Adult-FanFiction.org : Television / Streaming

Harvelle's	By : IcarusComplex Category: Supernatural > General Views: 843 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own SPN or any of the cannonical characters or places, nor do I make any money from this story. Enola is mine.

Chapter List
- 1-Harvelle's
- 1
Fits in with When The World Falls Down; pre-story by a few years.

Harvelle’s

Fuck; cold. Fuck. Gritting her teeth, Enola shook herself and yanked the old leather jacket tighter around her small frame. Man, sixteen was too young to be walking into a bar. She grinned unexpectedly. Unless you were Dean. The grin faded and she glanced back at the truck parked in the muddy space that surrounded the small wooden building, concern etched across her features. Something had gone wrong; they were too far from Bobby – previous fight and buckshot aside – and ‘home’ was quite a way away. Hospital was out of the question.

The cold wind blew dark ragged hair out of her eyes but across her face, flicking it back haphazardly as she looked up to the neon sign above the porch. All she needed was a few things; that would tide him over until they could get somewhere with a proper first-aid kit. And bandages. And morphine. She snickered. Again, Dean’s contribution. She had to admit, the whole ‘I’m a womanizing scum-bag’ vibe – or was it only her and Sammy that could see that aspect? – had its uses occasionally. Like distracting the pretty – C-cup – intern while they raided the hospital supplies room. But those capsules and bottles were hours away, and the man needed help now.

Night was setting in fast; she needed to get the things and deal with his wounds, then she’d get back into the driver’s seat and get them… home. Such as it was. She grimaced as the wind cut into her split lip, and shoved her hands into the pockets of the oversized jacket. One day maybe she’d stop nicking off with her brothers’ clothing; til then, she’d just enjoy it. Being lost in the material, unnoticed and hiding away.

The door ahead over her opened as she crunched across the sparse gravel and more common mud towards the building, and she flinched automatically, muscles tensing. Watching the men head towards their respective cars warily, she mentally slapped herself. ‘Calm down, kiddo. You’re a hunter—’

‘Barely,’ hissed a nasty little voice in the back of her head. She sneered at it and continued forward. In her dark jeans, muddy boots and beat-up leather jacket, she wasn’t surprised the man who emerged from the roadhouse door scarcely two metres in front of her started fiercely; she probably looked like some wraith emerging from the mists to steal his soul. She grimaced; that was a bad impression for people to get in this line of work. They were half again as likely to shoot first, ask questions later. Shaking her head as the man walked away, his gait stiff with suppressed fright, she headed for the door and stepped inside.

Heat settled over her like a blanket. It wasn’t hot inside, but it was certainly warmer than outside in the dark and the cold. Spying the bar, she slid towards it – faking an easy confidence – inconspicuously scanning the other patrons for potential threats. The number of men sitting casually cleaning guns or knives surprised her; maybe it was a hunter’s bar. She wasn’t going to take the chance anyway. A few men cast her half-interested looks, but they masked them just as quickly. She wasn’t sure what they saw, but the split lip and the little bit of blood splatter dried onto the bottom of the jacket might have had something to do with it. Conversely, the hint of a chest peeking out of the top of the too-big leather jacket, the fingertips of fine white hands emerging from the cuffs and dark wild hair curling around her neck, shoulders and cold-paled cheeks might have had something to do with their interest.

She approached the bar with little ceremony; she needed what she needed, and if the attractive older woman wouldn’t give it to her, she’d go elsewhere. Leaning the slightest portion of her weight onto the bar, knowing it would signal her as a fairly current patron, Enola waited.

Sure enough, the woman, a damp dish-towel flicked over the shoulder of an old button-down shirt half undone, turned within moments of the girl’s arrival. “What can I get you?” she asked, caution in her eyes but warmth in her voice.

Enola twisted her lips and blinked a pressing tiredness form her eyes and limbs. “Half a bottle of whiskey and a dish towel, please,” she murmured; the woman nodded in understanding – despite Enola’s quiet tone – and vanished. The girl had to admit she was glad; she didn’t want any questions or trouble. Maybe it wasn’t up to her…

A man at the bar beside her temporary position turned in his seat and looked her over. He smiled in a friendly manner and then leaned towards Enola slightly, arms folded on the smooth clean bartop. “You look a bit young to be in here. What’s your name?”

