I recently finished watching Season Two, and at the end of the finale I suddenly started shipping Bobby and Ellen. So that's fun. And this is the result of that. Read and review, let me know what you think! I love hearing from all of you :)
All rights belong to the creators/copyright holders.
Bobby Singer was getting real tired of demons. Having to check the eyes of everyone he met, worrying whether John's boys would come back to him possessed. Some people making deals with the damn things.
But now, since the gates of Hell itself had been opened, he had a feeling his demon troubles were only just beginning.
He ran a hand over his head, settled his hat back down, and focused on the demon at hand. A dead one. Salt, that's what they needed, salt and lighter fluid and matches, and the boys were getting the shovels, and Ellen—Where was Ellen?
He scanned the empty graveyard, a sudden panic rising. To lose her, for the second time—But no, there she was.
Ellen stood in front of the crypt, two fingers tracing the intricate copper pentagram worked into door.
"How many d'you think are down there?" she asked, not turning her head as he came up beside her.
"How many demons?" he asked.
"How many people we cared about."
"Ellie, you can't think like that."
She faced him, her face set against tears."I think I can think however I want to think, Bobby Singer; I just saw my dead husband's best friend crawl out of Hell."
"He always was a stubborn little bastard." That earned him a surprised laugh, and just like that, the usual dry and practical Ellen returned.
"Don't we have a demon to burn and bury?" She swiped a hand under her eyes and started heading for the exit. "Where are those boys at?"
"I sent them for shovels, but knowing them, they're probably talking about their feelings out by the car again."
"No time for that, we've got work to do."
"Storm's comin'" Bobby muttered to himself as he followed her out, giving a look back over the graveyard.
"That's you boys's favorite phrase, isn't it?" Ellen waited for him by the gate. "Let me tell you somethin': It's been raining for a while now. This? This is war."
It was raining by the time they got back to Bobby's place. Sam was asleep on top of Dean in the backseat. Bobby had been granted the privilege of driving the Impala by reason of the fact that Dean could barely keep his eyes open either. Bobby couldn't remember the last time he himself had slept, and he couldn't imagine Dean was doing any better.
Ellen hustled everyone inside in record time, throwing dish towels at the boys as they passed through the kitchen.
"Dry off and head up to bed," she ordered.
Dean attempted a protest and got as far as,"But we have to-" before Ellen cut him off.
"There is nothing you boys have to do before morning besides sleep. Trust me, morning will be here sooner than you think. Now get your asses to bed, and don't make me come up there."
"Yes, ma'am." Dean steered a bleary-eyed Sam into the hall. "Woman's scarier than a damn demon."
"I heard that!"
"I... think you were... s'pose to..."
"Sammy? Shut up."
"Mmm..."
"Do I get a room in this place?" Ellen asked, rubbing a dish towel over her own hair.
"Down the hall, there's an extra room." Bobby thought for a minute. "If you don't mind knives."
"Might actually make me feel better, at this point. Bathroom still in the same place?"
"I don't move the rooms around much."
"No, you just repurpose them." She sniffed the collar of her shirt and made a face. "I smell like a burnt graveyard. Don't suppose you got a change of clothes around here?"
"Nothing that would fit you. Sorry."
"Hmm. Maybe I'll just borrow something from Dean." She headed out into the hall. "'Night, Bobby. Make sure you sleep some, too, you hear?"
"Sure," he said, unconvincingly, and made his way to the kitchen for a beer.
Ellen showered until she couldn't smell smoke in her hair anymore, until the memories of the afternoon were half-washed away in the pain of the hot water, and until the hot water ran out. She washed out her underthings, socks, tank, and overshirt in the sink and left most of it to dry in the bathroom. There wasn't much she could do about her jeans just then, so she pulled them on with her damp tank top and padded barefoot up the stairs.
The door to the boys' room was ajar, a lamp still turned on inside. She stuck her head around and rapped gently on the door frame.
Dean held up his hands. "We're going to bed, I swear."
