John Winchester (_dadsjournal) wrote in family_business, @ 2010-02-07 05:03:00 |
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Current location: | Harvelle's Roadhouse |
Entry tags: | 2000, dean, ellen, jo, john, s01e01, sam, story: gordon walker & the false ponies |
Stompin' around, thinkin' some words I can't name, ya
John never had any intention of just sitting and watching. Or maybe he did, but that all goes out of the window pretty damn quickly when it seems Kubrick has no intention of moving or phoning anyone. Bobby asks if he's sure about this, like there's some sort of great moral debate to be waged, but there's some things that go beyond sure - there are lines, and the one dividing man and monster when it comes to Kubrick and Walker and anyone else involved in this is fading into the distance somewhere a few states away – and Bobby doesn't stick around to see exactly how far beyond sure because his line's somewhere else entirely.
There's things John promised himself he'd never do, not once he'd come home and found his little bit of grace and sworn to never let the darkness get to her (god, he'd been so damn naïve back then, thinking 'darkness' was a tour of duty and some Campbell-family stuff he'd never been privy to and not wanted to push), and Kubrick's on the receiving end of most of them, and the bastard spends the whole time singing about how Jesus wants him for a sunbeam.
His phone explodes once he hits road and not trail, the sky gunmetal-grey before dawn properly hits, hiking his way back to the Roadhouse and trying to figure out what the hell he's supposed to tell them, how he can make it sound less like he's lost another Harvelle, like he's failed to find Sam. Turns out he doesn't need to worry... about that, at least.
There's plenty of material for storm-building in the voicemails, and though he's got miles of empty road to get his head straight it's still a veritable hurricane by the time he pulls up outside the Roadhouse in a Toyota Camry someone back at the diner where they'd parted ways yesterday will no doubt be regretting leaving unlocked (piece-of-shit modern car, no soul, and the tape in the deck is all some tuneless girl-rocker – hah, rocker. Kids today don't know what 'rock' is – droning on about her boyfriend) as the afternoon's slow death sets the sky on fire behind him.