Part Four:
(Tuesday)
The morning came too soon, the sun rising and waking Bobby even though he'd had only a couple hours sleep. He'd made his way to bed shortly before five a.m. after having called and woken John, debriefed him on Dean's findings and agreed to speak again in the morning. So when the sun had flooded his room before seven, Bobby had begrudgingly crawled out of bed and made his way down into the kitchen, setting a pot of coffee on.
As the coffee brewed and a pan of bacon heated, Bobby stepped out onto the porch and retrieved his morning paper, stretching his arms wide and taking in the clean, crisp morning air. It was going to be another cool summer day, a good day for work around the salvage yard, another chance to get Dean out and keep him busy and his mind clear of the concerns and worries that seemed to be plaguing him as of late.
The house was filled with a peaceful quiet, especially the library. Always a favorite of Bobby's, the room was cool and gray, the morning sun filtering in through the curtains, dust clinging to the soft rays of light that edged through and the atmosphere was steeped in the heady scent of old leather bindings, this morning's coffee, and - if he concentrated real hard - the bitter undertones of whiskey.
In its most important moments, the room was electric with energy, stimulating its occupants into action and planning. But in its best moments, the ones Bobby loved most, it was like this; serene and full of whispers of past voices. Bobby could sit quietly and listen for hours to the history of this old farm house as friends and loved ones and hunters alike, came and went, some of them never to return. He likened it to being haunted (but in a good way) and although some of the memories drove him to drink, most of them were good and he held onto them all like cherished photographs.
Bobby leaned against the doorway, sipping carefully at the steaming hot coffee in his cup, black as night and as strong as the hooch in his cupboard - perfection. He looked across the room at the desk and sofa where he and Dean has spent the better part of twelve hours bent over books and papers, but he didn't see last night's Dean; neck deep in research. Instead he saw a tuft of blonde hair sticking straight up from behind the sofa, the boy attached to that hair, edging his way along the length of the furniture. And beneath the desk a pair of size three sneakers were visible, the little toes inside curling under as if the boy wearing them was trying to make himself smaller and invisible.
But big brother knew better; he could hear the stifled giggles that resounded off the oak and even if the little brother was absolutely silent, the older would still recognize the breaths and the very scent of the younger, because that was his purpose in life - Sammy.
In one fluid motion, Dean jumped the sofa, bouncing once from the cushions, landing nimbly on the desktop scattering papers everywhere, sliding sock footed before dropping catlike to the floor with a loud and triumphant 'Gotcha!'
The echoes of little Sammy squealing in delight bounced around the room, giggles bubbling out of him, hands and feet swinging wildly in an effort to avoid the tickle monster that was attacking. Dean fell backwards on his butt when the heel of Sammy's little hand landed squarely on Dean's mouth, but instead of getting upset or crying out in pain, young Dean crowed loudly, laughing and encouraging his little brother. 'You did good Sammy. You got me.' The little boy beamed with pride. 'It's just too bad the tickle monster doesn't go down that easy.'
Dean latched onto his little brother, wrapping him up in long arms and legs, his fingers finding all the especially ticklish spots while his lips blew raspberries all down the side of Sammy's face and neck, the boy screaming in a girly high pitch, panting and gasping for air and begging for a truce until finally neither could continue and they collapsed against each other, Dean pulling Sammy tight against his lean chest, wrapping skinny arms around the younger boy. 'Love you Sammy.'
And Sammy smiled happily at that, snuggling further into Dean's hold. They sat that way for a long minute until Sammy happily announced, 'My turn!'
'Oh no,' Dean shouted, dumping his brother unceremoniously from his lap and stumbling to his feet as the chase picked up again and both boys screeched across the room in a fit of screams and giggles that faded as Bobby came back to himself.
He kind of missed having the boys around. It used to be that John would stop on his way through every couple of months. Maybe they'd be there overnight, maybe he'd leave the boys with Bobby for a week while he was gone on a hunt in the northern states. Once, in late '89, early '90, Bobby had even managed to hold on to them for nearly a month, when John had been injured on a hunt in Minnesota.
But ever since Sam had grown to the age that John felt was appropriate, both boys had been accompanying their father on hunting trips and their visits had become few and far between. So injured or not, Bobby was glad to have Dean around.
