Spur

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Title: Spur
Author: ultraviolet9a
Recipient: i_speak_tongue
Rating: pg13
Author's Notes: 1,458 words. Lovely i_speak_tongue wanted Dean and Bobby moments/missing scenes of early season 2. I tried to stay close to that, but, you know Bobby; he has a mind of his own. So don’t sue. Just playing around, is all. Much, much love and gratitude to the smart and lovely p for the beta.
Summary: Bobby won’t add anything more to that. Spare words, practical words. People need to figure those out for themselves.


When he looks at the car, he’s already mourning the boy.

Bobby’s seen his share of death. It doesn’t make him cry out no more. Doesn’t make him hit his fists against the wall, even when it gives him nightmares. But it does make him recognize it, predict it, feel it. He’s a hunter. It goes with the territory.

So he can feel (and deal) death. And he can’t dam sorrow. It wells up inside of him, a secret silent spring that drenches everything and robs him of words, and this sorrow, this time, is for the family. For the boy.

Then Sam comes and refuses to believe that the Impala (the boy) is scraps. Talks about not giving up. And Bobby says okay. You got it.. Tries to make the sorrow go deep down in its well, away from the hope Sam is offering.

It’s not right mourning before one’s time has passed, Bobby knows that. But he’s been longer on this earth, has seen too much in its rotation.

When Sam hands him the list with the ingredients John asked for, Bobby’s no longer mourning the boy. He’s mourning the father. Because Bobby already knows.

He won’t interfere. It’s the right of every father to save his son.

And he can see the blessing even when John’s sons can’t, how it’s only right and proper that John didn’t have to see his son on the pyre.

.:::.

He’s got fine cotton sheets. Bags of salt and gasoline. Firewood on the back of his pick-up truck. He brought them before John’s boys had even time to think they need them.

“Thank you, Bobby,” Sam says. His voice is choked up. Dean nods at him and Bobby nods back in reply. It’s all he can offer. The washing, the dressing, the burning… he can offer the place and the means, but all the rest the boys must handle. It’s only right.

He’s waiting outside on the porch when Dean and Sam come out carrying their father in a bundle, laying him in the back of Bobby’s truck.

“He was a good man,” Bobby says. “Stubborn, irritating son of a bitch. Damn fine hunter. But your father was a good man.”

Dean swallows hard.

“Thanks, Bobby,” Sam says. They drive off.

He’s had his eulogy. As night falls, Bobby imagines he can see the smoke rising over the wood, burning what has stayed behind of John Winchester.

.:::.

They look like hell when they get back at sunrise. Sam’s shoulders tremble with held back sobs. Dean’s eyes are pulled to the floor as if by a force larger than gravity.

“It’s done,” he says. He doesn’t look up.

“You can stay for as long as you need,” Bobby says. Spare words. Practical words. Sorrow is sorrow, grief is grief, but those that stay behind have to deal. Have to be helped to deal.

The house smells of bacon, toast and coffee. Dean digs in. Sam says his thanks and goes straight to bed.

Bobby overhears (eavesdrops actually, but it’s his house and those boys have been through a lot and someone has to look out for them, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t) one of the boys cry out in his sleep. He bets it’s not Sam.

He can understand Dean inside out. Can see Dean carry sorrow the way he does. Always on the inside, digging deeper, oceans of it soaking unsteady terrain.

A chord that doesn’t release tension eventually snaps. But Bobby’s not that easy with words. And it’s too soon. Practical is the only thing he has to offer. Food is a damn fine start.

He thinks about grilling steaks for the boys once they wake up. Maybe a barbecue with a mean sauce. He thinks of coal and the steaks burning on top of it.

“Bobby, you idjit,” he mutters.

He makes chilli con carne instead. In the pot.

That evening all three eat together in silence. He doesn’t mind. It’s too soon and he’s not comfortable with words anyway.

.:::.

He tries.

Bobby says: We can mend the Impala.

Bobby says: There’s nothing that can’t be mended.

Bobby says: Time. It just takes time. But everything can be fixed, your brother’s right.

