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krisomniacTitle: Junkyard Blues
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krisomniac
Rating, Warning, Pairing: PG, episode 2.01 spoilers, gen
Disclaimer: Not mine. No profit or copyright infringement intended. Much of the dialogue is from 2.01 - In My Time of Dying
Summary, A/N: ~1800 words. Many thanks toignipes for beta-reading. Just a scene from the episode that now owns my soul. Outsider's POV.
Bobby never could refuse the Winchester boys.
Junkyard Blues
The truck rumbles to a halt and Bobby waits for a moment before cutting the engine. His big, dusty flatbed feels loud and out of place here. It's a bull in the china shop of close-clipped grass, manicured hedges and SUVs outside the hospital.
He doesn't belong here either, he thinks, idly scratching his nose and watching the worried, expectant faces of the drivers around him, the people being lifted to and from wheelchairs or coming to visit with armfuls of lilies and teddy bears holding balloons. He hears a siren and feels himself tense reflexively.
It's just an ambulance pulling into the bay around the side of the hospital. Bobby watches its flashing red lights reflected on the windows above and wonders who's inside, what happened to them. A girl gets out of the back; she's no more than fifteen, unsteady on long, skinny legs and swiping at her tear-stained cheeks. She's clutching a phone to her ear like it's the only thing in the world, sobbing frantically to someone on the other end.
Bobby tries not to think of the call that brought him here this morning, but he still remembers each of the halting, carefully chosen words: There's been an accident... Could you tow the car? Dad's fine, or he will be... Dean--
"Hey, Bobby."
He turns, leans across the cab, and opens the passenger door. "Hey, Sam," he says, mustering a smile to hide his shock at the kid's appearance. Sam's face is a patchwork of mottled bruises and cuts, one eye watery and swollen half-shut, the other worried and sad, confused and scared.
He's still wearing the dirty, bloodstained jacket, though the accident--from what Bobby understands--was nearly forty-eight hours ago. His hair is falling in his eyes, and his knuckles are scraped and raw. Bobby studies him as the silence stretches out between them.
"How you doing, son?" he finally asks, nearly choking on the question. Any fool can see the kid is barely holding himself together, frayed around the edges and strung out on caffeine, shell-shocked and alone.
But Sam manages a weak smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Hangin' in there." He climbs up into the truck, leaning gratefully on the patched bench and taking a deep, rattling breath. "You know how it is." He looks nervously back at the hospital, waiting until the very last second to close the door.
"Yeah." Bobby wants to tell him that they'll be okay for the hour this errand will take, but he starts the engine and feels the truck grumble to life underneath him instead, vibrations traveling up through the seat and steering column, reassuringly normal. Hospitals have always made him twitchy. Places like this, he knows, are where people come to die. He glances across at Sam, who's staring out the windshield like a deer living in the headlights. This isn't the Sam who walked into his place three days ago, determined and eager for the hunt, reciting a litany of Latin, sending a demon back to hell.
"Where'd you say they took it?"
Sam clears his throat. "A yard off Highway 83. I didn't think to get directions." He pulls his phone from his pocket and begins fumbling with the buttons. "But I can--"
"Naw," Bobby says, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry. I know where it is."
~
It's crisp and cool and the sky is a uniform shade of grey. The breeze kicks up scraps of paper and brown leaves in the dust. Junked cars are stacked five and six high all around; Bobby scans them quickly and takes mental note of an old Dodge Charger he'd love to get his hands on. There are crows in the oaks scattered throughout the yard, watching over the heaps of sharp, metallic roadkill. The owner strides out wearing an old flannel shirt and grease-stained coveralls. He shakes Bobby's hand--they spoke briefly on the phone, though they've never met--and they talk quickly and quietly while Sam waits in the truck.
Yeah, he knows the one they're looking for. It came in yesterday, more than a bit of a mess. Driver of the semi fell asleep at the wheel, eh? Damn shame.
No, no one's touched the car since it arrived.
Yes, they can tow it, and soon, please.
Are they crazy? There's nothing to salvage in that old heap.
Bobby smiles tightly and tries to read the guy for any sign that he's seen what's in the compartment under the trunk, but he seems as honest as any junkyard dealer. Sam gets out and they head off in the direction he points them.
