Psalm 6:5-7
5- For in death there is no remembrance of thee: in the grave who shall give thee thanks?
6- I am weary with my groaning; all the night make I my bed to swim; I water my couch with my tears.
7- Mine eye is consumed because of grief; it waxeth old because of all mine enemies.
In the days following John's death, the trio stayed at Bobby's. The burning pile could be seen from Allie's window in the upper hallway but she didn't dare peek out to witness emotional fracturing in the Winchesters. Their privacy deserved to be paramount, so she kept quiet in the home and allowed them the time whilst ash filled the evening air.
The next afternoon she sat with her father at the table playing poker. "Dad — John said some things to me and... I don't know if I'm good enough to fulfill them." If there was anyone she could be open with, it was her father.
Bobby raised an eyebrow at his daughter's confession, setting down his cards on the table as he turned to face her. "Allie," he began, reaching out a comforting hand and pulling her cards down. "John Winchester ain't one to toss things around." He paused for a moment, taking a deep breath. Those boys were like his own sons. Their pain was difficult to witness. "He was a hard ass," not the word that Bobby originally desired to use. John Winchester was a grade-A dipshit. Treated his boys like soldiers, not loved ones.
She leaned back in the old wooden chair that held her body. The cedar housed more than her physical weight, and she found herself wanting to drop the new topic of conversation entirely.
And I know you can do it. You have to do it, Allie.
"I've always been fuckin' terrible at this game." Allie changed the subject. Her head was a mess from the constant rollercoaster of emotions. She picked up her cards once again.. Bobby was damn good at poker. She...was not. "If this was scrabble I'd be kickin' your ass." She joked to alleviate the tension that had filled the room. "All that college money gave me at least something good in return." Scrabble skills. Not really a good brag. Kind of boring.
The wrinkles around the grizzled hunter's eyes deepened while a short laugh filled the air between them as he studied her face. "You're good at a lot of things, Allie," he said gently, reaching over to ruffle her hair before returning his focus back to the game. "Maybe not poker, but you got heart and determination that most people twice your age don't." He paused for a moment, considering how much she had been through in such a short time. "And besides, Sammy boy ain't exactly Mr. Poker star either." The wood puncturing of a Northern Flicker came wafting into the small kitchen.
Allie snorted while her dad spoke. "Then Sam should be in the hot seat instead." She teased and threw a toned leg up to rock herself on the back legs of the chair. "I enjoy the simple things in life— like Go Fish, or Uno." sarcasm was a default setting. Old habits died hard and hers certainly hadn't changed all that much. She scratched her head and thought about her next move. Lying never came easy to her while in the presence of her ol' man. "I'll call." Probably not a good idea. Her hand was total ass. Allie didn't wear her heart on her sleeve but God damn was she bad at hiding her reaction to her cards!
Bobby grinned, his eyes flickering towards the slight uptick of Allie's eyebrow as he took her call before carefully placing down a card that would secure the pot. "You're too easy to read, kiddo," he teased back, reaching over to pat her on the shoulder in a fatherly manner.
Ocean eyes took note of the clock that sat in a precarious manner on a shelf in the living room. 2:13pm. Afternoon sun filtered in through the windows and Allie faltered into underlying compassion. "Dean's been outside a while," she noted under her breath while focusing on the ticking seconds. Sam ate hours ago. Around noon. Their habits became an inscribed code in her skull. Too much food and too little. Therein lay the problem. Sam ate healthy food when well, Dean binged. The axis swung in reverse amidst their grief. When the younger Winchester stepped into the kitchen a plate of nachos left; at the time Allie clocked that tidbit as strange. Now, considering Dean's lack of chowing down - the truth became evident.
"Suppose he has," Bobby nodded along with a suppressed grin and rubbed at a grizzled beard, trimmed that morning. Time went on to prove him right - they were softenin' on one another. Allie's usual viper demeanour gave way to an undertone of quiet care. Somehow Robert anticipated that change long before it occurred. Born on the summer solstice, Allie carried that warmth under the facade of guarded fallacies bred from previous trauma. He knew the notion all too well because he was the same. Beneath the prickliness sat a desire to comfort and understand the lost, the grieving, the orphaned.
"That mean it's lunchtime?" He sat back and rubbed with longing at his descended beer gut. Back in the day, it didn't damn near hit the edge of the table, now he found himself scooting a smidge back to allow for extra 'breathin' room'.
"Why? You hungry?" Allie shifted back to turn and look at her father. The idea acted as a subliminal roll call. People needed shelter, food, and water to survive. Her dad offered the shelter, the well outback offered water, and she could offer food (at the minimum).
"Starvin'," he grumbled in good nature with his face adjusted to take note of the fridge. Sometimes white lies held a well-reasoned purpose. He spent too long around her to not know the type of woman she was. She'd get up, make lunch for the two of them, and walk out that swingin' back door with his persuasion as an excuse for the recipe 'a care. So no, he wasn't that hungry, but he was versed in what made her tick.