Knowing that to completely engage him would be a bad move, Enola glanced at him sideways, giving him a swift, efficient look-over from the corner of her eye. He seemed acceptable; no bad vibes or anything.
“Enola,” she conceded, turning her eyes back to the bar. The bartender was back, a bottle and a clean towel in her hands. The man seemed interested in further conversation, but the girl ignored him. It wasn’t hard.

The woman placed the bottle on the bar, a clean checked dish-towel beside it; there was something strange in her eyes, almost a too-intense curiosity, as if she was trying to remember Enola from somewhere. Wanting to escape the scrutiny, Enola murmured a thanks and reached for the bottle and towel, but the woman moved faster, sliding them across the polished wood with a smooth movement.

She jerked her chin at the bottle. “Unless you can hold your drink better than you look, I wouldn’t advise downing that in one go.”

Enola smiled, a tiny genuine smile for the woman. “I don’t plan to. Thanks.” She dropped a crumpled note on the bar and walked out, bottle in one hand, towel in the other. The redhead was watching her retreating back, she knew. She could almost hear her turn to the man who had talked to Enola. ‘What did she say her name was?’. She shivered, and hoped it wasn’t going down like that; she’d be in trouble with Dad. Speaking of which…

The temperature outside had dropped a few degrees, but as soon as she closed the door behind her, the inside of the truck was much warmer. Pleasant. Just as she’d left him, John was asleep in the passenger seat, head tucked into the corner of the back of the cab and the window. Her eyes softened, lips twitching, then she reached out and touched his shoulder.

“Dad.” He twitched in his sleep. Enola shook him lightly. “Dad.” That worked.

He blinked sleepily a few times, then sat up, stretching his back. Then he looked around. “Enola, where are we?” he asked, raising an eyebrow in her direction.

Enola smiled sheepishly. “We’re about four hours out of the town, heading back towards the boys. Okay? I drove us this far, but you needed something for that injury.”

John blinked, and then the pain in his shoulder occurred to him. “Oh.”

She nodded. “Yeah, we stopped at a roadhouse for a few things, but as soon as we’re done here, we can get on the road again.”

Dabbing at the old bandage wrapping the sore joint with the dishtowel his daughter handed him, he stiffened. “Roadhouse?” he asked cautiously.

Enola frowned and nodded. “I didn’t tell anyone anything except to ask the bartender for whiskey and a towel. Why?”

The older hunter caught her eye. “Which one?” Raising an eyebrow, she jerked her head towards the wooden building. Reading the name, John grimaced. “I really wish you hadn’t stopped here, Enola. Matter of fact,” he said slowly, “why did you pick up the keys in the first place?”

Even growing up with the man hadn’t made her immune to that look. She quailed slightly. “I’m worried about the wound the thing gave you,” she said and jerked her chin towards the bandage. “See for yourself. Last time I checked – you were unconscious, Dad – it was black around the edges. I kind of figured that Bobby could help if it turns out to be anything nasty.”

“ ‘If it turns out to be anything nasty’?” he echoed in disbelief, one eyebrow hiking up his forehead. “Enola, why didn’t you wake me up and tell me about this when you first noticed it?” he demanded. It didn’t have the desired effect on his offspring.

She made a face. “For one thing, you were unconscious. Besides,” she added bracingly. “That’s what the alcohol’s for.”

A second eyebrow joined the first. “What, to make it disappear? And whiskey is going to do that?”

Enola made a pained face of apology. “No, the whiskey is a distraction for when I cauterise it.” John winced; he couldn’t help it. Enola nodded sympathetically. “Yeah, sorry Dad. Until we know what exactly happened, it’s the safest route.”

The man briefly closed his eyes as though in silent prayer. A moment later, he opened them. “All right, kiddo. Do it.”

Enola nodded and dug a disposable lighter out of her bag along with a small knife. Taking a swig of the whiskey, John braced himself. Her face set in deliberate blankness, Enola flicked the lighter. Nothing happened. Shaking it revealed a problem: total lack of the swishy noise of lighter fuel. She scowled. “Damn. That’s a problem.”