He was pretty quiet on the drive out here, but the story he did tell wasn't a happy one. Bobby mulls it over, wondering what the hell kind of trouble John Winchester stirred up.
It sounds like a demon, cruel and powerful, with an appetite for destruction. But it's not like any he's ever dealt with, like few he's ever even heard of. It laughed at their holy water, a ruthless and calculating son of a bitch, and it's not done yet….
Bobby, Sam had asked, more serious than any kid his age had a right to be. It said it has plans… for me and all the children like me. Bobby couldn't help thinking that he'd rather be telling Sam about the birds and the bees or taking him out to drown a broken heart. Anything but this. Do you have any idea what it meant?
No idea, Sam, he'd said. No idea, just suspicions. Its child killed Jim in his church. Bobby shivers. Aren't many demons that can look for very long at hallowed ground, much less shed blood on it.
He inhales sharply when they round a stack of worn tires. The Chevy is sitting there, no more than a twisted pile of metal and mirrors. The whole right side is gone, frame buckled, both axles snapped. There's shattered glass across the seats, and he can see the engine block dragging on the ground, bleeding thick, black oil. He looks at Sam, bruised but walking, and wonders if the kid knows how lucky he is.
This crash wasn't meant to leave any of them alive.
"Dean's gonna be pissed," Sam says, walking over to the car.
"Look, Sam." He wants to explain it gently, but there's no easy way to kill hope. There's nothing left for them here. "This just ain't worth the tow." He checks the engine. Only intact part he sees is the cap on the wiper fluid. The hood comes off in his hands. "I say we empty the trunk. Sell the rest for scrap."
He can barely look at it, remembering the day John first drove it into his yard, shiny and black with two kids playing toy soldiers in the back seat. They looked like a proper family off for vacation on a lake somewhere. Bobby was sure they'd made a wrong turn and said as much.
No, John had replied, smile unwavering, Mighta made a wrong turn or two, but this is where I'm supposed to be.
Then Bobby saw it, the haunted look behind the scruffy beard. He didn't know what this John Winchester had seen, what he'd hunted, but he was definitely in the right place.
Over strong, syrupy coffee, he'd talked shop with John, reminisced about the war, watched the boys play fetch with Quayle.
"When he gets better he's gonna want to fix this." Sam tosses the twisted cover of his computer onto the back seat. Bobby follows his gaze to the bloodstains on the upholstery. All over the upholstery.
He hasn't woken up yet, Sam had said in the truck, emphasizing the yet. He was quieter, almost whispering when he continued, It took them so long to get there... Bobby didn't know how to respond, couldn't imagine the minutes dragging into hours while Sam waited for help, watched his family die.
Bobby doesn't know much about fathering--though these boys are as close to family as any he's ever--but he does know demons.
He knows they don't leave you alive, and if they do, it's only a temporary reprieve.
When he gets better. Sam sounds so sure.
"There's nothing to fix," Bobby finally says. Your brother's as good as dead. "The frame's a pretzel. Engine's ruined." You gotta let him go.
They walk around the wreckage. There's barely a working part left. Nothing there to salvage, and he tells Sam so. Sam's still got time to get out of the game, to finish school, to not end up like this, like his brother, like his dad.
Bobby remembers--almost fondly--how pissed John was when Sam left. Drove into his yard in cloud of dust and fear. Wanted help to rescue his kid from college, threaten the deans, suspend the scholarship, whatever it took. Bobby shook his head and called him a stubborn bastard. He told John to look around, asked if this is what he wanted for those kids, cocked the shotgun and told him to get out of his yard until he had some perspective, 'til he'd grown up.
Rumsfeld--Quayle was long dead by then--had whined all night.
"Bobby, listen to me."
Bobby is listening, and he hopes he hears the things Sam doesn't say.
"If there's only one working part, that's enough. We're not going to give up on--"
They stand over the hood, Sam as determined as he was at age six, stubborn as his daddy and the brother whose blood is in every piece of this car. He touches the dry, scratched paint, remembering the way Dean would wax and shine it while the others fought inside over where to go, or how to hunt, or what to eat for dinner.
Dean should be dead, but he's not. Sam should be mourning, but he's not. Bobby exhales. He wonders if he's doing the right thing; hope is a dangerous thing to give someone.