"Okay…" The blonde stood and pondered options from the refrigerator before making a thought-out decision.
Roughly half an hour later she emerged from the back door, trotting down the paint-stripped steps with an antique tray in hand. Flower-embroidered overalls were immediately drenched in midday heat. Vans shoes kicked up dust from unsettled dirt and gravel in the auto yard.
In truth, the outfit created an all too incorrect image. The girl next door. Well hell, let the damn sight be an incorrect assessment! The cover held no indication of the sinner below.
She watched for a moment as Dean leaned under Baby's hood. Finally, her voice broke the silence. "Sup, Cowboy? How's the repair goin'?" She tried to appear nonchalant and joined his side. Sunglasses shaded blue eyes from the swallowing heat of the sun.
"You wanna take a break with me?" She realized what he probably thought that meant before he even said anything.
Dean's muscles tensed at the sound of Allie's voice, his body tightening up involuntarily before he forced himself to relax and turn around. Sweat gathered at his chest and underarms, parsing in from the overly warm sun that bounced off of scrap cars in the yard.
"I'm busy, Alls," he managed to croak out, brushing his hands on his grease-stained jeans as he stood up straightening his shirt a bit. "Need to get this done."
He didn't flirt with her.
That was weird. In fact... he hadn't flirted with her in days— He was off. She could almost smell the grief on him. Dean was angry and it only made sense; the death of John wasn't fair.
"Yeah well," she trailed off and leaned against the wreckage once identified as Baby. "I made these sandwiches for Dad, thought you should eat before you get heatstroke." Her face gazed away to appear laidback to cover the growing concern below. "Lemonade too," she persuaded.
Heatstroke, ha! The scenario almost made Dean laugh out loud in a humourless, dry manner. He'd be goddamn lucky to fucking catch heatstroke; maybe the sickness would aid with the prodding, relentless venom of guilt below his skin. "Not hungry," he growled out in absentminded projection as he wrestled with the cable of a serpentine belt.
Allie's lips pursed in near agitation at his refusal, but understanding soon calmed her. Grief brought frustration before melancholy in many instances, hers proved no different.
She sighed, taking a glance at the beacon sun as it splayed over the light blue sky. Clouds weren't present; it was just a grand gesture from the earth of a clear day. Mother Nature sure had good timing.
"I made a sauce and my dad said it's good, think he's lyin' though," she pressed further and gave an air of uncaring truth to continue conversing. Bobby didn't lie, that much was obvious. She may have been hard-pressed and stubborn, but she was a damn good cook. No one could lie about that with a straight face. "And I know you'll tell me if it sucks, so."
"Son of a bitch. Fine, Alls! I'll try the damn sandwich!" Dean broke for a moment and grunted out in half-cocked frustration. "Gimme the thing!" He swung out from in front of Baby and took hold of the plastic tray that gleamed in the daylight. Looked like a school cafeteria mold from the 80's.
"Woah, careful! Lemonade!" Her arm shot out to retrieve the glass. She knew it was a bad idea when she placed it down. Her previous waitressing still had a hold on her balance. The action was nearly subconscious to free her other hand.
Still, she smiled to herself regardless of his callous reaction. With a swerve and a dunk, she landed the ball in the basket!
Dean leaned alongside her and placed the tray down on the hood, taking a restless bite of the club. Actual chicken breast, not shitty deli meat ground between his teeth. It was good. The sauce slipped over needy taste buds and he tried to turn away to hide his sudden unhappiness with his anger. Why was she being nice anyway? He left her. Didn't call. Didn't… he let go of her. His only actual fucking friend and he dropped her like a pile of hot dogshit on a porch left by a teenager. Sometimes Dean wondered how anyone stood him at all.
The taste was sweet and a tad tangy. A hint of citrus melted with… cream? And something else he didn't have the refined enough palette to place, but it was good.
"It's good," he admitted and took another bite despite himself, betraying his previous bicker of not being hungry. The hyperfocus must have staved it off, but now his stomach worshipped the entry.
"I added orange zest to it. Mayo, orange, and garlic," Allie responded as relief crept up into her lungs, her ribs, her heart. Below the cracked walls. A beat of silence sat over the two of them after that while he ate and took a sip of the lemonade.
The cool liquid filled his throat. He couldn't remember the last time he drank something other than booze or water, or the odd shot/cocktail to please a one-night stand and bring her home. Lemonade. His mom used to make lemonade when they had ham on crackers with cheese in the backyard. Every so often little experiences came back to him, memories of a lost era where things were simple. After all the gore and broken bones, somehow he still remembered being four and held. Loved.
"You want some? It's hot out here." An olive branch to act as an apology of sorts. They fought so often that Dean found himself performing the action in a continuous cycle, one that he'd grown attached to against his better judgment.
Catching a glimpse of his offering through tinted lenses, Allie pushed the sunglasses up into her hair and held off for a second. After all, the gesture of empathy was meant to be his and his alone. But she opted to accept rather than reject and her hand reached out, fingers grazing against his fingertips before bringing the drink up to her mouth.