John actually laughed. “Yeah.”

“Hold on," Enola said, rolling her eyes. "I’ll go get a light from the roadhouse—”

“No.”

The teenager frowned. “What? Why not?”

“Just… just don’t. If we’re at Harvelle’s it’s only a few hours drive back to the motel. We’re getting going.” He reached for the keys, only to harden his eyes when Enola pulled them out of the ignition and held them out of his reach. “Give me the keys.”

“No.”

“Enola, give me the keys.”

She shook her head slightly, sticking her chin out stubbornly. “No. Not with that injury.”

John gave her an irritated look. “I’m fine; give me the keys.” Enola raised her eyebrows and didn’t budge. “Fine, then you drive.”

His daughter blinked slowly, belligerently. “I’m going inside to get a lighter.” Saying that, she threw the door open and leapt out, slamming it behind her. John cursed under his breath and got out his own door. Enola was part way to the roadhouse as he rounded the front of the truck; she glanced back.

“Enola, get back in the truck.” Saying nothing, she continued across the lot. “Enola.” Now she knew something was up; but the black was spreading from around the nasty gash in his shoulder. There was no two ways about it: this had to be done. “Get back here. That’s an order!”

'Order-shcmorder,' Enola thought, although she wasn't brave enough to say it. “What are you going to do, Dad, tackle me?” she said instead, spinning in her tracks. “What’s in there that you’re so freaked about?” A gust of wind blew through the lot, and she shivered despite the jacket.

John frowned. “There’s… ugh. Enola, just get back over here. We’ve got a long drive ahead—”

“Would you quit being so passive aggressive?” demanded Enola, planting her hands on her narrow hips. John halted, brought up short by the accusation. “Lighter, Dad. It’ll take half a second, and if you’re so worried, stay out here,” she said coolly, and spun, walking resolutely through the door. Though she half-expected him to follow her through and physically drag her out again, John didn’t follow. She was half grateful; the concern over the ‘festering’ wound wasn’t feigned.

Once halfway towards the bar however, she wondered if coming back had perhaps not been the smartest thing to do. The redheaded barkeep was watching her with sharp eyes even as she approached. Enola swallowed a twinge of worry and continued in her path; she was too far into the room to turn back now. “Hey again,” she said uneasily, resting a tense hand on the bar.

The woman jerked her head in acknowledgement. “What can I get you this time?”

Enola hesitated, seeing the man who’d talked to her shift at the edge of her vision, then said “Uh, a lighter, if you’ve got one.” The woman nodded curtly and bent under the bar, retrieving something. She resurfaced with a small green plastic lighter, the kind sold at stores for $2.00, and held it out. Enola smiled in relief and began to extend her hand for it, taking the small item only to freeze as a chill of foreboding shot up her spine. She went to jerk back her hand, and the woman snatched up her wrist in an iron lock. Enola went rigid, her other hand snapping to the hilt of the concealed knife in her waistband.

“Easy,” hissed the woman, pulling her forward with a wary glance around the bar. No one so much as looked up. Enola curled her fingers around the knife – just in case – and let herself be pulled to a conspirator’s distance, the redhead staring at her intently. “No one’s going to hurt you, kid.”

Enola raised an eyebrow and gave the woman a look as if to say ‘yeah, sure.’ “Could you loosen your grip on my wrist then?” she asked quietly. “I kind of fancy feeling in my hand.”

Smiling at that, the woman loosed her hold slightly. The feeling of pins and needles dropped away. She didn’t release Enola completely though. Instead, she leant forwards slightly, studying her captive. Enola was tempted to flinch away from the scrutiny, but stood up straight, meeting the woman’s eyes levelly.

After a moment, the redhead grinned. “I’d know that look anywhere.” Enola affected confusion. ‘look’? What did she know? “You told Grey here your name was Enola,” the woman continued, nodding towards the man who had spoken to Enola. The girl nodded warily. “Winchester?”

Enola blinked. “Yes…”

“You all right, Ellen?” asked a grizzled looking man.

