County Sheriff’s truck rumbles up the drive. Lights flash and Mary kind of, puts her hands up. Blinks when a woman climbs out.
“Ma’am, you know this is private property.”
“Yes, yes of course. Bobby Singer was my uncle, and I—”
“I’m gonna stop you right there.” Sheriff shows a palm. “I knew Bobby Singer twenty years. Knew all his family and most of his, associates.”
Mary can’t help herself. “Did you know John Winchester?”
“Winchester?” The sheriff’s demeanor shifts. She studies Mary. “Who are you? And, you can tell me the truth. I know about… things.”
Mary hedges. “John was my husband.”
Brown eyes wide. “Are you a ghost?”
“Nope. Flesh and blood.” She tries to smile.
“But you’re…”
“Back from the dead.”
“Okay.” The woman nods, but stays wary. “Do, Sam and Dean know you’re—”
“They know.”
Sheriff stands down a notch.
“You know my babies?”
“I didn’t meet em until they were grown,” she says, “but yeah.” Handshake, tentative but, “Jody Mills.”
* Missouri holds her hands. “Now, we turn this cup over right into the cloth, you hear me?”
“I remember.”
(Smoking hookah-loads off this coffee table. “I don’t know what you talkin bout, girl. John Winchester is fine. For Wonderbread. Now flip.”)
Past and present Mary casts the bones. Her old friend old friend covers her mouth; hands, thick nails, arthritic knuckles.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothin’s wrong.” Missouri stares. “Just, ain’t never seen this before. Mary, you’re free.”
*
“C’mere. Somethin you oughta see.” Jody cocks her head and takes off into a labyrinth of rusting hulks. Mary follows. “I kinda, keep an eye on the place since Bobby passed. Found this out here last summer.”
Jody leads to a storage building, sheet metal walls with a pitched roof. Corner of the concrete pad, two tiny handprints.
S.W.
D.W.
1985
Tears tumble down Mary’s face. She kneels, finger-traces the worn depressions.
“Bobby loved those boys like they were his own,” Jody says. “Best I can tell, they always had a home here.”
“Thank you.” Mary breathes.
“Wait here a minute.”
Mary doesn’t know how long she cries, there on her knees. Only pulls it together when she hears the sheriff’s footsteps.
“Coffee?” Jody hands her a thermos and a box of tissues. “I brought,” plaster of Paris, cardboard forms, “stuff to make an impression. If you wanna keep those.”
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timeasmymeasure
RE: Fill: "In the Bones" 2/3
Date: 2016-11-12 12:29 am (UTC)County Sheriff’s truck rumbles up the drive. Lights flash and Mary kind of, puts her hands up. Blinks when a woman climbs out.
“Ma’am, you know this is private property.”
“Yes, yes of course. Bobby Singer was my uncle, and I—”
“I’m gonna stop you right there.” Sheriff shows a palm. “I knew Bobby Singer twenty years. Knew all his family and most of his, associates.”
Mary can’t help herself. “Did you know John Winchester?”
“Winchester?” The sheriff’s demeanor shifts. She studies Mary. “Who are you? And, you can tell me the truth. I know about… things.”
Mary hedges. “John was my husband.”
Brown eyes wide. “Are you a ghost?”
“Nope. Flesh and blood.” She tries to smile.
“But you’re…”
“Back from the dead.”
“Okay.” The woman nods, but stays wary. “Do, Sam and Dean know you’re—”
“They know.”
Sheriff stands down a notch.
“You know my babies?”
“I didn’t meet em until they were grown,” she says, “but yeah.” Handshake, tentative but, “Jody Mills.”
*
Missouri holds her hands. “Now, we turn this cup over right into the cloth, you hear me?”
“I remember.”
(Smoking hookah-loads off this coffee table. “I don’t know what you talkin bout, girl. John Winchester is fine. For Wonderbread. Now flip.”)
Past and present Mary casts the bones. Her old friend old friend covers her mouth; hands, thick nails, arthritic knuckles.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothin’s wrong.” Missouri stares. “Just, ain’t never seen this before. Mary, you’re free.”
*
“C’mere. Somethin you oughta see.” Jody cocks her head and takes off into a labyrinth of rusting hulks. Mary follows. “I kinda, keep an eye on the place since Bobby passed. Found this out here last summer.”
Jody leads to a storage building, sheet metal walls with a pitched roof. Corner of the concrete pad, two tiny handprints.
S.W.
D.W.
1985
Tears tumble down Mary’s face. She kneels, finger-traces the worn depressions.
“Bobby loved those boys like they were his own,” Jody says. “Best I can tell, they always had a home here.”
“Thank you.” Mary breathes.
“Wait here a minute.”
Mary doesn’t know how long she cries, there on her knees. Only pulls it together when she hears the sheriff’s footsteps.
“Coffee?” Jody hands her a thermos and a box of tissues. “I brought,” plaster of Paris, cardboard forms, “stuff to make an impression. If you wanna keep those.”
*