"I know, I know." She stepped inside. Sam was already down for the count, flopped down on one of the twin beds Bobby had set up for them, arm flung over the side and snoring quietly.
Dean looked her up and down. "It's not raining that hard."
"Emergency laundry. This is all I've got now, remember?"
"Aw, hell, Ellen, I'm sorry." He ran a hand over his hair and blew out a breath. "Really, I am. The Roadhouse, everything. If I hadn't called Ash-"
"Bullshit. If, if, if. If Ash had ever learned how to work a fire extinguisher, if the sun hadn't risen last Friday. You're supposed to call on family when you're in trouble, and I don't ever want you thinking otherwise."
There was a commotion from the bed and Sam sat up, eyes half closed. "I," he proclaimed in a slurred voice, "am sleeping."
"Yeah?" Dean gave the bed frame a kick. "Then go back to it, bitch."
Sam grumbled his way back under the covers, pulling a sheet theatrically over his head.
Ellen looked from him to Dean and back again. "Is he on drugs?"
"Nah, he's just regenerating. Bobby said sleeping a lot would be a side effect of—uh, almost dying. Getting his strength back. All that."
"You are a terrible liar, Dean Winchester, but I am too exhausted to get it out of you right now."
"Is Bobby going to let you stay here for a while?" Dean asked, pointedly changing the subject.
"I don't know about 'let.' I plan on it. 'Till I can figure shit out. Get ahold of Jo."
"If there's anything me or Sammy can do..."
An incoherent groan sounded from the bed.
"I'll let you know. Meantime, I'd count it as a kindness if you could lend me some clothes."
Dean stared at her for a second and then realized she was serious. "Oh, uh, yeah, sure, hang on." He pulled a duffle bag onto his bed and started rifling through it. "I can't promise anything, um, clean..."
"Just a shirt or somethin's fine."
He tossed her a green plaid flannel. It smelled kind of like a bar, but that was one smell Ellen certainly didn't mind.
"You get on to bed now," she said, rolling up the sleeves so she could find her hands. "And, hey." She grabbed his arm so he had to face her. "I'm real glad you boys are ok."
"You too, lady." Dean produced a smile. Something was definitely wrong, but Ellen's Mom-dar told her she wouldn't be getting anything out of him tonight.
Instead, she pulled him into a hug, and after a moment, he hugged her back.
Ellen pulled out her phone and dialed Jo's number for the twenty-third time that day.
"Hey, you've reached my voice mail, good job. Leave a message and we'll see if I call you back."
She hung up without speaking, for the nineteenth time that day.
Bobby was settled on the couch, half a beer down, listening to the sounds of the house. He heard Ellen come downstairs again and pause in the hall. Small beeping noises. Probably calling Jo. And then silence.
She walked into the living room a few minutes later. He braced himself for an admonition about sleeping and bedtimes, but all she did was glance at his beer and say, "You got one of those for me?"
"Got a whole fridge full of 'em."
She nodded and continued on to the kitchen. Sounds of perfunctory tidying floated out, and then the clink of the bottles in the fridge.
Ellen settled onto the other end of the couch and took a long swig of beer. "Somethin's going on with the boys," she said.
Bobby tensed. He tried to drink casually, and only managed to hit himself in the teeth. "Well, like you said, they did just see-"
"Nope." Ellen shook her head. "I know emotional trauma; those boys wear it like cheap aftershave. They're hiding something from us, Bobby, and I think it's something to do with Sam."
Bobby realized he was shredding the label off his beer and stopped.
"Is he all right?" Ellen asked. "I mean, really all right? You said he got hurt bad; now, I know you and Dean are all about your back door medicine and you think duct tape's better than stitches, but maybe he should go to a doctor, one of those walk-in clinics at least. What happened, exactly?"
"He got stabbed," Bobby said, not meeting Ellen's gaze.
"He got what."
"Stabbed. He's fine."
"I can see that, except for the fact that he almost died and now you're lying to me, too, Bobby Singer. That's not fine."