A pop and sizzle shook Bobby from his thoughts. He turned back into the kitchen, crossing to the stove quickly and turning the heat down underneath a pan of bacon, using an eight inch Bowie knife to turn the slices over in the pan. He glanced at the clock; nearly eight. John would be calling shortly and the scent of the bacon should be wafting upstairs by now, sure to rouse Dean. If he timed it just right, Bobby would have breakfast eaten and John handled by nine and then he could get a few things accomplished today.
Just as Bobby reached into the fridge to pull out a carton of eggs, the phone rang. Setting the eggs back on the shelf and closing the fridge, Bobby grabbed up his coffee, the phone and a notepad with all the important details of the night's discoveries. He pulled out a chair and made himself comfy before answering the phone.
Their conversation was formal - direct to business as John always seemed to need to be - Bobby relaying names and numbers, events and the dates of said events and how each correlated or conflicted with other events. Dozens of what had at first appeared to be miniscule facts, once combined became enormous clues flashing like neon signs, all pointed at only one possible outcome. It was all very impressive and Bobby was sure to vocally display his pride in John's eldest son.
John however did not return the sentiment. He kept trudging along through the business end of their phone meeting, not wavering in the least to ask how Dean was feeling or pass on any information on how Sammy had handled the long drive without Dean's companionship to keep him company. It all left Bobby feeling strangely on edge.
"I'm headed down to the station this morning," John stated matter-of-factly. "I figure I better get the back-story you used on the cops. Don't wanna arouse susp –"
"Dean used," Bobby interrupted, correcting him, that edgy feeling controlling his tongue.
"Come again?"
"The back-story…which Dean used. He did all the work."
"Dean? Don't you think that's a little risky? I mean, Hell, Bobby, Dean's barely stopped squeakin' when he talks. He's not ready to be taking the lead like that."
"For cryin' out loud," Bobby groaned, clutching the phone a little tighter in an attempt control the irritation itching just beneath the surface. "Ready or not, Dean does what he needs to do, John; anything to make his ole man see him for what he is."
"Oh? And what's that? You think you know my kid so well, you tell me. What is it that I'm supposed to see?"
"For starters? A grown man!" Bobby's bellow echoed through the house and he slammed his mug down on the table, rising to pace across to the stove, shoving the forgotten pan to the back burner to smoke and cutting off the heat to the burner. Balls! There goes breakfast, he thought, closing his eyes. He pulled in a breath, trying to regain some semblance of composure and when he spoke again, he voice did sound a bit calmer.
"John, he ain't some little fourteen year old kid anymore. He's an adult and it's about time you realized that and maybe start utilizing the skills he has, putting that natural charisma he's got to use."
John snorted into the receiver. "Charisma. His charisma is what gets him in trouble eighty percent of the time."
"Dean is real good with people and he did a damn fine job yesterday. That's something you can be proud of," Bobby soothed, pulling on John's fatherly instincts.
"Yeah? Well, that may be the case, Bobby, but there's been enough times as of late that have caused me to question Dean's judgment. Maybe it's a phase he's going through or maybe, I don't know, maybe it's a girl thing. But no matter what he's got going on in that thick skull of his, it's gonna have to sit sidecar to the bigger picture. Surely you can understand that.
"Of course I do, John. All I'm saying is that it wouldn't hurt for you to say thanks once in a while."
"Thanks, Bobby. No really, thank you. Without all of this, I'd have been hours behind schedule. So…Thank you. I appreciate this."
"You can thank your boy. He did all the work. Let me holler at –"
"No. That's okay. You'll thank him for me."
"John, not for nothing, but over the last twenty-four hours that kid has busted his balls for you, just so he can feel like he's contributing. Not to mention all the work he's done for me. And you can't be bothered to give him a proper thank you?"
"Dean knows that I…"
"Trust me, he doesn't," Bobby interrupted, "Is there a reason that you're avoidin' that boy?"
"I'm not. What the Hell is this, 'I know your kid better than you do' day? Why don't you mind your own damned business?"
"He is my business! You don't just get to drop those boys off and not expect me to make them my business. That's just not possible. You've got the sweetest, hardest working set of boys that I've known…"
"I know what I got, Singer! And I don't need you to tell me. So if we're done with this little lecture…" and with that, John abruptly hung up.
