WHO: John Winchester and Truckzilla WHERE: Santa Monica, near the beach WHEN: Thursday, November 3; afternoon WHAT: John's arrival and subsequent period of w.t.f. RATING: PG-13 for language STATUS:narrative; complete
For John Winchester, it was no more abrupt than waking up from a dream, the transition from wherever he had been to the living state he found himself in when his eyes opened. He remembered Hell, he remembered the after, but like the details of a dream that was impossible to hold on to, the pieces of memory of Hell were fragmented and hard to acknowledge, the pieces of memory of the 'after' slipping away entirely until he was left with no more than the knowledge he had gone to Hell, escaped, helped his sons one more time and then found himself here.
Here was apparently the front seat of his truck.
Methodically, he took inventory of himself – the same clothing he had been wearing the morning he died, but clean – and his current spot – definitely his truck – with a definite purpose, despite the ever present surreal sense about the entire thing. He was out of Hell, he was alive and he was, so claimed a sign near him, in Santa Monica. Los Angeles, California. He had no idea why, however.
Hands on the wheel of his truck, he studied his surroundings next, then slipped a hand down beside the seat. The gun was still there. Next, he inspected his pockets. No phone, but his wallet. That meant contacting Dean and Sam wouldn't be as easy, but not impossible. Picking up the gun, he slid out of his truck into the alley, still alert when it came to his surroundings but focuses on inspecting the weapons locker in the back of the truck.
When he was done, he had found everything exactly as he last remembered leaving it, from weapons to resources (identification, credit cards and so forth) and decided whatever reason he was back, clearly someone had wanted him prepared. He hadn't really expected the Colt to be there, despite the lack of sense this all made, but it had never hurt to be thorough. And now it was time to track down his sons.
That proved easier than even John had imagined it would be, but it also brought the next in a series of surprises and dismays, learning that he was in Los Angeles of 2005 that was not even the Los Angeles he had been in before. When he emerged from the last of three libraries several hours later – trying not to remain in one place too long – it was with a swell of information that left him feeling hopeful, suspicious and afraid all at once. Sam and Dean were here, if they weren't some demonic trick, up to all manners of things that he would have words with them later about, but they weren't the only ones. As he was here, alive, so too was that yellow-eyed demonic sonofabitch that had killed his wife, killed Sam's girlfriend, possessed John himself and forced him to watch as the demon nearly killed Dean, and finally been the tool by which Dean had been saved, but John had ended up in Hell.
Three hours after that information hunt, following scouting out several parts of the city he had been familiar with on past hunts, even if this wasn't the Los Angeles he knew, he found a suitable rendezvous point, prepared it, and headed into an internet cafe to post the filtered message to his sons. He needed to see them first, to make certain it was truly them, and then he could deal with the rest.