The redhead glanced his way and nodded, smiling reassuringly. “Yeah, Ed. Fine.” The man shrugged, casting Enola a speculative look, and went on his way. With the disappearance of the man, ‘Ellen’ turned back to Enola. “You’re Enola Winchester?” Again the dark head bobbed in a cautious nod, green eyes watching Ellen closely for any sign of violence. Her hand slipped free of the barkeep’s grasp, but Enola made no move to reclaim it, letting it rest on the bar. Ellen appeared to be totally staggered. Enola watched in interest as she blinked a few times in rapid succession before refocusing on the small pale face in front of her. “What are you doing here, kid?”

Enola gave her a strange look and the lopsided grin of a person pandering to the ramblings of a slightly demented relative. “I’m here for whiskey and a light,” she said, straightening. The man Ellen called Grey snorted at that. Enola glanced at him momentarily.

Ellen wasn’t as impressed. “Is your Dad out there?” she demanded, brows knit.

About to say that no, she was alone, Enola stopped, seeing the look in Ellen’s eyes, and nodded shamefaced. “Yeah. That’s kind of why I came in here.”

Ellen frowned. “Your dad sent you in?”

The girl rubbed the back of her neck uneasily, the cuff of her jacket sliding down an inch. “Not exactly. Actually—” She laughed shortly. “He was kind of against it.”

Ellen made a face, only briefly, but it was enough to pique Enola’s curiosity before it was masked. “Huh. So why come in then?”

That was a question Enola was just a little unwilling to answer. She evaded it. “Uh… just needed a few things—”

Ellen wasn’t having any of that crap. Scowling, she said, “Seriously, kid, what happened?”

Inwardly, Enola heaved a sigh. Yeah, this woman and her dad would have gotten along famously; in fact, if Ellen’s reaction to her identity was anything to go by, they used to. Seeing no other option, she told Ellen their reasons for stopping.

“…and now there’s this black sort of tattoo – only it seems to be organic – spreading away from the wound.” Ellen had assured Enola of her knowledge of the supernatural world before the girl launched into the more sordid details of the problem, and now she was listening with growing concern as Enola gave her a run-down of the situation in a hurried whisper. “I don’t know what it is, and I’m not sure how to stop it. I’m kind of hoping cauterizing it will help, or at least slow it, but…”

Ellen nodded for the fifth time in as many minutes, frowning thoughtfully. Finishing her explanation, Enola took a deep breath and waited, studying the grain of the bar with forced concentration. Grey had long since toddled off, muttering something about the bathroom.

“All right. Outside?”

“Excuse me?” Enola asked, taken aback.

Ellen raised an eyebrow. “Is John outside?” she clarified, her tone akin to that of someone addressing an idiot.

Enola supposed the whole ‘reunion’ vibe was screwing with the woman’s stress-mechanism. She nodded uncertainly. “Uh, yeah. In the truck…” With a brisk nod, Ellen was moving. Enola watched in amusement as she strode out from behind the bar and headed for the door. ‘She would have made an intimidating hunter with a walk like that…’ Enola mused.

“Jo, watch the bar,” Ellen ordered, pushing the door open. Enola glanced back to see a thin, sullen-looking blonde girl emerged from the back room, tucking a tatty paperback into her pocket.

“Fine, whatever,” the girl muttered, rolling her eyes. With an inaudible snort, Enola followed Ellen, casting a sceptical look at the blonde girl who looked about sixteen or seventeen.

“Teenage rebellion phase,” Ellen cursed out of the corner of her mouth as they crossed the gravelly lot.

Enola only just heard her, but she had to agree, a smile quirking her lips. Sammy had one of those; actually, Sammy’s was ongoing, but that was beside the point…

The truck was the same as she had left it, the windscreen slightly fogged. Her dad not being in sight, she assumed he was in the cab sulking. Brooding, rather. When Ellen pulled the passenger side door open however, Enola bit back a sharp inhalation. Unconscious, his jacket pushed off the wounded shoulder, John was leaning against the doorframe. The black had spread across to his sternum.

