever known.”
“Passion and brains,” Lindsey said. “It’s the best foundation you can hope for.” He hesitated for a second, then reached in his pocket and pulled a business card and passed it over. “If he’s looking for a summer internship, tell him to give me a call.”
John felt a momentary chill when he looked at the card and saw “Wolfram and Hart, Attorneys at Law”, with offices listed in major cities around the globe, but he could hardly back away from his lie at this point. “I will, thanks,” he said, nodding as he slipped the card into his own pocket. “Ready to fire this thing up?”
Lindsey had been skeptical, right up until the truck roared to full, healthy life. John listened to the different pieces of the engine doing their thing, and when he was certain he heard nothing out of the ordinary, he shut the hood with a solid, satisfying slam. “She’ll get you to Los Angeles,” he said, coming up to the driver’s side window. “You’ve got my word on that.”
“I believe you,” Lindsey said. Reaching out the open window, he pressed a folded stack of bills into John’s hand. “It’s been a real pleasure.”
John swallowed, stunned at the sincerity he saw in the younger man’s expression. “Glad I could help,” was all the response he could manage. He didn’t dare look at the money – his first impulse had been to refuse the payment, but given his circumstances he could hardly say no to whatever Lindsey had thought it fair to part with.
They said their good-byes, and it wasn’t until he was safely back in the cab of his own vehicle that John unfolded the soft, worn rectangles in his hand.
Two hundred dollars. The kind of money he would have been making for jobs as a legitimate mechanic by now. In his current circumstances the money was enough to keep him going for a few more days – until he could find a solid place to land.
As he pulled back onto the highway, and his cd player cycled up – John reached out and scrolled through the playlist until the opening strains of “Don’t Step on the Grass, Sam” filled the cab.
After he found a motel and got some dinner, he resolved to call Dean.
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![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
23/10/11 21:40 (UTC)Also, Sam Winchester and Lindsey McDonald? *explodes*
(no subject)
23/10/11 22:49 (UTC)(no subject)
24/10/11 11:19 (UTC)(no subject)
24/10/11 11:20 (UTC)(no subject)
18/11/11 11:29 (UTC)