In a subconscious gesture, her lips sank down right on the spot his had been.
The glass was uncharacteristically warm there. Slightly dewed with sweet nectar of lemon where his plump ones had been. She could absentmindedly feel the leftover remnants on the rim. The base was tilted up and soon a cooling, refreshed sensation entered her mouth.
Moss eyes focused on the sight of her throat expanding to swallow. He— She just— the nonchalance echoed that Allie hadn't noticed, but he did. The thin coating of her lip gloss sat atop the kindred spot and Dean felt himself focus on it too much. It started… something. In any other circumstance, he'd expect his cock to bolster a thick vein and an abrupt stance, but this was something else. It scared him.
"So…" She teetered on her feet. "You… want help?" Her finger pointed to the sack of metal at their backs. At least the outfit gave merit to the newfound interest in mechanics. Why did she find enthusiasm in it anyway? She changed the oil in her Jeep. Since when did she care to perform her own maintenance?
"Help?" He questioned and chuckled. "You… want to help me fix the Impala?" Another bite was taken of the aforementioned lunch and Dean's eyebrow perked up.
"I mean… yeah," she shrugged. "I could… help you…" An open palm rubbed haphazardly at the nape of a recent sweat-beaded nape, blonde locks creating added heat in the summer bake.
Dean wrestled with the offer. No one touched Baby. Sam hardly touched Baby. He drove Baby across beaten paths. Not that Allie or Sam weren't to be trusted. His younger brother got to take the wheel every once in a while, but Blondie never did. His Baby was meant for Winchester hands alone.
But rules could be broken at times and his sweetheart needed to be fixed to get back on the road. Plus, seeing Allie put effort into a trade couldn't hurt. She'd eventually have to know, if only for the Jeep, or one of Bobby's many other metal carcasses.
"Hang on," he spoke and disappeared.
Allie stood in idle wait, feeling… insecure? She'd gotten herself into a promise that may be out of reach.
"'Kay, Blondie." He walked back up with a rubber mallet in hand and tapped his palm a few times for good measure. "You see that dent?" Dean's hand thrust out to point with a straight eye line at the passenger side door. " This swings at the inside of that. " A strong arm then took hold of the door handle and opened the door with a loud creak. "Gotta grease those…" He muttered under his breath in reference to the hinges. (or replace them all together).
A sinking trepidation entered her. Smacking the shit out of Baby? One wrong move and Singer Salvage might host a full-on mental breakdown courtesy of a traumatized Winchester.
Allie hesitated at the offering of the large tool, one she witnessed on occasion with Bobby but had never used herself. Jesus Christ, it looked like something to beat a steak with until it no longer looked like beef.
Intimidation would be a good word for the item, along with the recommended usage. Baby's flung open right-hand door took on the visage of bent-to-shit scrap and a few fingers scratched at her head, unable to visualize how such a scene would eventually come together and form back into a beloved icon of their time together. "Here?" She prompted, following his instruction before bending in front of the door and thrusting the hefty mallet back in the formation of a fucked up golf swing. One foot behind the other, hands clasped tight to try and form an ounce of control.
This is Dean's most prized possession. Don't fuck it up. His dad is dead, don't cause a fucking mental breakdown, Allie. Her head instigated.
Her inner tryst words bred insecurity in the estimated power and she took a few pretend swings to initiate some gentle follow-through. Sun high in the sky and heating up the rubber, she took a calming breath and let it rip.
It appeared her performance hardly offered anything significant. She heard the metal clang but the dent stayed prominent and Allie stood up straight in confusion. "Did I do it wrong?"
A wave of irritation washed over him as he watched her botch the simple task, and irritation was immediately drowned out by a surge of understanding. She'd obviously never done it before. Another thing to teach. How did she survive for so lon— oh yeah, normal life.
The way she held the mallet like it was a ticking time bomb, how she swung it like a baseball bat, it was all wrong.
"No, no, no." He moved behind Allie, his broad frame providing shade against the sky's relentless rays. With one hand resting lightly on her hip, he adjusted her stance. "Widen your legs a bit, yeah? Now you're gonna want to grip the mallet like this-"
His hand covered hers, calloused fingers guiding her own into a better position. "Feel that? That's where you wanna strike. Right here." He tapped the dented metal with his free hand.
"Okay, now take a deep breath. That's it. And when you swing, follow through with your body. Don't just use your arms."
He stayed close as she tried again, watching her, correcting her, hands never leaving her body. "You gotta own it," His timbre sank to a low rumble, the gravel in his voice thicker now, rougher. "You're in control. The metal, it's just a mirror. Bouncing back what you give it, nothin' more, nothin' less."
Together they followed through on the path, slamming into the tainted metal with precision. "Good," he coaxed. "That's perfect, Al. Now— again. " Exploratory fingertips slipped onto the exposed skin at her hip below the tank top under her overalls and planted themselves, digging in with a delicate, yet subliminally possessive hold.
And again.
And again.
And again.