Next chapter! Hotshow gave me the idea for, well I don't want to ruin it, but what the last part of this chapter is about. I'm pretty proud of it, I think it came out really well. It kind of wrote itself. Ch7 will post either tomorrow or Sunday. Thanks so much to everyone keeping up with this despite the lack of alerts. Here's to hoping they'll be working soon!!
Chapter 6
Bobby's place never changed. It was like a constant amid the variables of Life that went on all around it. Businesses to each side opened, closed, remodeled, and opened again but the salvage yard stayed exactly the same. The first rusted out hulks they drove by were the exact same ones Dean remembered seeing at the entrance forever, just a few more rust holes and dents over the years. He remembered causing a few of those dents himself.
When Dean parked near Bobby's front door, the grizzled hunter stepped outside. He was obviously waiting on them. Dean flicked his fingers off the steering wheel in a short wave.
"We're here, Sammy. Get out."
Sam clutched Batman to his chest, staring wide-eyed out the window. "It's scary here, Dean."
Scary? "What's scary, Sammy?" Dean leaned over to look out Sam's window, wondering what caught his brother's attention.
"All the dead cars," Sam whispered.
"It's a salvage yard, Sammy, not a graveyard. People come here to find parts to fix their cars. Hell, I fixed this car right over there." Dean pointed out the area that had been the Impala's home for weeks during its restoration.
"You did?" Sam asked, looking where Dean was pointing. "Where was I?"
"Here. With me." Dean shrugged. "Can we get out now? Bobby's starting to look nervous."
Bobby glared at them through the windshield, apparently trying to decide if he needed to walk up to the car or not. Dean shook his head, not wanting to spook Sammy, and Bobby stayed right where he was. As they watched, Bobby adjusted his stained ballcap a few times.
"Why is he nervous, Dean? Is he scared of you, too?" A faint smile appeared on Sam's face.
Dean grinned. "He's probably worried you won't like him. And no, I don't think Bobby's scared of me. I don't think I've ever seen anything scare Bobby."
Sam turned those earnest eyes on Dean again. "I bet you could."
Dean shook his head. "Whatever, Sammy. Let's go inside." Dean stepped out of the car.
"Hey, Bobby." He turned away to retrieve their duffels from the backseat.
"Hey, Dean, Sam." Bobby nodded solemnly to them.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam's head swivel between him and Bobby. "Hi," Sam finally replied, still hugging Batman to him.
Dean led the way, feeling Sam's hand twist a fold of his shirt in one of those huge fists after they walked inside. He would have liked to watch and gauge Sam's reaction to Bobby's place, all the books stacked everywhere. It was the kind of place Sam, in his right mind, had felt very comfortable in. Except possibly for the fact none of the books were catalogued and all were arranged by Bobby's peculiar mental system which neither of the boys had yet to grasp. Sam loved things to be organized. Well, he used to anyway.
"Where do you want us, Bobby?" Dean asked as they passed into the den, skirting stacks of dusty books piled waist high.
"Upstairs, first door on the left. Your old room." Bobby's voice boomed from behind.
Dean led Sam upstairs. Once inside the room, Dean deposited their bags against the wall. Two single beds were arranged side by side, a space barely wide enough to walk through between them. A chest of drawers, something which had not been in the room last time, was pushed against the far wall. Curious, Dean opened a few drawers; they were empty. Bobby expected them to be here for a while. Some of the anxiety in Dean's chest loosened and he breathed a little easier.
"We're not unpacking, are we, Dean?" Sam asked, sounding more anxious now than he had in the hospital.
"Nah," Dean waved off the chest of drawers. "Let's go see if Bobby has any dinner plans. I'm starved. How about you?"
Sam shrugged.
"No clowns," Dean teased, smiling.
Sam rolled his eyes. "Duh, Dean."
