/ When I wrote this I hoped that somehow people would be able to relate to it. Yeah, Dean goes through a lot, but we've all had our fair share of crap, and our problems aren't any less or more than anyone else's. The poem Dean quotes is 'No' by A.M Juster. I will not be continuing this fic that soon, but please inform me if you would like it to be continued. I wasn't sure if it would be well received. If I should continue, most likely the updates will be weekly. Do comment and tell me what you think!/
"I'm sorry about Bobby, kid." Rufus' gruff voice echoed within Dean's ears and it took him a moment to realize he was being spoken to, and then another moment to decipher what the fuck Rufus was talking about.
"Yeah. Me too." Dean replied.
Bobby didn't want a proper funeral or anything, so his close friends all showed up to watch as his coffin was lowered six feet into the cold, damp earth. It started raining as the guys were filling up the grave, digging their shovels into piles of brown sandy mush, and dumping it onto the black casket. As droplets of water landed on exposed parts of the casket, turning into a matt sort of colour, Dean's head entered a stage of surprising clarity. Rufus squeezed his shoulder before walking away. The small crowd filled with Bobby's friends and customers, all people whose lives Bobby had somehow touched, began to dissipate like smoke. Chattering softly, some offered their condolences to Dean as they walked away. The tell tale sound of umbrellas being opened made Dean look up, half expecting to see black umbrellas open around him, like some movie scene. Dean almost laughed when umbrellas of shades like red, indigo and white opened up around him, as people hurried back to their cars, parked along the road outside the cemetery.
The rain was getting heavier, progressing from a thin mist into an actual downpour. Dean's leather jacket, the only possession he had left from his father was soaked, and a small part worried that it would be ruined if he didn't get out of the rain and let it dry. Dean just stood there, looking at nothing in particular. The cemetery didn't have the stink of death or the fog of despair that it should have had, considering it's where people were laid when they were dead and gone. Instead, that morning was lovely, and cool because of the rain. It was the kind of morning that Dean liked to spend as a child sitting and reading, while occasionally glancing out the water spattered windows.
It reminded him of his childhood, and that nostalgia that suddenly came over him was tinted with sorrow.
"G'bye, Bobby." Dean saluted the now completely filled grave. The men who had been working on filling Bobby's grave were drinking sodas off to the side, talking and laughing. Dean sighed and stuffing his hands in his pockets, began to walk back to the Impala. He had work to do today. In lieu of Bobby's death, Dean had closed up the Singer Salvage Yard that he was now in charge of, for the day.
Dean's life had been a hard one. His mother, Mary Winchester, had died in a house fire in the dead of night. Dean had been five years old, and his baby brother had been barely a year old. Dean could still call to his mind an image of their house in Lawrence burning to the ground. Plumes of black smoke rose into the sky, a fiery blaze slowly licking away at their beloved house. His father, John, had never been the same after, and he died soon after, barely four months after the incident. Officially, doctors said that John had died of a stroke, but Dean knew better. Dean knew he'd stopped trying to live the moment Mary died in that damn house. He had seen it in his father's eyes. He had seen the light in John's eyes extinguish. Dean had tried, oh how he'd tried. He had sobbed in his father's arms, and even as John's arms automatically slipped around his tiny body, there was no comfort to be found. Dean had brought Sam, trying to induce some sort of will in his father, some will to bring himself back from the brink and take care of his children but it was no use.
Four months after the incident, John passed away, not from a stroke. From grief. Dean would know. He'd watched the slippery slope John skidded down. There had been no pulling him back. For years, Dean had blamed his father, but as he revved up the Impala and pulled away from the rain slicked curb, he understood. He'd had it slightly differently though.
Dean had blamed his father for a lot of things as he got tossed from one children's home to another, but the one thing he despised him for, was for Sammy getting taken away. Young, and cute, Sam had been adopted in a heartbeat. Dean still remembered what it was like. Six years old and too young to understand that this was goodbye, he'd kissed his brother on the cheek and waved as his two year old brother was taken away from him forever. "Come visit lots!" He'd yelled as they left.
His social worker Page had given him a tube of M&Ms and congratulated him on being such a good boy. Happy with the candy, Dean had laughed and smiled, happy for his brother, and secure in the belief that he'd be able to see Sam, and play an important part in his life. Every weekend, he sat by the window facing the road of the children's home, and waited for Sam to come visit. Dean didn't remember much else other than those cold morning spent waiting. He didn't remember the name of the homes he'd been in as a child and he didn't remember the names of the other children. The only things he ever held onto were the names of his parents and the name of his little brother.
It took three years for Dean to come to the realization that Sam was never coming to visit. When he finally got it, he was less affected than he thought. That first morning that he didn't wait by the window, his caretaker had asked him why he wasn't waiting at the door.
His answer had been simple: "He isn't coming."
School had been interesting to say the least. Dean laughed humorlessly at this random memory that surfaced. Elementary and middle school were uneventful. None of the other kids had wanted to play with the "kids from the home" and Dean was just fine with that. He stuck to himself either way. High school on the other hand had been a whole different ball game.
By then he'd been transferred to Hope Boys' Home in Missouri, and had gone to the local high school. Dean never had friends; he'd never wanted them. His life had never been easy, and while he had never disturbed anyone, he by no means had trouble holding his own in unfavourable conditions to say the least. On the first day, he'd been approached by the gang of boys that 'ruled' the high school.
