The Future is Cold for just_ruth

[summergen-mod.livejournal.com]

Title: The Future is Cold
Author: colls
Recipient: just_ruth
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Author's Notes: I used bits of a couple different prompts and I hope the end result is to your liking. Thank you to my beta (to be named later) who made things so much better. Any remaining mistakes or nonsensical lines are all mine.
Summary: Pamela has lost her vision, but hasn't lost her sight.



Rufus and Pamela traveled in companionable silence and she smiled slightly as the afternoon sun warmed her face. The cab of the pickup smelled like coffee, gun oil and french fries. Since the novelty of teasing him about a wild goose chase had worn off a couple hundred miles ago, Pamela rested her head on the back of the seat and heard Bobby's voice.

"This is the last time I'm eating McDonald's.” Bobby curses as a tomato escapes his sandwich and falls onto his lap. “We stop for dinner. I don't care if a vengeful ghost is sitting at the table next to us or not. We stop."

"So that's why Bobby doesn't like McDonald's. You forced it on him." Pamela said, reaching into the paper bag for a handful of fries.

"Bobby liked to stop and sit down at a table to eat. Waste of time. We argued about it all the time." Rufus pulled off the main highway onto a two-lane road. "And stop eating all my fries. I told you to get your own."

When they pulled into Singer's Salvage Yard Rufus didn't rush around the truck to help; he didn't coddle her. Pamela decided then that she'd always liked Rufus. Bobby, on the other hand, was flustered by her blindness in a way Rufus wasn't. He hovered about, not sure how to help. She finally told him to carry her bag, getting him out of her hair as she carefully navigated the obstacle course that was Bobby's place.

"Stop fussing, Bobby. I'm blind, not incapacitated." She sat at the kitchen table and rested her hand on the scarred formica top.

There are two boys sitting at the kitchen table. The older boy concentrates on loading bullets into a magazine. Silver bullets, homemade and scored on the end like Bobby likes to do. The way his tongue darts out of the corner of his mouth and how his freckles stand out make him seem impossibly young. The younger boy is practicing writing his alphabet on lined paper, using an old school book as his guide. His feet swing back and forth, his tongue sticking out in an exact mirror image of the older one. Bobby's voice carries from the other room where he's reciting something in Latin.

When her mind wandered back to the present, Pamela discovered Bobby had handed her a beer. She felt beads of condensation along the side and smiled at the simple pleasure of a cold beer on a warm day. Rufus was probably peeling the label off his, she recalled it was his habit when he was bored. When not in motion, Rufus was often bored. He began talking about strange disappearances that he wanted to check out.

Before Rufus could go into details, one of the many phones that lined the far wall rang and Pamela listened as Bobby verified the credentials of a fictitious FBI agent. Some things never change, it was almost like Bobby could provide cover for a hunter in his sleep by now.

"Young? Well, he did just transfer in. He got high marks though, seems to know his way around a case."

Rufus chuckled and whispered "Garth" in a low voice to Pamela. Pamela didn't know who Garth was and tried not to be disappointed that someone new had entered into this kind of life.

"I don't care how strange he is," Bobby continued, "and I'd appreciate it if you showed some inter-agency cooperation. Get him a copy of that autopsy report before I call your superiors." With that, Bobby abruptly hung up, the phone returning to its cradle with a firm thunk. Pamela heard the clink of a glasses near the sink before his footsteps shuffled back towards the table.

"So... Rufus. You said Los Angeles?" Pamela asked, getting back to the matter at hand.

"Near there."

"Ellen and Jo are out that way, looking into something at the Devil's Gate Reservoir." Bobby interjected.

"Are they?"

"Well, Jo is. Ellen's headed there, trying to catch up. She's none to happy about Jo being out on her own."

She races high overhead, through clouds and sweeps into a valley. There's a large dam; she can see the reservoir and she rushes past it to an open field. Fog rolls in and she hears a man scream. Something that was crouched in the center of the field stands upright, startled by movement near the opposite treeline. It flees as the mist clears, leaving behind the mauled body of William Harvelle. John Winchester emerges from the treeline to pursue the figure, but she knows he's too slow – too human – to catch it.

"Ellen's right. Jo shouldn't go solo on that job."

Neither man said a word as Pamela took a long pull on her beer. She continued, "I wonder if Jo knows she's after the thing that killed her father."