Dean headed back downstairs knowing Sam would be close on his heels. Another realization sprang to his mind as the wooden stairs creaked under his weight. Bobby might not receive the all-cartoon channel. Probably didn't. It was a good thing Sam had Batman after all. He rubbed at his forehead, the space between his eyes. If someone told him a week ago he would be worried about the frigging cartoon channel, he might have decked him.
"You boys ready to eat?" Bobby's voice carried well in the old house. Dean glanced at the den ceiling as they passed. The split the demon caused had been repaired and the Key of Solomon redrawn without breaks. At the time he had felt guilty leaving with Bobby's house in that condition, though not guilty enough to wait even another ten minutes because he needed to get Sam to a safer place, but he could make up for it now. Maybe.
"Did they fix that?" Sam asked.
Dean spun around to see Sam pointing at the ceiling. He wanted to shout 'you remembered!' He wanted to grab his brother and shake out all the other information Sam should remember, but he didn't. "Yeah, guess they did," he said evenly, as though this were a perfectly normal topic. Which it was, and that was what made it so strange. "Did a good job, huh?"
Sam clutched Batman tighter. "Yeah. Dean?"
"What?"
"I don't have to sit under that thing, do I?" Sam stared at the ceiling.
Dean shrugged. "No, you don't have to, but it won't hurt anything. Watch." Dean walked through the room, stood dead center of the Key of Solomon, then walked back out to join Sam. "See?"
Sam nodded. "I don't want to."
Sam seemed to recognize the room from his possession, but not anything else. Well, from what he read, there was no telling what the patient would start remembering first and it could come back in bits and pieces or all at once. As usual, Sam had to do things the hard way.
Dean entered the kitchen to find Bobby taking marinated steaks out of the fridge. "What's this?" he asked, eyeing the platter.
Bobby grinned. "I figured you boys were probably sick to death of hospital food."
"I am," Sam agreed readily from over Dean's shoulder.
Bobby's grin widened. "Thought so. Wanna help me grill them?" he asked.
Dean felt Sam step closer to him, a hand snaking out to grab his shirt again. "Why don't we come out and keep you company?" he suggested, wondering how the hell he was going to be able to calm his brother's fears. As they followed Bobby outside, he decided that Sam was just going to have to get used to the fact they were here and not leaving any time soon. Hopefully his little brother would lighten up in a couple of days.
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From inside one of the ancient cars quietly rusting away in Singer's Auto Salvage, a pair of deep gold eyes blinked open. It was not used to waking in the daytime, it preferred the night. It lifted its head to peer cautiously out. The smell of roasting flesh was what awakened it, caused the hunger cravings. It lifted a delicate paw, licked its pads and rubbed the paw over its face. After smoothing rumpled fur and cleaning its sensitive whiskers, it continued its vigil of Bobby Singer.
Two men had joined Singer, and they were cooking animal flesh together. Voices carried through the quiet salvage yard, dropping into its keen ears. The men sounded familiar with Bobby Singer, the slayer of its' family. It had waited long for such an opportunity. Since the death of Singer's loyal dog by a distant relation, a demon, it found it could stay on Singer's property with ease. The house was too well protected to enter and Singer rarely left its confines after dark, but it was patient. It could wait. So it waited. And it watched.
Singer drank from one of his brown bottles, a common sight. One of the men did, too. But the tall one held something else, something unfamiliar. It waited, hoping for the sun to sink lower quickly so it might see better. The tall one moved into some shadows, which was an improvement. The tall one held out a doll of some sort. It went rigid. Had it been spotted? Did Singer know of it? Were these two men experts in the magics?
The tall one held the doll at arm's length, sailing it through the air.
"Sammy! Batman can't fly." The man drinking the brown bottle laughed.
"He can when he's in his plane!" The tall one shot back.
Not working magics, then. Were they toying with it? Trying to draw it out? It would have to wait, watch, and listen. It was patient. It could wait. It would watch until the men returned to the house, and then it would hunt its dinner. Dinner would be eaten raw, as was seemly. The manners of men disgusted it.