Ellen didn’t waste time; Enola admired that in her. She pulled the unconscious man from the truck, leaning him against the front wheel as she started to examine the wound. “Enola, go get Grey,” she ordered. Conditioned to following commands, the girl didn’t argue, just fled back to the roadhouse. She re-emerged a moment later, the older Hunter at her heels, his face set. “It would have been fine if you’d managed to cauterise it a bit earlier, but now it’s too far gone,” Ellen told her as she pulled the man’s heavy jacket away from the wound.

It took scant few minutes to manoeuvre the man off the ground and towards the back of the roadhouse, Ellen and Grey half-dragging him with arms around his waist.

“Geez, he’s heavy for an old man,” Grey complained good-naturedly.

“Don’t let Dad hear you say that,” Enola scoffed, pushing the door Ellen indicated open. She stepped aside to let the pair pass, and then shut it firmly against the encroaching cold. Grey deposited his burden on a low pallet, rearranging lax limbs so they didn’t drop off the mattress. Bottles rattling, Ellen flitted about collecting various things; Enola watched in interest as she began to set them up for a cleansing ritual, jumping into action whenever Ellen barked a command at her.

The intensive procedure began in under five minutes since she told Ellen; a relief for Enola, but also cause for some concern. Conscious when she left him by the truck outside, four minutes after that, her Dad was out cold, the blackness spreading like accelerated gangrene. Still, as she sat by the door, her knees crooked up to her chin and bound by her arms, she had to wonder.

What really was the relationship between the adults? Old friends? Certainly Ellen seemed to know what she was doing; Enola shifted on the floor, resting her chin on her knees, and watched the woman, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Her gaze flicked momentarily down to her prone father, where a thick, gelatinous black material was oozing from the open wound as Ellen spat out a steady stream of Latin that Enola only half-understood. She pursed her lips and hugged her legs closer; she’d done all she could to help all she could do now was wait.

The ritual plateaued, and Ellen, sweating, glanced over her shoulder and flashed Enola a tired half-smile. “Well, he’ll be fine now. We’ll clean him up, then he just needs sleep, okay?” Enola nodded and rose stiffly, her whole body protesting the movement. As Grey and Ellen soaked cloths in a mysterious liquid that looked like water but smelt like something else entirely, swiping the soaked cloths over the now clean wound to remove the malevolent black goo in thick swathes, Enola made to help only to have Ellen shake her head. “We’ve got it, kid. Just go hang out in the bar; it should be fairly empty by now,” she said kindly, dropping a soiled rag into a bucket. Enola had a sneaking suspicion the cloths would have to be burnt after this.

Nodding, surprised at her sudden lethargy, Enola stepped away and drifted towards the door.

Like Ellen had thought, the bar was mostly empty, only a few quiet drinkers still lingering around the edges of the room, taking advantage of the dimmer corners. Enola glanced at them, and settled herself on a barstool at the edge of the countertop. The blonde girl – looking thoroughly bored by now – cast her a dismissive look, sniffing slightly. Enola got the feeling she wasn’t exactly the girl’s type… or something like that. In any case, the blonde seemed content to ignore her entirely, concentrating on the dealing with accumulated dirty glasses.

Whatever she might have thought, the wide room was now almost silent, the occasional sounds of glass chinking fading into the oppressive void. Enola blinked a few times, scattering the haziness in her eyes. She looked up at the clock over the bar and started. However long the ritual had gone on for, it had eaten up the hours: the thin metal declared it to be two-thirty in the morning. She blinked, and then shook her head, a little in awe. That ritual of Ellen’s had taken so much time… and she hadn’t even noticed. No wonder the woman was tired.

Sighing, she pulled the small knife from her wrist sheath – useful for tight spots – and studied it. The small blade was unmarked, attesting to its relative newness, but the folded steel reflected multicoloured light up onto the wooden ceiling like a glass prism. Enola grinned faintly; who said you needed ‘stuff’ to keep entertained? With a flick of her wrist, the blade skittered around her twisting fingers, whirling in a circle that sent fragments of light to scatter around the room.