Bobby says: Are you alright, son?

Dean says: Don’t call me son.

But his fingers are already flexing, tracing what were once the sleek curves and lines of the Impala. Bobby watches the movement, watches the slight shift on Dean’s face. He thinks he catches purpose there. It’s a good start.

“Talk to me, Dean,” Bobby says. Dean looks at him and starts talking about the car. And Bobby can do this. Can talk shop. It’s a start.

.:::.

“Are you alright, Dean?” Bobby says.

“I’m fine.”

They worked together the first days, Bobby helping him with the roughest parts. Now he’s sitting on the porch, watching John’s eldest slide under the car or over the hood, slowly bringing it back to life. He remembers how John sometimes needed spare parts, wants to tell Dean how much he looks like his father whenever he’s near an engine.

“Your daddy loved fixing cars, just like you,” he says. There’s only a fraction of hesitation on Dean’s part that indicates he’s heard him.

Dean doesn’t reply. Bobby cranks up the radio louder.

.:::.

More than a week has passed. He’s used to Dean’s silence, his laconic replies. Used to Sam’s attempts at small talk, Sam’s attempts to talk to Dean, Sam’s attempt to accept and admit grief and get it done with. Bobby’s a hermit by circumstances and inclination, but the boys are smooth and easy to live with, even draped with grief.

After they leave on a hunt (Bobby’s overheard the name Ellen) the house feels still and empty. He falls asleep on the couch with the TV on, a beer cradled in his hands. When he wakes up, it’s deep night. He turns on the front lights, then steps outside, looks at the Impala. She still needs work, but she’s gained most of her curves back. Dean’s done a damn fine job, soon he’ll have her ready. Bobby wishes he could say the same for himself, how he did a damn fine job with Dean. Dean is stoic and silent and fine, but Bobby can feel those oceans of sorrow drowning him.

He wonders where the boys are now, what monster they are chasing this time. Wishes them back safe and sound. Marvels at that.

Then he gets back inside.

.:::.

Sam’s telling him about the killer clown. If he looks out the window, Bobby will see Dean working on the Impala again. The hunt and the car. Only things holding Dean together.

“Talk to him.”

“What? The clown?” Sam’s train of thought has been derailed. He seems confused.

“Talk to him,” Bobby repeats. Watches understanding dawn on Sam’s face.

“Bobby, I’ve tried.”

But Bobby won’t add anything more to that. Spare words, practical words. People need to figure those out for themselves.

.:::.

“Feelin’ better?” Bobby asks. The crowbar has clattered to the ground with a deathly knell.

“Not now, Bobby,” Dean says. His lip is trembling.

“Breaks my heart looking at your car, boy, but if you worked it out of your system…”

“I said, not now, Bobby.”

But it is now. And now doesn’t require spare, practical words. Now requires edges, needles, stings to make Dean see.

“It is now, boy,” Bobby says grabbing him by the front of his t-shirt pushing him hard against the beaten car. Dean offers no resistance. “Now you listen to me, Dean. Your father’s gone, but you’re here. And it’s the right order, Dean, the father before the son, it’s the right order. You gotta forgive him that. And you gotta forgive yourself that.”

“Bobby…”

“Now don’t you go shaming him, Dean. That’s what your daddy wanted for you. That’s what any father would want for his sons. A chance at life. Don’t you go shaming him.”

“I’d never… you don’t understand, Bobby!”

There are stray tears falling down, but Dean’s hands don’t push Bobby away.

“Let yourself grieve him properly, Dean. You loved him and he loved you and it hurts like hell, but you gotta pull through. Honour him with your grief and then get back to yourself and live.”

Bobby lets go of the t-shirt. Dean moves his palm across his face.

“It’s all fucked up, Bobby. It’s all fucked up. And it’s going to get worse.”

“Could get worse, could get better. It’s called life.”

Dean sighs. Bobby’s hand finds the nape of his neck.

"Now how about I help you fix this mess, son?"

Dean nods.

“Alright,” he says.

Bobby kicks the crowbar aside.

“Alright,” he says.


-The End.