I don't own Stargate, or Supernatural.AN:
So. I wrote this yonks ago and even though I'm not entirely happy with it, I figure is serves as an example of the interaction Cass and Charlie have with Jack when they're older.Harvelle’s Roadhouse, Nebraska.
There was a smog of cigarette smoke hovering just below the light fixtures, but even so, the dull glow caught the rings of water left by sweating bottles and glasses, touched upon the muted light of gunmetal, glinted upon watchful eyes. Over at the pool table it glazed the milky surface of the cue ball and its coloured brothers.
Two men, father and son, were there playing pool, while a little redhead in a borrowed t-shirt and blue denim skirt perched on a barstool at one corner. She looked between her father and brother. “Who’s wining?”
“Him, obviously,” Charlie said, with great disgust. “Every single freaking time…”
“C’mon, kiddo,” Jack rejoined, grinning. “Who taught you all you know?” He bent back over the table and began lining up a shot.
“Oh yeah, and who taught you everything you
know about pool?”
Their dad grinned, perhaps a little dopily. “A blonde astrophysicist with legs up to her…”
Charlie put his hands over his ears. “Okay! We get it! TMI!”
Cassie rocked back laughing on her barstool.
Like an omen, a new song slipped into place in the jukebox. It played for a while until two lines jumped up like live wires and lit heavily upon the ears at the pool table.“A hooked bone rising from my food
And all things either good or ungood.”
“Johnny Cash,” Charlie murmured.
Cassie nodded. “The Mercy Seat
, isn’t it?”
The door to the Roadhouse swung open and a figure walked in.
“Winchester,” Jack muttered, neatly sinking the seven. “Every single freaking time…”
He leant on his cue and Cassie slung a folded arm across his shoulder, resting her chin on her wrist. “Whatcha mean, every single time?”
“I mean, every time John Winchester walks through that door, that song is playing and when he sets foot in the Roadhouse, that line hits the air. Either someone’s got a liberally twisted sense of humour and timing…”
“Or Ellen’s got herself a haunted jukebox.”
“Ah, jeez, Charlie don’t even joke about it.”
Her brother raised on eyebrow as he sized up his chances of getting the ten. “Why?”
“Because it’s a nice jukebox, we get along, it doesn’t eat my quarters and I’d really hate to see the poor old gal put through an exorcism.”
Cassie muffled her laughter in her father’s shoulder while Charlie simply threw back his tawny head and cackled.
“Hey,” Jack said, smiling. “No giggling.” Then he frowned. “What in the hell…”
Both his children followed his gaze up to the bar, where John Winchester was having a rather chilly-looking chat with Ellen Harvelle. The bar-owner’s eyes were narrowed, sharp, and there was an air of ultimate cold about her. Cassie had never seen a woman with a gaze so full of needles before.
Ellen said something, seeming to almost spit the words, and John Winchester’s mouth depressed into a thin, bitter line. Jack’s dark eyes were darting quickly between the two. His eyebrows were steadily climbing skyward.
Winchester snatched up his kit-bag and headed back to the door, spine stiff with indignation. The screen door slammed behind him.
“Holy crap,” said Jack. “I think Ellen just threw him out.”
Another song began on the jukebox. The three O’Neill’s groaned.“Hit the road, Jack!”
went Ray Charles’ back up girls. “Hit the road, Jack, and don’t you come back no more…”
“I think you might be right, Charlie,” Cassie muttered. “Ellen’s got herself a bona fide haunted jukebox.”
“Well damn,” said Charlie, and completely missed the ten.AN:
See? Not that fantastic. But I'd love to hear what you guys think, and what you'd like to see happen with the traveling O'Neills.