The blonde girl was watching her surreptitiously, cleaning a glass with the grubby dishcloth in her hands. She dropped it to the counter and retrieved a new one, but her eyes remained glued to the flashing blade. Enola twisted her lips into a strange smile; practice made perfect, right? She hunched over the bar, one arm folded in against her ribs, the other spinning the small knife in ever-faster circles; then she sighed. Was she showing off, or just anxious? Shaking her head to herself, she slowed the spinning, the pace becoming meditative, rhythmic. Tilting her head, she stared at the light flicking and dancing over the blade of the knife twisting and writhing in her hands.

How did they do it, she wondered. Hunt after hunt without getting hurt or worried. Abruptly, she laughed, the low sound dry and humourless: they didn’t. It was as simple as that. She had scores of memories of Dean coming back scratched up, slashed up, and patched up. And Dad chucking a spaz about it. Multiple times.

She settled back to a thoughtful silence, the knife swinging lazily around her fingers. ‘Hmm…’

“What’d he do to get hacked up so bad?” asked a dry voice.

Enola – and the blonde girl – glanced up, knife still spinning. She grinned wryly as Ellen plopped herself down on a barstool, shadows under her eyes. “A hunt, few hours south of here. Next time he decides to get slashed by a demon-dog, I’ll tell him ‘less of the demon, more of the dog’, ‘kay?”

Ellen snorted and indicated for the blonde to get her a drink.

A glass clunked down on the bartop in front of her; the blonde propped a dishtowel-holding hand on her hip, the other on the bar. She raised a pale eyebrow. “Mom?”

Ellen seemed to start, and lowered the glass, wiping her mouth. “Oh sorry girls; forgot you don’t know each other. Jo, this is John Winchester’s daughter Enola; Enola, this is my daughter Jo,” she said, nodding to the blonde. Eyeing each other with a mixture of mistrust and vague aversion, the girls jerked their heads in wary acknowledgement. Ellen seemed satisfied, because she went back to drinking her water.

Faint sounds filtering forwards from the back room as Ellen cleaned up after the night before, the girls had maintained a deliberate gulf. It took a while, but eventually wariness had faded to a sort of cautious speculation, and the sun was rising when Jo stopped in front of Enola behind the bar. “So, I saw how you were playing with that knife,” she said slowly, treading carefully Enola assumed. Wordlessly Enola lifted the knife, a questioning eyebrow raised. Jo nodded, her long blonde hair pulled back into a high ponytail. “Yeah, so listen, I do it a different way…”

Smiling faintly, Enola held out the blade, hilt first. Jo grinned easily and took it, thus sparking a long conversation about the pros and cons of blade shapes as the teenagers passed the knife back and forth. Their dads would have been so proud…

But John still couldn’t look Ellen in the eye a few hours later when he thanked her perfunctorily and directed his tired, sleepy daughter out the door. Enola hazily wondered why. Ellen seemed to be conscious of the tenseness, but not as careful of it as her father. Why… why the secrets. The silence.

Enola frowned slightly as the truck pulled out of Harvelle’s empty lot, and watched the land start to skim by. She looked back to the roadhouse, to the quickly shrinking figure standing by the door, arms wrapped around itself.

She wanted to think about it, puzzle it out – one didn’t just ask that sort of thing of John Winchester. Secrets were secrets, and if he didn’t feel like sharing them, well… they stayed secret. But all the caffeine in the world couldn’t have fought off this sleep. The air warm as the noon sun started to heat the car, Enola’s eyelids drooped; she tucked her head against the door and her shoulder. Logic blurred into senseless gibberish, finally fading away as she slept for the first time in forty-odd hours.

She didn’t see the glance John cast her over his bandaged shoulder, hands comfortably on the wheel, just as she was drifting off. Didn’t see the faint smile. Just felt the miles begin to fall away beneath the rumble of the truck.

John watched his daughter for a moment as her breathing evened out, and then turned back to the road ahead. God help him the day he decided Enola was completely lost to this lifestyle. It was a hard life, and Enola had a long way to go, but maybe… maybe she’d make it after all.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________

This would be shortly after Jo quit school, hence the whole 'rargh-I'm-having-a-PMS-day' kind of attitude.
- 1
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Harvelle's