"I haven't lied."
"Lying by omission's same as lying; I have a teenage daughter for God's sake, don't you pull her tricks with me. You don't just 'almost die' from a goddamn stab wound and then come back around like sunshine the next day. What the hell happened in that creepy-ass village? And don't you lie to me."
Bobby sat forward and placed his beer carefully on the coffee table, but didn't let go of the neck. He lifted it up and set it down again, leaving a pattern of wet rings on the surface as he talked.
"Sam was fighting against that boy, Jake. Dean and I had just got there, and we thought it was over. And then...Jake stabbed our Sam...in the back. With a knife."
Bobby risked a glance sideways at Ellen. Her eyes were narrowed and she sat angled toward him on the couch, gripping her beer bottle as if she might need it as a weapon. He hurried on.
"Sam died. For a bit."
"The hell you telling me-"
"Dean—Dean went and made a deal. At a crossroads. He-"
Ellen slammed her bottle down on the table and stormed to her feet. "That damn fool. I'm going to kill him myself."
"Ellen-" Bobby stood up.
"No, I am!" She shrugged off his hand on her arm. "I'm going to kill him. Hell, I'll kill both of them over again, the damn, stupid-"
Bobby took a hold of her arms from behind. She was tense, but she didn't throw him off this time.
"How long has he got?" She asked roughly, staring at the floor.
"A year."
"A year? He couldn't even bargain for more than a year?" She turned to face him and he kept his arms around her, still trying to hold her back and perhaps somehow protect her from this new truth.
"I ain't too happy with the boy, either. But you know what they are to each other."
"And what about what they are to us? I can't lose anybody else, Bobby, I can't." Her head fell against his chest and he pulled her fully into a hug, rubbing her shoulder. "I can't lose them, or Jo, or you..."
"You ain't going to lose me, Ellie. We'll fix this. We always do. Find a way."
She raised her head just as he was lowering his and she bumped her temple on his chin, and then she was nudging her nose against his cheek, fisting her hands in his plaid overshirt and pulling herself closer. He bent his head to hers and pressed his lips to the corner of her mouth, and she turned immediately, her lips catching his and kissing insistently, urgently, her arms sliding up around his neck.
He kissed her back, lost in her, wanting to pull her down to the couch and- He pulled back.
She opened her eyes, confused. "What?"
"I don't—um. It's...well, Bill was my friend, too, and-"
"Son of a bitch." Ellen bent to retrieve her beer and the flannel shirt Bobby hadn't even realized he'd slid from her shoulders. "Bill's been dead a long time, and I ain't been sitting in a bar full of hunters polishing my chastity belt." She stalked out to the hall towards the spare room. "Heaven knows I ain't gonna force you."
The room was full of knives. They were mounted on the wall. There was a chest of drawers, each drawer bearing a Latin label, each generally ending in gladium. There were Sterilite tubs in the corner, stuffed full of bubble wrap and, presumably, knives. There were even—Ellen checked—knives packed in cardboard boxes under the bed.
She dropped the flannel shirt on the floor and shucked off her jeans, dropping to the edge of the bed to finish her beer. Her mind, at this point, was basically an uninterrupted stream of swear words, directed at a variety of sources. She threw back the last of the beer, set the bottle on the bedside table (next to a knife block), and fell back across the bed. Fuck and damn.
There was a knock at the door.
"Fuck," she said tiredly, and hauled herself up to answer.
Bobby carefully kept his eyes on her face, and she remembered her lack of pants. He wasn't wearing his hat.
"What? You forget something in here?"
"I have been in love with you for seven years, Ellen Harvelle, and I don't ever want to forget that." He reached out and pulled her into a kiss. Her hand scraped the doorjamb as she let go, stumbling and falling against him into the hallway, but kissing back all the same.
"Well, all right then," she said, when they stopped to breathe. "You going to join me in the knife room?"
"Gladium."
"Don't you go making bad Latin jokes at me, boy," she warned, and shut the door behind them.