Word of the Week: Midnight

Word Count: 200, double drabble time!

Midnight was as good a time as any to be making chili.

Bobby couldn't sleep, not unusual on nights when he was waiting to hear the telltale sound of the Impala cruising into his salvage yard.

He slowly stirred the concoction, his hands steady; just as they needed to be for everything from coaxing a difficult engine to crank for him, to methodically stitching mangled flesh back together.

His kitchen was tidy, bowls and spoons stacked neatly in case they were just hungry and road weary; the first aide box set out in case they weren't.

He had made countless pots of midnight chili over the years, some ended up being shared after a hunt gone well, beers passed around with the details.

Some pots of midnight chili had been burnt so badly that Bobby hadn't even tried to save the pot, silently throwing the whole mess out; those nights the simmering pot forgotten in a flurry of activity, his kitchen suddenly an operating room.

He looked up as he heard the deep rumble of the Impala. He glanced from the bowls to the first aid kit, wondering what kind of night he had ahead of him. Chili, he hoped.

What I wouldn't give for some midnight chili in Bobby Singer's kitchen! Please review!