Disclaimer: Characters are not mine! All characters belong to Supernatural.
A/N: Thank all of those who sat down and read my story, and for those of you who reviewed. ^^ This story is going to be maybe (At the very bare least) 20 chapters long, although I'm aiming for some serious "Double-Digits." Maybe 40 Chapters, I haven't decided quite yet, I just know it's going to be long. This should be updated at least every week, and maybe I'll pick out a day in which I'm free and can promise frequent weekly updates, but I don't know just yet. Feel free to yell at me whenever you see it fit, (If there are a bunch of misspellings [Which their shouldn't be] or if I'm taking too long to update, making too short or too long of chapters, etc.) I love reviews, Constructive criticism, and Flames. Let me know what you think, or if something should be fixed up. I'm all ears. Thank you once again~! ^^ Enjoy!
Warning: Mild language, alcohol, and my complete lack of vehical knowledge.
An old black 70' Ford Maverick, almost as good as the 67 Chevy Impala, but not quite. The car was nice, to say the least; Shined frame, the coating was slicked and sleek, with the '2-Door Coup', the extra 2 doors having not been added until Brazil had created the Station-wagon version in 1978. The seats were furnished, the tires were in good condition, much like everything else on the vehical.
Bobby just couldn't find a single damn thing wrong with it.
The hunt to go collect the piece of machinery had been one of question. He had wondered what condition it would have been in, how destroyed and rusted, he was looking for a piece of junk, not a work of art.
Forget what Crowley said. Bobby couldn't even remember the last time he'd seen a car so well taken care of. The oil had been changed, not to mention it was a top quality brand; Engines were in functioning order, not to mention a shined up, and geared 170 CID 16 under his hood. The brakes worked just fine, reverse was set and locked, the meter's weren't damaged, gas tank contained a fair amount of gas; Hell, there wasn't even a gas leak, not even so much as a smudge on the windshield. Bobby had checked in, out, around, and within the car, and there was nothing to find.
Bobby sat in the driver seat, the hood pulled up on the car, and the tires having been removed. The hunter sighed, running a grease covered hand over his face, smearing some of the black goo onto his face and into his beard. Pushing himself out of the car, and into his garage, he looked down at his tool, which were scattered around in no particular order. Everything was a mess, and he mentally scowled himself.
Why was everything always such a clutter, why was everything so filthy, messy, out of place? It's like nothing ever had a place to begin with, like it never belonged. Why doesn't anything belong? The hammer goes with the nails, while the screw driver goes with the screws, but then were do you place them? In a bucket? Then what? You could set the place up nice and tidy, but in the end it'll be misplaced, disorganized, a disaster.
Bobby can't remember this room ever being clean, or at least in some sort of order.
Wiping his greasy hands on the front of his pants, he turned to look at the car again. He'd never been so stumped on finding the problem. Any problem for that matter.
It's been about 5 days or so since he'd last seen Crowley, and that was when he was walking out the door, having sneakily slid his keys into the hunters pockets. Bobby hadn't even heard from him, but he supposed that was mostly because the man didn't have his number, and Bobby found it fruitless to call him without having had any progress.
It was like walking to your customers without their food, just to say hi.
Bobby looked up and checked the digital clock on the other side of the garage, hanging over his power tools. The hunter mumbled under his breath, it was too damn early in the day to be this tired. He hadn't eaten, in what felt like an eternity, his stomach protesting every other moment or chance that it got, slowing the hunter down every step of the way.
The silent grumbling was nearly deafening to his ears, feeling the vibrations in his lower abdomen, almost as if it was begging to be fed, begging for something. Bobby attempted to shrug it off, but the feeling was getting worse. Shaking his head, his eyes darted downward to look inside of the car one last time.
He wondered vaguely on whether or not the car was the one with the problems.
Groaning, Bobby grabbed the hood and slammed it back down, placing parts of the car back in place. Wheel after wheel, after wheel put back on after the tires were shifted and bolted back down. Cleaning off any smudges or grease that he had put on the outer-shell, he closed up the Maverick with a bit of a huff, grabbing a dirty rag and attempting to take off some of the grease attached over his palms.
The oily, stickiness that felt so familiar, and vaguely boarding on welcomed and unpleasant, Bobby tossed the filthy rag over on the table a meter or so away from him, pressed against the wall, as he reached for his tools. Carelessly, he snatched each one, before tossing them into their containers and shoving or kicking them off to the side to deal with later. Heavy stepping his way back inside, his heels scraping against the gravel and dirt, mixing together into an abnormal scratchy clump of a sound that reverberated and resounded as he lifted his heel once again.
Making it up his back steps, sound, phone, balls.