The leader, with a funny scar on the side of his face, had approached him swinging a butterfly knife with little finesse. Dean had pulled out his own, that had previously belonged to his ex-Marine father, and had taught him how to handle it properly. That had pretty much guaranteed his safety in high school, and had cemented his initiation into the little group. The guy with the scar was Gordon. There had been a lot of speculation on where Gordon had gotten his scar. Some said he got it from a tussle with a shark. Others said he'd gotten it from a bar fight. The insane rumours had always been humorous to both of them, and Gordon told him in confidence that he had actually gotten it from his drunken father lashing out at him with a whiskey bottle shard.
That had pretty much opened Dean to a life of partying, sex and lots of booze. He didn't remember much of high school, other than dropping out when he turned eighteen, about six months before graduation. Page had sat him down for the talk.
"Are you sure you want to drop out of high school, Dean?"
"Yes." He had answered shortly, impatient to get out of there.
"You can stay here as long as it takes to get your high school diploma Dean." Page had told him earnestly. "It's all taken care of."
"I don't want my fucking diploma." Dean had hissed. "I want to get out of this hellhole."
Page had looked hurt and sad, and for a moment perhaps, Dean had felt sorry for her. She had been trying to help him, but she just didn't understand. No one ever could.
"I see. In that case, I've managed to get the number for your father's old friend. As I understand, he currently owns a salvage yard. You could contact him and ask him for a job."
"I want to see my brother." Dean had gritted out.
"You've asked that many times Dean, but I'm sorry. Sam is not eighteen yet, and for now, his parents want to keep this from-"
"Fuck them!" Dean had yelled. "I'm his fuckin' brother!"
He had stormed out. And he had called Bobby.
And here he was.
Was his life really any better now? Bobby had gotten him clean, given him his father's Impala, given him a clean, warm place to stay. Out of sheer gratitude, Dean had played by the rules and gotten clean. He was glad he never got hooked onto drugs. Perhaps he would've…that is if he had gotten the money to do so. There was never any money around. You didn't get an allowance if you were a kid of the state. Only parents gave you that.
Dean pulled up in front of Bobby's house. The place he'd called home for the past ten years. Bobby had become the closest thing he'd had to a father in the time he'd been here. He'd once asked Bobby: "Why didn't you come find me before, Bobby?"
"I'd wanted to, son." Bobby's voice had sounded harsher than usual. "I didn't know where to start or where you'd gone, then Karen died, and boy, I couldn't."
Dean had felt kind of like a dick then. "I know, Bobby."
Neither had said anything more on the subject.
Sometimes Dean still thought of Sam. It hurt that he didn't know what his baby brother looked like, and he'd turned eighteen a long time ago, Dean knew that. Sam would be twenty four now. If Sam hadn't come searching for him now, it meant he simply did not want to get involved in Dean's affairs. And Dean thought he could understand that. Sam was probably living a good life. Sam was probably nice, and kind, and smart and well adjusted; all the things Dean never would be. That was okay. Dean just hoped his brother was happy, and now at this point of his life, he was glad Sam had never known him personally. He wasn't the kind of brother someone would be proud of, he knew that.
That didn't make it hurt any less though.
Dean went straight to Bobby's room. He'd packed his stuff up a long time ago, when Bobby first got so sick, he'd had to be taken to the hospital and couldn't come home. Dean just stood there for a long moment, his eyes wandering over the bed which hadn't been slept in for months, to the bookshelves filled with books on the occult and the supernatural, to the hunting rifle mounted over the bed. Dean chuckled halfheartedly. This room screamed Bobby. Dropping to his knees on the hardwood floor, for the first time in his life, Dean prayed. Not to God, but to Bobby.
His fingers clasped together in front of him, Dean cleared his throat, eyes shut tight.
"Hey there Bobby. I'm guessing you're gonna be uh…pretty mad at me. I'm sorry man. For everything. I…I tried to be a good son Bobby. I was so damn grateful…for…for everything man." Dean took a long shuddering breath, feeling tears prick his eyes. "I'm so sorry, Bobby. I can't do it anymore. It's time for me, and you know it…man…Bobby…" Dean broke then. He gave a strangled groan and covered his face with his hands, shaking with grief. After a long moment, Dean forced himself to his feet and wiped at his face ineffectually. His eyes were still flowing, and his vision blurred. Making his way to his bathroom, Dean reached for the Valium. Dean chuckled despite himself.
"Another one bites the dust." Dean muttered, giving the bottle an experimental shake. It sounded like it was still half full. Making his way down to the kitchen, Dean grabbed the pad and pen Bobby always kept near the phones for messages, and scribbled a quick note.
'Rufus-The Impala's yours, and so's the salvage yard and the house. I'm sorry. Dean.'
Dean pulled out the keys to his baby, and slammed it down next to the note. He took the bottle of vodka he'd bought last night from the kitchen cabinet, and uncapped it, taking a long swig from the bottle. It wasn't his first drink, Bobby had never made him go completely cold turkey; he'd still had the occasional beer or two, but it was his first swig of hard liquor in close to seven years. Going down it made his eyes water and his throat burn with the sudden alcohol, but it felt good. Dean finished a quarter of the bottle before turning to the Valium.
He popped open the bottle and shook out a mouthful of pills, biting and chewing, scrunching up his nose at the bitter taste. He swallowed them down with some vodka, and did the same with another bunch of pills. By now, he was way too hammered to stand so he sunk down to the floor, smiling in a drunken haze.
He held the bottle aloft to the world. "No, not this time. I cannot celebrate a man's discarded life, and will not try." He quoted a half remembered poem by Juster, read when Bobby first went to the hospital.
"Goodbye, Bobby." Dean whispered. "Or maybe I should say see you soon. But wait, suicide cases don't go to heaven do they?"
The last thing Dean remembered before he passed out was hysterical laughter. Right before he slipped away, Dean realized the laughter was his own.