Summary: Sam and Dean aren't the only ones with a gospel.
Spoilers and/or Warnings: Spoilers up to s4 finale.
Title, Author and URL of original story: Carriage Return by zooey_glass04
Thanks to whereupon and bunnymcfoo for the awesome beta.
If anyone had asked Bobby if he wanted to be in the Bible, he'd have said no, hell no, and probably spit for good measure.
'Course Job didn't want to be in the Bible either, and you can see how that turned out.
* * *
"No, Bobby, it's true. They've got books," Sam choked a little on some dust and shook his head.
Bobby was elbow deep in graveyard dirt, frost, and blood, his muscles doing the too-old-for-this two step. He was too damn tired to be digging holes in the middle of goddamn November. "Books."
"It's -- I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen it myself," Dean said, throwing a shovel load of ash and dirt onto the pile. "People talk about it on the internet. They have websites, and trust me, you don't want to see those."
Bobby pulled off his hat and scratched the top of his head, trying to wrap his mind around it. "Let me get this straight, someone is writing a book about you chuckleheads," Bobby shifted his legs and felt the shovel hit something hard, "and it's going to be the new gospel."
"Fucking weird, I know."
"Somehow I think I liked the world better before you boys got tangled up with angels," Bobby said, lifting himself up. Damn angels were almost as much trouble as the godforsaken demons.
Dean snorted and pulled himself out of the hole, holding a hand out for the flashlight. "But you know, we're not the only ones."
And for the first time in weeks, Dean grinned.
Jerome Johnson of Detroit, Michigan was the man who received John Winchester's story. Written in starts and stops over twenty-eight years, Jerome felt a kind of kinship with John, them both being Marines that served in Vietnam and all. He thought it was a great story, a little too bloody, depressing, and strange to show the missus, but a great story still.
He kept it in a box in the attic and told himself that one day he'd get back it, fix that ending. Maybe something nice with a meet up in heaven with Mary or a ritual that gave John his body back. Something hopeful. Mostly, though, he was glad the headaches were gone.
I read it once. It'd probably make a great movie. It had everything: blood, death, love, sacrifice, revenge. A distant father who loved his children but never showed it well. Sons who could never quite live up to the legend of him.
I felt like I'd read it before.
* * *
The Blessed Prophet given the sacred task of recording the Gospel of Robert sat down with Bobby during the coldest week in February.
Bobby slouched over the table for hours, reading page after page, drinking from the two six packs of beer resting at his feet. The Blessed Prophet, looking more than slightly nervous, had washed all the dishes in his apartment, taken out the garbage, fixed the leak under his sink, and ate half a bag of Doritos. Finally, at five o'clock, when Bobby set aside the last page, Larry settled down in the seat across from him.
"This is all horse shit," Bobby said, leaning over the last page of writing.
"It's -- it's what?"
"What do you -- I know everything you have said, thought, and done for two years. What do you mean, it's shit?" The Blessed Prophet, known as Larry to his friends and family, looked fairly disgruntled and pissed off for a conduit of the one true god and creator of the universe, truth be told. "I lost my job. I lost my damn girlfriend. I haven't had a good night sleep in fucking months."
Bobby took his hat off. "Dean ain't no warrior for heaven, and Sam ain't the damn antichrist."
* * *
The discussion over Robert Singer's choice to amend his gospel was argued in Heaven. Down on earth, Larry and Bobby didn't know the difference. The snow kept falling outside, Larry kept cussing about ungrateful readers and his splitting headaches. Bobby kept yelling about judging boys on fool mistakes.
In Heaven, angels roared like lions and argued like children. Voices raised and beat on each other like the sound of thunder, and the air shook with vibrations that could tear flesh from human bone. he would dare the sacred books a mere human truth is what matters ungrateful wretch a better understanding of the
In the end, there was nothing they could do. Divine guidance decided the final Word, and if that was channeled by Bobby Singer, no one could interfere.
I guess everyone could figure out what side I was on, but I always liked the difficult ones.
* * *
"The first thing you gotta understand is this," Bobby said, settling back on his chair. "Dean always wanted to be like John, but John always had to go his own way, never listened to nobody, except Caleb and Jim, and even then only when he had a mind to."
Larry's fingers typed on the keyboard, hitting the letters hard as he nodded along with Bobby's voice.
"Now Dean, Dean was a fixer. John and Sam, they were so much alike it was all you could do not to slam their heads together. They'd have dust ups just about every damn week, and Dean would be right there behind them, trying to fix it. But Sam was never a bad kid. He just wanted to do his own thing, never liked the idea of other people calling the shots and telling him what to do." Bobby made a noise in his throat. "If you knew John, you could see why him and Sam had some problems."
* * *
Paintings of Heaven put us in togas with someone playing the harp and everyone smiling. Heaven doesn't have Roman clothing or music, but just between you, me, and the wall, angels spend a lot of the time bored.
So we watched.
And after Azazel, we watched Sam.
He liked to read, so some of us read with him, trying to discover if there was some sign, some hint in what he read. When he went through school without getting into trouble, we grew brighter and warmed, and when he disobeyed his father, the air shook around us.
One year Sam fought with his father every day for weeks, raised voices and slammed doors reverberated through Heaven, hosts cried out, and even the earth quaked with our fear. It wasn't until the typewriter, a broken, unusable thing that Dean fixed for Sam, that the voices quieted. Instead of fighting with his father, Sam and Dean left messages for one another.
Sam Winchester is a dumbass. Dean Winchester is a jerk. Sam makes it with farm animals. Dean likes to sniff armpits. Sam jerks off to math books. Dean smells like an outhouse.
Months they went back and forth, and Heaven stormed, most wanting to know when they did these things and how they could have hidden it from us and what did it mean.
We didn't get a lot of humor in Heaven.
And later, to amuse his brother, Sam wrote stories where Dean was the best hunter who ever lived, who killed every demon and got the prettiest, strongest girl. Sam wrote the first story of Dean Winchester, and we read it, and it was good.
But we liked them, the Winchester brothers. We dimmed when Sam cried, and we glowed brighter than stars when Sam's brother found him again.
In the end, we pulled for him, Sam Winchester, the boy who loved words and stories and his brother, most of all.
* * *
Bobby stayed for two days, talked until his voice turned scratchy and dry, drank another beer, and kept speaking. He stopped only to sleep, and he ordered in pizza, talking between bites of greasy cheese and sausage.
He told of a Sam who wanted to be normal, who hated death and killing. He spoke of a Dean who liked women and loved his family. He told of demons and tricksters, and fights, of how he'd saved them, and how they'd saved him. He gave Larry every story he could remember, and when he finished, Larry's fingers ached from exhaustion.
"That's it." Bobby stood and pulled on his vest. "You get it right this time."
Larry rolled his eyes. "I got it. I got it. It's not like I left out things on purpose, you know."
Bobby snorted and grabbed his keys.
"You can stay the night. Sleep in the spare room and leave in the morning," Larry said, standing and letting loose a yawn.
"Got things to do. Apocalypse coming and it won't fight itself."
It was dark when Bobby left the little blue house and called the Sam's phone. "Where you boys at?"
The Gospel of Robert wasn't the most poetic book of bible, but it was the best recounting of the young lives of the Winchester brothers. Sam wasn't born evil, Dean didn't live the life of a saint, and if anyone needed the ritual to dispel a Norwegian death spirit, there were eight pages dedicated to the topic.
It did clarify a few things for us. Dean Winchester really was a jerk sometimes. Sam really was a dumbass on occasion. But as for me, I still pull for them.
I told you before, I like the difficult ones.