Storm Came Down
Disclaimer: I own neither the world of Doctor Who nor the world of Supernatural. I just put them together so I could watch the fireworks.
Somewhere in Bobby's junkyard there is a faded blue box.
The boys stumble across it now and then, giving it weird looks for being wood in the midst of a yard full of metal, but there are cars to climb in and later weapons to find and it always slips their minds. Sam tried to open the door once, wondering what a police box looked like on the inside, but the door was stuck fast and wouldn't budge. It was so old that the wood had probably become too warped to open it, and the sasquatch-like strength to force it open was not yet his. So he left it be, and forgot. It wouldn't have opened anyway.
Sam and Dean have known Bobby all of their lives, but they don't really remember how Bobby got old. He's just always been there – a friend of their father's who has seen more than most people think exists and knows…
"... just because I've forgotten more than you'll ever know don't mean I know everything, idjits."
Well, Dean's still pretty sure he knows everything.
Bobby believes in everything, just about. With a life like his it would be hard not to. Sam has never been more grateful for this than when his psychic powers start to develop, and Dean is particularly thankful when the angels appear and Bobby hops right on board. At least there is someone else out there who believes how crazy their lives are.
Interestingly, neither of the brothers has ever asked Bobby if he believes in aliens.
Bobby's house is a little like his junkyard. There are books everywhere, bags of salt, lots of conveniently pointy iron pokers. But there's other stuff too, feathers and charms and some crystals that Dean laughed about until one winged him on the shoulder. And there are lots of symbols – carved into old Mayan calendars, tablets of cuneiform, bits of hieroglyphs - the works. Dean long since gave up on the idea of identifying even half the paraphernalia Bobby has lying around but Sam still likes to poke through it on those rare times when nothing disastrous is happening or those times when the world is ending so damn fast that he'll try anything not to feel useless. There's a dusty pocket watch on Bobby's mantle covered with faded swirly shapes, like the orbits of strange stars or the gear work of a solar system. It doesn't tick in his hand and Sam's never been able to figure out how to wind it, but he can't open it either.
Somehow he never asks Bobby about it – it might be a gift from his dead wife or something and Sam knows all about painful memories.
Bobby, for all his wisdom, is not the introspective type. There's a lot of bad shit in the world and someone's got to deal with it and if he can keep his boys alive and save some people from the things that go bump in the night the rest is small potatoes. In the end, Lucifer rising bothers him less than not being able to walk. Maybe he's not useless but he was a hell of a lot more useful with legs and there's more shit to deal with now than ever.
There's a ramp next to the porch stairs and he's got some pretty heavy-duty wheels so on the days when the house is falling in on him he rolls himself through the yard. He knows this place like the back of his hand, but distances are different in a chair and he never tells the boys about the night he spent in the lee of an old Chevy truck because his arms were too tired to get back.
When he finds the box he's not even surprised.
The blue has faded with time and weather, but he's almost sure that a good cleaning could get most of the color back. The wood should be rotting from just sitting on the dirt but some good soul had sealed her up tight and the small glass window isn't even cracked. They knew how to build things proper in those days. The thought is almost proprietary.
What Bobby's never told the boys is that he doesn't know where the box came from. The knowledge that it's there is like an itch on the side of his mind. An itch like the one that said, "there's more out there than this," that led him into hunting. Most itches are dealt with by a judicious application of force and drinking, but the box fades in and out – not worth bothering over when the rest of the world is going to the hellhounds.
He came out here when his wife… when he killed his wife. Sat against the box and looked at the stars and cursed and drank and cried. When John showed up with the boys Bobby wrapped them up and put them to bed and walked into the yard. He ended up at the box again, watching the clouds and the storm coming in and promising himself that this time he'd get it right. No matter how they tried there would be no running from this. He's not one for chick flick moments but the wood felt warm and solid against his back, like an old friend.
He's never tried to open it.
But he sits there now, in his cripple chair and stares, aching more than he's willing to admit. They've really done it this time, world ending, Sammy still craving a fix, and Dean more twisted up than any one person should be and be able to walk. He should be in this chair, with all the shit he's dealing with. And Bobby's just sitting, staring at the wind and fondling a broken watch. When you can't go anywhere, who cares about the time?
He's pretty sure there's a key for this thing somewhere, though it probably won't open anyway. But he can't go back tonight. Sam is de-toxing in the panic room and Dean is hollow, like something scooped him out. Even that featherbrain angel of theirs is looking worse for wear. And Bobby aches for them, so tired of running and a storm coming fast.
Maybe he put the key in the watch.
A/N: Because I came across the fic "Doctor, Doctor" by Nemainofthewater and immediately thought that somewhere in the scrapyard there should be an old wooden box. So here it be. I hope you enjoyed and reviews are always appreciated!