"Okay," he says, "You got it." He never could refuse those boys anything, not weapons, or lemonade, or protection from the thing that's after them. This is no time to start.
"Here, um." Sam's trying to hide the broken relief in his voice as he hands him a list. "Dad asked if you could get this stuff for him."
Bobby reads it quickly. Shit.
"What's--" he starts, but his voice is operating on autopilot. He scans the list again, barely listening to Sam's answer. This is no protection, John wants. This is war. "...Nothing, it's just."
Sam looks at him. "Bobby, what's goin' on?"
Never could refuse them anything. "You'd better come back with me."
~
They pull into the well-paved roundabout, and it's like they never left. There are different Land Rovers and Saabs in front of the doors. Different teddy bears with different balloons.
What's left of the Impala is chained to the bed behind them. Sam barely casts it a backwards glance as he jumps out of the car and slams the door. He hasn't spoken since Bobby handed him the duffel--packed with rock salt, knives, and clothes, one legendary gun and the tools to summon a demon.
Sam storms around to the driver's side, no longer looking so lost or forlorn, but Bobby isn't sure this new attitude is an improvement. "Thanks," he says tightly. "You want to come up?"
Bobby takes one look at the hard set of Sam's jaw, thinks of the things he'd like to say to John now, but knows that this is family business. "I'd better not."
Sam nods.
"Take it easy on him. He's only doin' what he thinks is best."
"You'll have the car at your place?"
"Yeah," Bobby runs a hand through his beard. "You boys come by and get it whenever you're ready. I'll keep an eye out for spare parts."
For a moment, he sees a flicker of the Sam he knows in the eyes of the angry hunter before him. "Bobby?" Sam asks.
Bobby puts a hand on his shoulder. "You're doin' good. I'll see you both soon."
"Thanks." Sam doesn't smile, and the last Bobby sees of him is the old army duffel disappearing behind a lady holding a large bouquet of flowers.
~
Author:
krisomniacRating, Warning, Pairing: PG, episode 2.01 spoilers, gen
Disclaimer: Not mine. No profit or copyright infringement intended. Much of the dialogue is from 2.01 - In My Time of Dying
Summary, A/N: ~1800 words. Many thanks to
ignipes for beta-reading. Just a scene from the episode that now owns my soul. Outsider's POV.Bobby never could refuse the Winchester boys.
The truck rumbles to a halt and Bobby waits for a moment before cutting the engine. His big, dusty flatbed feels loud and out of place here. It's a bull in the china shop of close-clipped grass, manicured hedges and SUVs outside the hospital.
He doesn't belong here either, he thinks, idly scratching his nose and watching the worried, expectant faces of the drivers around him, the people being lifted to and from wheelchairs or coming to visit with armfuls of lilies and teddy bears holding balloons. He hears a siren and feels himself tense reflexively.
It's just an ambulance pulling into the bay around the side of the hospital. Bobby watches its flashing red lights reflected on the windows above and wonders who's inside, what happened to them. A girl gets out of the back; she's no more than fifteen, unsteady on long, skinny legs and swiping at her tear-stained cheeks. She's clutching a phone to her ear like it's the only thing in the world, sobbing frantically to someone on the other end.
Bobby tries not to think of the call that brought him here this morning, but he still remembers each of the halting, carefully chosen words: There's been an accident... Could you tow the car? Dad's fine, or he will be... Dean--
"Hey, Bobby."
He turns, leans across the cab, and opens the passenger door. "Hey, Sam," he says, mustering a smile to hide his shock at the kid's appearance. Sam's face is a patchwork of mottled bruises and cuts, one eye watery and swollen half-shut, the other worried and sad, confused and scared.
He's still wearing the dirty, bloodstained jacket, though the accident--from what Bobby understands--was nearly forty-eight hours ago. His hair is falling in his eyes, and his knuckles are scraped and raw. Bobby studies him as the silence stretches out between them.
"How you doing, son?" he finally asks, nearly choking on the question. Any fool can see the kid is barely holding himself together, frayed around the edges and strung out on caffeine, shell-shocked and alone.
But Sam manages a weak smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Hangin' in there." He climbs up into the truck, leaning gratefully on the patched bench and taking a deep, rattling breath. "You know how it is." He looks nervously back at the hospital, waiting until the very last second to close the door.