Another small stretch of silence reminded her that these two used to hunt together and that nonverbal communication was second nature. Rather than being irritated at missing part of the conversation, their shared past felt warm and comfortable. She heard Rufus set down his beer as he rose to leave. "Tell Ellen I'll meet her near Pasadena."

"Tell her yourself, idjit. That's what cell phones are for."

Rufus turned to Pamela. "I'm almost sorry to leave you here with this old grouch."

"Fine payment for everything I did for you."

"What did you do? You didn't find anything."

"There was nothing to find, Rufus. Which I told you before we left."

"Yes, I believe you mentioned that a couple dozen times today."

Pamela smiled up at him, enjoying the banter. "Besides, aren't you Jewish?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

Pamela merely shrugged.

Bobby hurried Rufus to the door. "Would you get out of here and leave the woman alone. You've harassed her enough."

A short while later, Bobby set out bowls of chili and a pan of slightly overdone corn bread. Between answering another call from a hunter in Des Moines and one from Rufus, Pamela was surprised Bobby found time to eat at all.

"So where were you earlier this week that you couldn't help Rufus track down his spirit guide?"

Bobby laughed. "Is that what he was doing? I can't believe he's still stuck on that. He was looking for that back when we used to hunt together."

"Yeah, I know. And you hate McDonald's. So where were you?"

"Sam and Dean had this thing in Colorado."

"Thing?"

"Vengeful spirit, ghost sickness. It was pretty routine."

"Sam and Dean don't call you for routine."

"Well, I did get to road haul a vengeful spirit. That was a new one."

Pamela smiled and settled in for the story. "Oh, this ought to be good."

Bobby claimed he didn't exaggerate the level of Dean's case of ghost sickness, but Pamela wasn't entirely sure she believed him. She'd met Dean Winchester and he's not the type to scare easily.

At first all she sees are the fake ghosts, kids dressed up for Halloween. Then Dean is trying to convince an angel not to wipe out an entire town and Sam is playing with matches. Metaphorically, at least. Mostly he seems to be killing a demon, but there's something off about it.

Something in the tone of that last vision told her it was the future. The edges of it were cold and she felt a chill in her bones that was surreal against the warm summer day.

She wasn't pleased to see those boys fooling around with angels – no one could blame her for not being a fan – but the Winchesters seemed to be up to handling the immediate situation, more or less. She excused herself and went upstairs to run water over her face. She turned her face to the mirror, joking with herself that being blind hadn't stopped her sight at all.

Bobby's voice drifted up as she carefully navigated down the stairs.

"Ellen. How're you doing? Did Rufus call you?"

Pamela bumped into an end table on her way to the kitchen and cursed under her breath. She slowly made her way across the threshold and stood next to Bobby.

"Rufus was heading out your way on some disappearances. Figured you…"

Tired of hearing only one side of the conversation, she took the phone out of Bobby's hand. "Hi Ellen," she said in a cheery voice, "What's shaken'?"

"Pamela! How've you been? What are you doing at Bobby's?"

"Rufus dropped me off after he hauled me all over creation looking for that Apache Spirit Guide." Pamela paused. "You'll have to ask Rufus for the details."

Ellen laughed. "I will. What's Rufus doing coming my way anyway? Is something wrong? Is it Jo?"

"I don't see anything, Ellen. Rufus just seemed to be on the same job is all."

Tension crept into Ellen's voice. "I know what she's hunting, Pamela. It's the thing that killed Bill."

"I know."

"I don't know if I think straight when it comes to Jo hunting in the first place." Ellen confided.

"The Winchester boys aren't too far away. Halloween is day after tomorrow, and they've got this … thing... they've got to do. But they could be there after that. Devil's Gate Reservoir sure ain't going anywhere. If you wanted the back-up."

Ellen seemed to be contemplating the idea. "What thing?"

"It's complicated. Something with those damned angels, I think."

"Angels? I thought it was demons."

"I think they're mixed up with both sides."

"Then we'll only wait for Rufus. Those Winchester boys are going to be the death of me." Ellen muttered.

An abandoned hardware store. A dingy hotel room.

"Yeah," Pamela drew a shaky breath, "…me too." She felt a familiar chill as she hung up the phone.

"You okay?" Bobby asked, reaching out to take the phone from her hand.

Pamela shivered. "I'm just cold, Bobby."

She could almost taste his concern in the whiskey he poured her.