There were five of them gathered in the corner of the bar, a clean but shabby sort of place, which aptly described the small band of Hunters sitting around him, their jackets frayed around the cuffs but their beards neatly groomed. Dark shadows in their eyes. John wonders if he’s got that look yet, but he’s been on the road three years and hasn’t stopped to look in a mirror for a while now.
"So I'm telling Rufus, I’m trying to tell him, don’t be an idiot. Fighting fire with fire is just a goddamned expression.” One of the men, bearded and broad-shouldered and named Bradford, is in the middle of telling a story. It’s an old favourite by the sounds of it and his eyes are dancing with mirth. “But he’s the expert, six months into hunting and he knows best, and off he goes charging in after the salamander with his zippo and a can of fucking hairspray...”
Laughter erupts loud and drunken from around the table and John watches as a man shakes so hard he slops his beer. He understands that a salamander is more than a lizard, but this is just another piece of lore (there’s always so much more) that he hasn’t picked up yet.
“Damn thing’s been feeding off of Rufus’ efforts by the time I get there. Thing looked like a fucking bonfire.”
The story goes on – Bradford evidently saved the day with the garden hose – but John’s mind isn’t quite here. He's not used to being a part of that group anymore, the ones in the corner laughing at in-jokes and his mind keeps drifting back to the two little boys waiting for him at the motel. With any luck, Dean’s got his brother to sleep by now. They’re good kids, he knows, and he feels guilty for staying away, but hunting is just like any other job. Sometimes you’re gonna have to call on another guy for professional advice or to watch your back and sometimes, that means knocking back a cold one after work.
“Christ, where is Rufus these days?” says a balding man, Petersen, John thinks. “Haven’t even seen him and Mitch around Harvelle’s and I would have sworn they were keeping the damn place in business.”
A silence falls over the table and just like that, John Winchester discovers that Hunters can be every bit as maudlin as other men.
“Mitchell is dead. About three weeks back now, a demon got hold of him and by the time Rufus got the damn thing exorcised it was too late,” says Bradford, his face and voice hard, but his eyes telling a different story. There’s another silence, this one contemplative, because they know it could have been any one of them. It doesn’t break when Petersen lifts his bottle in an unspoken toast and they all drink deep.
The man who’d slopped his drink earlier – John’s forgotten his name completely – breaks the silence. “Don Matterson’s keeping an eye on Rufus, best he can. No sense in the man going off and getting himself killed.”
“You remember Adams, don’t you?” offers Bradford. “His final kamikaze run is a hell of a story, but a waste of a good hunter.”
“Didn’t he train you?”
Bradford doesn’t quite smile. “Taught me everything I know about vampires. But hell, you remember Bethy? Tough as fucking nails, but the sweet curves on her...”
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timeasmymeasure
IT TOOK A FEW DAYS. HAVE SOME FIC. (1 OF 2)
Date: 2009-11-21 04:09 am (UTC)"So I'm telling Rufus, I’m trying to tell him, don’t be an idiot. Fighting fire with fire is just a goddamned expression.” One of the men, bearded and broad-shouldered and named Bradford, is in the middle of telling a story. It’s an old favourite by the sounds of it and his eyes are dancing with mirth. “But he’s the expert, six months into hunting and he knows best, and off he goes charging in after the salamander with his zippo and a can of fucking hairspray...”
Laughter erupts loud and drunken from around the table and John watches as a man shakes so hard he slops his beer. He understands that a salamander is more than a lizard, but this is just another piece of lore (there’s always so much more) that he hasn’t picked up yet.
“Damn thing’s been feeding off of Rufus’ efforts by the time I get there. Thing looked like a fucking bonfire.”
The story goes on – Bradford evidently saved the day with the garden hose – but John’s mind isn’t quite here. He's not used to being a part of that group anymore, the ones in the corner laughing at in-jokes and his mind keeps drifting back to the two little boys waiting for him at the motel. With any luck, Dean’s got his brother to sleep by now. They’re good kids, he knows, and he feels guilty for staying away, but hunting is just like any other job. Sometimes you’re gonna have to call on another guy for professional advice or to watch your back and sometimes, that means knocking back a cold one after work.
“Christ, where is Rufus these days?” says a balding man, Petersen, John thinks. “Haven’t even seen him and Mitch around Harvelle’s and I would have sworn they were keeping the damn place in business.”
A silence falls over the table and just like that, John Winchester discovers that Hunters can be every bit as maudlin as other men.
“Mitchell is dead. About three weeks back now, a demon got hold of him and by the time Rufus got the damn thing exorcised it was too late,” says Bradford, his face and voice hard, but his eyes telling a different story. There’s another silence, this one contemplative, because they know it could have been any one of them. It doesn’t break when Petersen lifts his bottle in an unspoken toast and they all drink deep.
The man who’d slopped his drink earlier – John’s forgotten his name completely – breaks the silence. “Don Matterson’s keeping an eye on Rufus, best he can. No sense in the man going off and getting himself killed.”
“You remember Adams, don’t you?” offers Bradford. “His final kamikaze run is a hell of a story, but a waste of a good hunter.”
“Didn’t he train you?”
Bradford doesn’t quite smile. “Taught me everything I know about vampires. But hell, you remember Bethy? Tough as fucking nails, but the sweet curves on her...”