It's things like this that make me keep a pad of paper by the side of my bed at night. This came to me as I was laying awake during a thunderstorm, and wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it down. Also, please ignore Bobby's poor grammar. My spell-checker went crazy trying to fix all his language. Computers apparently don't appreciate the idea of literary personality. Sigh. Please review, and as always, I answer all reviews at my website. When you DO review, please include who you think Dean is talking about at the end. I want to see how clear the idea is to someone other than me. And no, I do not own Bobby, Dean, or the Impala.
The sun had long since ducked behind the hills and the evening mist had turned to light rain when Bobby Singer shuffled out across the junkyard, trucker cap pulled low over his eyes. The lights of the house shone with warm light, and the grumpy-old-man in him made Bobby wish he were still in his recliner with the newspaper and a whiskey. But the good-man inside had pummeled him until he gave in and dragged himself out into the drizzle. He shoved his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders as an icy trickle of rain wormed its way into his flannel collar and traced down his neck.
He heard Dean before he saw him. A radio was blaring some classic rock noise that Bobby didn't recognize, and the clang of tools on concrete drew his eyes to the back of the lot. The Impala was lit by a rusty, banged-up mechanic's work-light, which cast eerie shadows across the pavement. Dean's jean-clad legs were protruding from underneath the car, the denim stained black by rain, and his boots were bopping a bit in time to the music.
Bobby's shoe scuffed quietly against the pavement, and Dean's movement stopped immediately. There was a brief pause, seconds really, and Dean's legs disappeared under the car. A moment later, the top of his head peeked over the hood of the Impala, narrowed hazel eyes scanning the yard. When he saw Bobby, Dean straightened with a frown. "Dude, not cool. Sneaking up on a guy."
Bobby shook his head with a gruff little snort. "Didn't figure you would hear me, with that noise blasting on the radio."
"I beg your pardon, but Skynard is not noise. I should kick your ass on principle." Dean wiped his hand across his stomach, leaving a smear of motor oil on the already stained t-shirt. "Noise," he muttered again.
"You missed dinner." Bobby figured he may as well just jump right into the conversation, small talk be damned. Dean's shoulders tensed, and he stooped to retrieve a wrench from the ground.
"Yeah. Just got caught up with the car. I'll grab something in a while here, just nuke it."
"You been missing a lot of dinners, Dean." Bobby plowed forward. Get this over with, he thought, discomfort making his stomach turn, feeling out of line. I'm not his fucking father. Fuck John, leaving me with these boys. "You're spending an awful lot of time out here working on the car. Don't you think you need to take a break?"
"No." Dean's terse answer complimented the way he drew himself up to his full height. Stubborn little cuss. "The car isn't going to fix itself."
"Seems to me you been making the situation worse." Bobby looked pointedly at the trunk of the Impala. A jagged hole marred the surface of the metal, with paint chipping away from the edges and large dents cratering the surrounding area. "Don't seem to me that mess was there after the accident." He reached forward and gently ran his fingers over the wound in the trunk. "Looks like a tire-iron, maybe a crowbar."
"What do you want, Bobby?" Voice harsh, Dean tossed the wrench into his toolbox with enough force to slam the lid shut. "Why are you busting my balls?"
"Because we're worried about you, Dean." Bobby's own voice went shrill with emotion and he sucked in a breath, told himself to calm down. "I know you've been out of the hospital for a while, but you need to keep building your strength up. You're going to kill yourself out here, kill yourself over a damn car. It's not worth it. It's not that important."
"It is important!" Dean whirled toward Bobby. His face was red, eyes wide, and a vein was pulsing in his temple. "It is fucking important!" But then, as quickly as his rage had exploded, Dean reined himself in, the doors behind his eyes slamming shut to hide his emotion, his soul. He took a breath and blew it out in a sigh, lifting his hand toward Bobby in apology. "I just want to get it done, Bobby. I promise I'll come in and rest as soon as it's done." The good little soldier was back, pushing down all the pain and the rage until no emotion remained. Only that guarded expression in the eyes belied the truth of what roiled inside.
"Dean." Bobby's voice was quiet, gruff with emotion. "What's going on?"
Dean turned away from Bobby, his rain-soaked shirt highlighting the tension-taut muscles of his shoulders. He rested his palms on the trunk of the Impala, breathing out a long sigh. "She's never let me down before, Bobby. I have to fix this." And in that moment Bobby understood that Dean was not talking about the car. "I have to fix it."
"You couldn't have stopped it, Dean." Dean raised his eyes to meet Bobby's face. As he spoke, the drizzle turned to hard rain, dripping from Dean's cheeks and the tip of his nose and plastering his hair to his skull. "It wasn't your fault." The falling rain traced over the deep scar on Dean's forehead, as though trying to wash away the mark.
Dean shook his head almost imperceptibly and ran his fingers over his scalp, standing his hair on end. "She'll never be the same again, Bobby. No matter how much work I do, no matter how hard I try, she won't be the same."
Bobby felt his own heart constrict and flood with sorrow, with anger and fear and disillusionment. He missed John, missed the person that Dean had been, missed normal. And he knew, deep down, that Dean was right. Nothing would ever be the same again.