Bobby cursed, running up the last few steps, and opening up his back door, not bothering to close it as he bee-lined it for the phone, snatching it up off the side table, before his thumb quickly pressed 'send' pulling the receiver to his ear.
Fifth call of the day, another false alarm, still no update on Ben's condition. Bobby sighed, but didn't put the phone down, listening for the reason of the call, before he'd decide whether or not it was worth his time or not. Either way, he always ended up doing it, regardless, he couldn't tell anyone no.
Bobby, half-listening to Ellen, was still a bit worried about how Dean handled the Virus, or if he was able to figure it out. The older man had been so worried, especially when Dean was so frantic, completely and utterly panicked, jolting down the information before quickly hanging up without even a damn decent goodbye, or even thank you. Bobby was worried, Bobby'll always be worried or concerned for those boys, it was his job, and having gone so long without an update was leaving the hunter edgy.
Bobby could hear himself speaking to her, he could hear was he was saying, and that she was responding, but he didn't know what was coming out of his mouth, he wasn't listening. He barely registered hanging up until he did so, the conversation vague on his mind, and almost barely there. He needed a drink.
Some kind of mixture, something he hadn't had in a while. Bobby stretched his arms absent-mindedly, stepping out of his 'library,' his steel toed boots thudding heavily against the once cluttered ground, reaching out and pulling the fridge open. Soft frisk of a sound, as the edges pulled apart from the metal, like it was made up of glue, and the soft illuminating light flickered to life. The hunter reached inside, pulling out a beer, letting the door slip shut as he pushed himself back into the 'library.'
Pulling off the tip, the cap gave an obscene pop before the brisk flush of white frost floated out of the opening, chilling the palm of the hunters hand, bringing the drink up to his lips.
Liquid ice washed over his tongue, and the tang of the bitter sweet sting was nothing compared to the few whiskey bottles he had stored under the sink, but he needed something cool, something refreshing, not soul stripping. There was no burn as it swam down his throat, their wouldn't be, not even a buzz. He pull the drink away, swallowing, his fingers stretching over the top, letting the small sheen of condensation run against the pads of his fingers.
There was a surging ring, loud and profound, over and over, ring ring ring. Grumbling to himself, he set the beer onto the table, the glass clanking against the wooden platform as he snatched the phone, wiping the water from his hands on the butt of his pants, pressing 'send'.
"Yeah, whaddaya want?" He grunted, turning and leaning against the table.
"Robert? Is this you?" The softly gruff accented voice reverberated through the other end, causing the older man to nearly choke. Crowley? How'd that guy get his number?
"Blast, I swore this was the right number-"
"No, Crowley," Bobby cleared his throat, "Yeah, it's me."
A pause, "Ah, good. I was hoping I'd hear from you sooner, but I never got that update-"
"I didn't have an update to give," Bobby muttered, eyes glancing at his feet momentarily before darting about, moving the arm from his side to grasp around his middle. "Couldn't find much wrong with the thing; real nice car by the way." A breath, "How'd you find my number?"
A beat, "Wasn't that hard, looking for the only Robert Singer in South Dakota in the phone book didn't take black magic."
Bobby would have laughed, but ended up using a small chuckle, "Yeah well, now that you mention it, I should probably get that fixed."
"Oh, don't be like that." another chuckle, "I'll swing by later to pick it up, sevenish sound flat?"
Bobby muddled on the wording for a moment, the slow interpretation clicked, I'll pick it up at seven. Goddamn, why couldn't he just say that? Where the hell was this guy from anyways? London? "Yeah, see you then."
"Tata." The line went dead, Bobby looked at the phone a moment, before making a slick roll of the eyes.
The day moved like a film set on rewind and time ticked off but never seemed to move. He'd gotton a few other calls after that, and then two on his own personal cell. What was a man who didn't have a job need two phones for? Well, his personal number was only given to two people, Sam and Dean, who only used that number when it was of serious import, otherwise it was the land line. Sam, unlike Dean, thought updates on the outside world were very important, knowing the old man doesn't get out much.
Two text messages.
Both from Sam.
The boy acted like Bobby had no idea how to turn on the damn TV.
His eyes shifted over to the old dusty screen off to the side, facing the couch, but covered in pages and books; it could easily have been mistaken for a table, seeing as the back juts out with a paper covering that mocks wood at it's very sight. It was a dinosaur, older than God 'emself, or at least Bobby liked to believe so, merely shrugging and looking back at the book resting in his lap. He can turn it on when ever he wants to, he just doesn't.
Maybe that's what Sam's gettin' at.