Staring down at the receiver in his hand, Bobby was startled by the quiet shift in the floor boards behind him. He spun around to find Dean standing there, leaning against the pocket-door doorframe, arms hugging his waist, eyes burning a hole in the floor.
"Damn, you're getting stealthy on that boot."
"That was Dad, wasn't it?"
"How much did you hear?"
"Enough."
"He said to tell you thank you."
"No he didn't." Dean pushed off the doorframe and stepped into the kitchen, stopping briefly to lay a hand on Bobby's shoulder, giving it a quick squeeze. "Thanks anyway, Bobby," he said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
Bobby closed his eyes, trying desperately to block out the hurt look in Dean's eyes and harder yet to control the surge of anger he felt towards John for having put that look in the kid's eyes. He sighed deeply and resigned himself to salvaging what was left of the morning. But before he could even turn around to address the issue…
"Aww, Bobby. You fixed me breakfast," Even in his sleepy husk, Dean's voice was light and teasing.
"Well, I…I was going to," Bobby stammered, rubbing a hand up and down the length of his neck bashfully, "til your daddy called and distracted me. I'm afraid that bacon is burnt beyond recognition."
"But that's just how I like it," Dean grinned. "You got eggs to go with this bacon?"
Bobby smiled, knowing that Dean had fixed on the same plan that he'd come up with - Pretend like nothing was wrong and move on. If Dean could do it, Bobby could too.
"Yeah, kid. They're in the fridge," Bobby made a beeline for the refrigerator, trying to cut Dean off at the pass, "but here, you let me do that. No use you putting any more stress on that foot. Take a seat and I'll…"
"Bobby, stop." Dean placed a firm hand to the older hunter's chest, effectively stopping him in his tracks. "I got this. You go take a seat. I can fix breakfast. It's not gonna hurt me one bit, Hell I've been doing it for years. You go…sit. Take your coffee with you," he said, motioning towards Bobby's cooling cup on the counter, "read your paper, go…do…whatever it is you do in the morning. I'll corral the eggs for us.
Raising his hands in surrender, Bobby did as he was instructed. He topped off his coffee before sitting back down to his morning paper. While Dean was busy frying their eggs up in the leftover bacon grease, Bobby couldn't help but watch him. He looked up from behind the newspaper, tucking the corner down to take in the disheveled appearance of the young man before him, his eyes crinkling in amusement.
Dean hobbled unsteadily around the kitchen, wearing only his walking boot, a pair of too big pajama pants that probably belonged to John, and the brass amulet that had hung around his neck for years; a token of love and trust from one brother to another.
Bobby had been surprised the first time he'd seen the necklace on Dean considering the present had been intended for John. But upon thinking it over, he had come to the conclusion that it was always meant to go to Dean.
Sam had been too young at the time to understand, but Bobby knew, even then, that the bond between those boys would be the thing to hold their family together. And maybe, just maybe, it was Dean, who, in the end would come to need the protection offered by the amulet. More so than John, because John had Dean to watch his back. Sam, too, had Dean watching over him.
Who had Dean had at the time? A father, who was so obsessed with revenge that he worked himself to the bone, staying gone for days and weeks at a time, and when he did come up for air, drank himself into a stupor to numb the pain. And an eight year old brother, who until that Christmas Eve, knew nothing whatsoever about the world they really lived in. No, the amulet was definitely meant for Dean. Bobby was sure of it.
Yawning deeply, Dean made his way to the coffee pot, pulling a mug out of the sink, eyeing it suspiciously before pouring himself a cup, then taking a prescription bottle from his pocket, he popped it open and flushed a non-descript white pill down his throat with a deep swill of coffee.
Giving him a good once over, Bobby asked, "You sleep alright?"
"Slept fine 'til my leg started throbbing." But then Dean caught the concerned look on Bobby's face and waved him off, "It's alright; no big deal."
"Did I overwork ya yesterday?"
"Maybe a little, but I'm fine. Nothing a little hydrocodone can't fix." Dean's mouth turned up into the smallest of smiles and he shook the pill bottle before stuffing it down into the pocket of his baggy sleep pants.
Another long drink of coffee and his cup was drained; Dean grabbed up the near empty carafe of coffee, filled his cup and raised the pot in Bobby's direction. The older hunter nodded his approval, so Dean hobbled over and topped off Bobby's cup as well before setting the empty carafe on the table. He then went back to the stove for the food, plating up a couple eggs for each of them and the nearly burnt bacon, bringing the plates to table as well.
