A bead of sweat rolled off Dean's forehead, disappearing into the open engine block of the Trans Am below. He wiped it away in frustration. No matter what he did, he couldn't get comfortable. Seated outside in the brisk air of the garage, he was perched on a rickety wooden stool, leaning halfway over the Firebird that Bobby's friend, Jared, had dropped off a couple of days ago. Bobby had lent him a wooly, warm flannel jacket and a pair of gloves, but whenever he put on the jacket, he was too warm, and whenever he took it off, he was too cold. He used the hand currently not holding the wrench to unzip the jacket, flapping it open a couple of times to let in some cold air. The swinging movement sent a flush of pain through his torso. He felt his annoyance grow.
It wasn't just the clothes that were too big and too scratchy for him. It wasn't just that he'd been working on this damn car for three days because he was working slower than he ever had. It wasn't the flush of pain that still bloomed in his chest every time that he moved too suddenly. It was all of it. He missed his clothes, and his brother, and most of all – his independence. How Goddamn long does it take to heal a couple of busted ribs? Dean set down the wrench heavily and dragged his hands down along his face, resting his head as he waited for his annoyance to dissipate.
"How's it going?" Bobby's voice echoed through the doorway.
"Awesome." Dean growled sarcastically. "I've spent have the morning chiseling out the rust in the engine block just to get a look at the starter. Has your friend ever heard of a little thing called rust remover?" It's not his fault. His annoyance turned to himself as he felt guilty for snapping at Bobby. He sighed. "Sorry, Bobby. Frustrated is all." He reached out as Bobby came over, handing him a refill on his beer. Dean continued. "I'd have had this car done yesterday if I could actually get up and get closer to the engine. Instead, I'm stuck on this fucking stool." He tapped it with his foot for emphasis.
"Jared's had that car since I've known him." Bobby put a hand on the hood. "A 1979, I think. Always been proud of it but doesn't know a fool thing about cars."
"No shit." Dean pulled a handful of dried leaves and twigs out of a nook of the engine block raising his eyebrows to Bobby in exasperation. He tossed the handful of debris onto the garage floor.
"Need any help?"
"No, no. I got it." Dean sighed again. "This beats being stuck inside watching one of the three channels you get on your tv. You get one news channel, one soap channel, and one that's only in Spanish. Haven't you ever heard of cable, Bobby?"
"Well sorry my television doesn't fall within your high standards." Bobby's voice hinted upwards towards a mocking tone. "I'll call the cable guy right away. Tell him we want the deluxe package and ask him if he can pick up some caviar on the way."
Dean couldn't help but feel himself smile. "Oh, come on. Having cable is like, one of the first steps to owning a house. Even motels have at the basic package." Dean raised his hands. "Just saying – if you try it, I think you'd like it."
Bobby raised an eyebrow. "Kid, my life…" He put his hand out for the wrench and Dean placed it in his open palm. "…is interesting enough without having to watch somebody else's."
Bobby leaned over the car engine, grunting as he threw weight down into the angled wrench, the starter popping free in a cloud of dust. He lifted the starter up towards his face, squinting at it and brushing off large flakes of red rust before handing it to Dean. "You're welcome."
Dean nodded in appreciation, taking a swig of beer with his free hand. He'd been working on prying that out all morning; it was almost melded onto the engine block for all the rust congealed around it. And there was only so much he could do being stuck on a stool. A couple of times he'd tried to stand to get a better angle with the wrench, but he'd only been able to manage for a minute or two before it had become too painful and he'd had to sit back down. But, hey, at least he could stand again. He'd noticed he'd been able to stomach it more and more over the past several days. It still hurt like hell, but he no longer felt like insides were about to collapse.
He set the starter down on the edge of the car's frame and looked over at Bobby, who was wiping off the wrench with an oil-stained rag, his faded hat dirty underneath the harshness of the fluorescent lighting. Dean felt his stomach do a nervous flip.
"So…have you heard anything from my dad or Sam?" The question disappeared into the dusty air of the cluttered garage as Bobby kept cleaning off the wrench methodically.
Still, neither one of them had tried to contact him. Dean had dragged his phone with him everywhere, it's glaring, empty home screen a constant reminder that no one had tried to call. He often found himself absent-mindedly flipping it open and closed to check if he had missed a message, but… nothing. Not even a text. He'd almost broken down several times and called them, but he had been able to control himself. After all, they should be the ones reaching out to him, making sure he was okay. They were the ones that had left him – deserted him – like they always seemed to. They should be the ones worried, not him.
But it still didn't stop the feeling of guilt and worry that was growing in his stomach every day that went by without knowing they were okay. If he didn't hear back from them soon, he was going to call them. He wouldn't be able to stop himself. While it made him feel pathetic, that's just the way things worked in his family. If he didn't put in the effort to get everyone to make up, no one else would, and they'd all be stuck being angry until one of them snapped. Or worse, until one of them packed up and left. It was better to be trapped in the position of family peacemaker than to not have a family at all.