Seconds ticked to minutes, ticked to hours, tick tick tick, the snap of a minute hand that wasn't even in the house, but Bobby could still hear it mocking him. The only clock he had was his watch, and the digital in his garage, no need for time here, none what so ever. He had nothing to need a clock for, he had a internal alarm clock, wake up, go to bed. His stomach was his food alarm, and the pains in his lower half signal when it's time to use the washroom. The phone rings, Oh! Time for a job. It goes on and on, and it'll never stop.
Glancing at his watch, it was getting later, but still not time. Not time, not time, never time, time, time, never enough, or too much. Hadn't he been in this debate before? Always arguing with himself, he can never agree on anything without second guessing himself. It has a lot to do with all this time on his hands and never having anyone around. Only voices he ever hears is the static over the phone, rarely people come to see him; Why would they want to? He was only a speed-dial away.
Yeah, that's what he was. Speed dial.
He was probably called as much a 911, perhaps more. The number in the book right under it, Bobby chuckled sadly to himself. He could already imagine the text underneath Emergency being you gotta problem? This guy'll fix it. The hunter frowned, idly dragging his his fingers over the aging pages of his book.
There was a subtle knocking at the door, Bobby turned his head in the direction of his front door when the knocking sounded again. Wait, that wasn't- Bobby cocked a brow, turning his head to face his back entry way instead, looking through the open kitchen doorway, before pushing himself from his seat, putting a doggy-ear on his page before carelessly tossing it on his desk.
Walking to the back door, he pulled it open.
"Hello, Robert."
"Crowley," Bobby greeted. The hunter had expected a quick come and go visit, like all visits, and to get back to his book, but his plans were suddenly altered when the shorter male brought forth a clear bottle with a golden liquid swimming inside; the hunter eyes it carefully, before raising a brow, eye looking upward, catching the mans devilish smirk.
"What's that for?"
"Call it payment for the car work. We never did discuss numbers."
Bobby waved off the comment, "It was a favor," The hunter mumbled, "You were in an accident, wasn't gonna force you to pay for help."
There was a thoughtful look on the business mans face for a moment, "Their are not many people who share your views."
"That's what makes them mine, I've never been one for sharin'." The comment made the shorter man grin before straightening his jacket. His hand moved over the top of the bottle, as if remembering something.
"Glencraig."
Bobby made a face, "What?"
"Glencraig," Crowley held up the bottle once again, "Although I prefer to call it Craig, some beg to differ." He smirked, "Good drink, if aged 30 years at least. I've been drinking it since grade school."
Bobby felt his lips tugging upward at this, "You're different, I'll give you that."
Crowley smirked, "Oh come now Robert, If I hadn't given off a better impression than that, might as well work in a field." Bobby snorted.
It was weird, he'd only met this guy, but it felt like he's known him for years, if by the way they were talking was anything to go by. Bobby stopped himself, he was getting too comfortable too quickly; he didn't know this guy, he'd only just met him a few days ago. They weren't best friends, or drinking buddys. The guy was in an accident, and he was just the first house he could make it to, he was just the help. He was always just the help.
He absently patted down his vest pockets; he'd hand him the keys, and he'd be out of his hair. One less person to worry about, and no more influx on his routine.
"Now," Crowley began again, "How about we see to splitting this, eh?"
Well, maybe the keys can wait just a bit longer; Stepping aside, the business man brushed by him, the heavy scent of men's cologne and a twinge of butterscotch lingered after the male. Still sporting black, like he was going to a funeral, he looked the same as before, exactly the same.
Why did he let him inside? Bobby wondered vaguely about his sudden lapse in judgement. He doesn't know this man and yet he's letting him in his house; he barely let Rufus in his house, and he'd known Rufus for years. The boys, Ellen and Jo were about it when letting people into his home. After everything, and everyone he's lost over the years, his home was all he had that never left, never changed, day in and day out, and now someone was in it.
"Coming Robert?" The deeply accented voice called from somewhere in the library, Bobby looked out of the door a moment, a split second decision.
"Yeah, I'm comin'." And with that, he grabbed the handle, closing the door with a subtle slam.
Shitty chapters are shitty, (And short.) and I'm trying not to rush any relationship. Remember that.
Well, there isn't much I have to say about this, other than how deeply sorry I am about the car scene at the beginning. I know my way around a car the same way I know my way around a tree; Either way, it's not looking good. My father knew a thing or two on cars, and so does most of everyone around me, which I ended up taking tips from. (Also Google is my best friend.) If It seems I rushing any proximate relationship, tell me. Right now though, I'm trying to fix up and set the characters, and the plot before pursuing any romantic relationship (Much like my non-existent love life.). Thank you for reading so far, and don't forget to review~! LLAP ^^