Dean grasped a chair and turned it around, straddling it, careful not to bump his foot, and dropped into the seat. He looped his long slender arms around the back of the chair and hugged it to his bare chest. "So, what's on the agenda today?"
"I'm glad you asked." Bobby said, taking up his fork and digging into his eggs. "I was wondering if you could do me a...special favor."
"Of course," Dean answered with a self-assured smile that was a welcome improvement over the previous day's attitude. "Whatever you got, I'm all over it. Just say the word."
"Alright. You know the place down the road?"
"The yellow house?" Dean asked curiously.
"That's the one. Belongs to Mrs. Gertrude Thomas and I could really use your help over there."
When the look of curiosity turned to confusion, Bobby plunged on, "She's got a yard that needs mowing?"
Dean's head bobbed up and down a few times in understanding before Bobby's words had a chance to sink in and then he stopped abruptly; his jaw jutting forward, lips pursing in contemplation. After rolling the words around in his head for a second, he leveled a confused frown at Bobby, "I don't get it. What's the punch line?"
"No punch line. Need you to take the mower down to her house and mow her lawn. And do a good job. She's particular about the trimming."
"But I thought…" The boy's voice dropped an octave lower, the edges of his speech painted with disappointment. "You know. I thought I was gonna be helping you - working a job or something."
"You are helping me."
Dean's mouth twitched like he wanted to voice an argument, but Bobby didn't give him the chance.
"Mrs. Thomas...well, she's been my neighbor since shortly after I bought this place. And in all that time, she ain't had but one family member come to see her. Me and the young couple down the road a piece; we do what we can. She's a sweet ole gal and deserves a lot better than I can offer, but it's important to me to see that she's taken care of, you understand. Now under normal circumstances, I'd go down there myself but I've got about a hundred things that need taking care of this morning if possible. So, can I count on you to help me out?"
Bobby waited until finally the young man gave him an acknowledging nod, and then continued, "Thanks, Kiddo."
They ate for a while in companionable silence until Bobby spoke again, "Don't go tellin' no one, but it's kinda nice havin' you around here."
Dean raised an eyebrow, quirking a smile around his fork.
-X-
Dean approached the front door cautiously not wanting to frighten Mrs. Thomas; a strange man coming to her door. Of course that idea was a little ridiculous, because who would be frightened of a barely out of his teens boy on crutches rockin' the John Deere green and yellow of Bobby's ancient riding lawnmower. Yep, he was scary looking alright.
He raised his hand to knock on the door with its peeling paint, cracked caulking and loose window panes from years of neglect. But before he could bring his closed fist down to rap on the wood, it was yanked open, startling him, as a little bit of nothing with spirited eyes stepped out on to the front stoop in front of him.
"You're Bobby's boy."
It wasn't a question, more of an affirmation. Dean could tell when he leaned back to get a good look at her that there would be no questioning with this one. She might have the stature of every little old lady he'd even seen, but this was most definitely a smoke screen. Easily in her early seventies, Mrs. Gertrude Thomas had the presence of a woman half her age.
She wore blue jeans, of the too blue nature, rolled and tucked at the ankle where he could just make out the tint of skin toned stockings over her toes which were tucked into a new, red pair of Keds. Her brilliant silver locks, perfectly curled, were pulled up and held in place by a red bandana tied at the crown of her head. And finally she wore what Dean assumed had once been a man's dress shirt, but which, over time, had seen many years of use. The blue shirt was two sizes too big, so she had the sleeves rolled up to her little round biceps and the bottom of the shirt was tied into a knot at her waist.
In fact, now that Dean thought about it, he was strangely reminded of the babe on the 'We Can Do It' posters from World War II - just…fifty years older. And on that note, he was mortified, blushing furiously.
"You are Bobby's boy, right?"
"Yes. I'm Bobby's…or uh…I mean…Bobby sent me over," he answered, tripping over his words in his embarrassment.
She looked at him, gauging and looking him over the same way he'd done to her and when, after a few long seconds, she didn't say anything, Dean set his crutches aside and stuck his hand out for her to shake and after a moment she accepted it.
"Dean, ma'am. Dean Winchester. I'm Bobby's nephew," the lie slipping easily from his lips.