Bobby sighed. He'd been doing that a lot these days. "Yeah, I talked to your dad this morning."
Dean kept his face neutral, but felt his whole body tighten up. Bobby had steered clear of talking about John since he'd picked him up from jail a couple of days before. Although Dean had wanted to ask about it when Bobby had returned, a look at the tired lines in Bobby's face and the subtle exhaustion in his step upon coming through the front door had deterred him from doing so. He needed to give the old man a break. And, he was worried that asking about his dad would lead to more conversations that he didn't want to talk about. Better to just avoid the subject altogether.
"He asked if he could come by tomorrow. Said he wants to stop by and see how you're doing." Bobby set the wrench down and stared down at the oil stains now blackening his hands. "I told him that it wasn't my call." He looked up at Dean. "It's up to you. You want him to see him or not?"
Dean swallowed, thinking. His dad had never just stopped by to see how he's doing before. Even when he got pinched for stealing and sent to that boy's home for two months when he was 16, he hadn't heard anything from father until the Impala was parked out in the driveway, ready to go. John hadn't even asked about the boy's home when Dean had gotten into the car – still hadn't to that day.
"Tomorrow's fine." He fell silent for a moment, the pressure-like hum of electricity from the fluorescent light above pressing gently into the room. "How's he doing?"
"Same old stubborn idjit." Bobby said. "Called me to ask about a case a town over, acting like I didn't know you were the reason he was callin'. He 'ventually got around to it, after he'd run out damned questions to waste his breath on. You Winchester boys sure do hate asking for things, don't ya?" Bobby leaned against the workbench behind him, staring up into the rafters. "I don't know though, kid…when I picked him the up the other day, he didn't seem himself. He seemed pretty tore up – not like I've seen him since Mary died." Bobby swirled the beer around in his bottle mindlessly before taking a swig. "Maybe he is ready to change." He seemed to be talking more to himself than to Dean, who was sitting on the chair somewhat uncomfortably, the same way he always was whenever Bobby brought up John in this way.
Dean looked for words to fill the silence but didn't know what to say. A bland, pulse of pain thrummed through his torso and he readjusted his position on the stool.
When he didn't reply, Bobby met Dean's gaze. "So, you want him here or not?"
Dean focused on keeping his face neutral. "Sure, that's fine." He pulled at the wooly shirt scratching annoyingly at his skin. He looked down at the ground. "But if he stops by tomorrow, could you just…I don't know…lay off a bit?" Dean continued before Bobby could interrupt. "This is going to suck enough without laying on the whole hand-holding, intervention-type crap on him. We're not really that type of family if you hadn't noticed."
"I'll give you two some space if you think it'll help." Bobby's voice was kind, but firm. "But you two need to talk about it, Dean. And I need to be able to leave you alone knowing that you're not going to hightail it out of here with him as soon as I got my back turned. You want some privacy? I get it. But you have to promise me…" Bobby stared at him earnestly. "…and I mean promise me that you're not going to let him drag you away."
A red flash of embarrassment and anger flushed over Dean. Drag you away. As if he were some poor, forlorn, little kid instead of a full-grown adult that fought monsters for a living. No one was dragging him anywhere.
He gestured out with his arms and then slapped them on his jeans. "Sure. Whatever, Bobby. I promise. How far do you really think I can really go with this?" He pointed at the bandages wrapped around his torso. Anger pulsed in his temples. "And…what? Do you think he's just going to pull up and I'm going to throw my shit in the Impala and leave? Just pack up and go?" He snorted. "I know you all think I'm some sort of mindless, obedient dog, but even I'm not that bad."
That sat in silence for a moment, Dean feeling every pulse pounding through his skull. Bobby spoke. "You know that's not what I meant. It's just that I know how John is and I don't want to see him blow over this. I just want you to be safe."
Dean exhaled, feeling the exhaustion pulling his posture down towards the floor. Damnit. "I know, Bobby. Sorry, didn't mean to snap at you." He pushed his hand through his short, sandy hair. "Just…frustrated." He exhaled one more time. "Yeah, tomorrow's fine." He gave a half-smile. "I'll be here."
Bobby stared at him a moment, his eyes scanning up and down his face for a brief moment. They weren't focused on the healing bruises or cuts that still mottled his face, but something beyond. Something deeper. And then they moved past him.
Bobby walked out of the garage, clapping Dean warmly on the shoulder on his way back into the house. Dean sat a moment, closing his eyes and feeling his breath steady in the quiet. Tomorrow. The word punched to the front of his brain.
Tomorrow and his life could go back to normal.