"Gertrude Thomas," she said giving his hand a warm squeeze, "but you may call me Gert. Let me show you want I need to have done."
She took a hold of his arm, which Dean accepted with a grace that he didn't know he was even capable of. Bending his arm at the elbow for her, he placed his opposite hand over her top of her smaller one and leaving his crutches behind, very carefully stepped down from the stoop and escorted Gertrude out into the yard where she showed him around the small property.
Gertrude - Gert as she insistently demanded he call her - was a talker. They spent most of the morning strolling around the half acreage, her showing him what yard work she needed done and speaking animatedly about the garden she had growing behind the house while investigating what she might be able to persuade him into taking home. She laughed openly when noticing the uncomfortable curl of his lip when she mentioned vegetables.
"Fruit then," she encouraged. They wandered toward the little grove of trees surrounding the land. She pointed out the peaches that were just ripening and the cherry tree that was stripped bare.
"Damned birds cleaned me out," she growled, scowling up into the trees, "but thanks to my scatter gun I was able to fend them off long enough to get a few quarts. Little bastards."
Dean could only nod his agreement while biting down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at the image floating around in his head of this feisty little woman, with a gun as tall as her settled on her hip, firing into the sky.
When Gert began spouting off about fresh rhubarb and the strawberries she'd frozen earlier in the season so she could continue to bake throughout the winter, Dean stopped dead in his tracks. Gert turned back to look at him.
"Dean?"
"You make pies?" he asked, his voice trembling ever so slightly.
"Yes," she answered, drawing the word out, her concern growing when the young man appeared to grow pale right before her eyes.
"You…you're Gertie? As in Gertie's Pleasin' Peach?"
"The one and only," she smiled brightly.
Dean swept forward, a smile stretching wider with each un-even step. He took her hands in his and his chest expanded; his lungs filling with air. There was no stopping him. Not even the inkling of thought in his head begging him to stop could hold him back when he blurted out awkwardly, "Mrs. Gertrude Thomas, I think I love you."
"Oh my," she breathed, pulling a hand free and resting it against her suddenly pink cheek.
-X-
"You didn't tell me she made pies!"
The exuberant young man who returned later that afternoon was beyond what Bobby had hoped for. He practically leapt off the lawn mower, bounding up the front steps like a puppy, as much as a puppy could bound when hobbled up with a walking boot and crutches.
"So she fed you? Good. Means I don't have to fix you lunch."
"Oh yeah, she fed me." Dean's eyes widened, sparkling with delight and there was no hiding the grin that stretched across his face. "Gert - that's what she wants me to call her - Gert had a plate full of pork roast waiting for me. Roasted potatoes and carrots and onions and oh my God, I'm hungry again, just thinkin' about it. It was the best home cooked meal in…I-I can't ever remember having a meal like that before…ever!"
Bobby smirked, leaning against the door frame. He knew before sending Dean over there, that Gert would feed his boy well. It's what she lived for; being able to cook and bake for others, as he well knew, being the recipient of many a home cooked meal.
They'd been neighbors for what seemed like forever, but it wasn't until after Bobby was widowed that he'd come to know the motherly woman down the road. A widow herself with no children of her own, she'd pulled into his lot one day with a low tire, a pan of lasagna and an ear to bend. And just like that, they'd come to an agreement. He'd do little odd jobs for her like mowing her lawn or clearing her drive of snow, and she'd repay the favor by spoiling him with her cooking.
And spoil she did. Casseroles, cookies, pies, nothing was too much for her 'sweet boy' as she was fond of calling Bobby. He'd blush and shrug off the affectionate nickname before bowing down to place a peck on the cheek of the now seventy-one year old.
"She asked me to come back tomorrow. That is, if you can spare me for a while. Says there's a few more things that could be done. Told me she'd bake me a cherry pie. Mmm, cherry pie." Dean sighed happily. "This woman is out to win my heart."
"That's sweet, kid, but she's about fifty years too old for you." Bobby teased. "So, Gert's got more work for ya? Oh, she could find you work for days, but what's your daddy gonna say when he comes back to find you've put on fifty pounds?"
Leaning back against the porch column, Dean thought that over for a moment, finally shrugging at the very real possibility of weight gain under Gert's watchful eye.
"Nah, kid. That's fine by me," Bobby added with a grin.