"Yeah." Bobby wants to tell him that they'll be okay for the hour this errand will take, but he starts the engine and feels the truck grumble to life underneath him instead, vibrations traveling up through the seat and steering column, reassuringly normal. Hospitals have always made him twitchy. Places like this, he knows, are where people come to die. He glances across at Sam, who's staring out the windshield like a deer living in the headlights. This isn't the Sam who walked into his place three days ago, determined and eager for the hunt, reciting a litany of Latin, sending a demon back to hell.
"Where'd you say they took it?"
Sam clears his throat. "A yard off Highway 83. I didn't think to get directions." He pulls his phone from his pocket and begins fumbling with the buttons. "But I can--"
"Naw," Bobby says, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry. I know where it is."
~
It's crisp and cool and the sky is a uniform shade of grey. The breeze kicks up scraps of paper and brown leaves in the dust. Junked cars are stacked five and six high all around; Bobby scans them quickly and takes mental note of an old Dodge Charger he'd love to get his hands on. There are crows in the oaks scattered throughout the yard, watching over the heaps of sharp, metallic roadkill. The owner strides out wearing an old flannel shirt and grease-stained coveralls. He shakes Bobby's hand--they spoke briefly on the phone, though they've never met--and they talk quickly and quietly while Sam waits in the truck.
Yeah, he knows the one they're looking for. It came in yesterday, more than a bit of a mess. Driver of the semi fell asleep at the wheel, eh? Damn shame.
No, no one's touched the car since it arrived.
Yes, they can tow it, and soon, please.
Are they crazy? There's nothing to salvage in that old heap.
Bobby smiles tightly and tries to read the guy for any sign that he's seen what's in the compartment under the trunk, but he seems as honest as any junkyard dealer. Sam gets out and they head off in the direction he points them.
He was pretty quiet on the drive out here, but the story he did tell wasn't a happy one. Bobby mulls it over, wondering what the hell kind of trouble John Winchester stirred up.
It sounds like a demon, cruel and powerful, with an appetite for destruction. But it's not like any he's ever dealt with, like few he's ever even heard of. It laughed at their holy water, a ruthless and calculating son of a bitch, and it's not done yet….
Bobby, Sam had asked, more serious than any kid his age had a right to be. It said it has plans… for me and all the children like me. Bobby couldn't help thinking that he'd rather be telling Sam about the birds and the bees or taking him out to drown a broken heart. Anything but this. Do you have any idea what it meant?
No idea, Sam, he'd said. No idea, just suspicions. Its child killed Jim in his church. Bobby shivers. Aren't many demons that can look for very long at hallowed ground, much less shed blood on it.
He inhales sharply when they round a stack of worn tires. The Chevy is sitting there, no more than a twisted pile of metal and mirrors. The whole right side is gone, frame buckled, both axles snapped. There's shattered glass across the seats, and he can see the engine block dragging on the ground, bleeding thick, black oil. He looks at Sam, bruised but walking, and wonders if the kid knows how lucky he is.
This crash wasn't meant to leave any of them alive.
"Dean's gonna be pissed," Sam says, walking over to the car.
"Look, Sam." He wants to explain it gently, but there's no easy way to kill hope. There's nothing left for them here. "This just ain't worth the tow." He checks the engine. Only intact part he sees is the cap on the wiper fluid. The hood comes off in his hands. "I say we empty the trunk. Sell the rest for scrap."
He can barely look at it, remembering the day John first drove it into his yard, shiny and black with two kids playing toy soldiers in the back seat. They looked like a proper family off for vacation on a lake somewhere. Bobby was sure they'd made a wrong turn and said as much.
No, John had replied, smile unwavering, Mighta made a wrong turn or two, but this is where I'm supposed to be.
Then Bobby saw it, the haunted look behind the scruffy beard. He didn't know what this John Winchester had seen, what he'd hunted, but he was definitely in the right place.
Over strong, syrupy coffee, he'd talked shop with John, reminisced about the war, watched the boys play fetch with Quayle.
"When he gets better he's gonna want to fix this." Sam tosses the twisted cover of his computer onto the back seat. Bobby follows his gaze to the bloodstains on the upholstery. All over the upholstery.
He hasn't woken up yet, Sam had said in the truck, emphasizing the yet. He was quieter, almost whispering when he continued, It took them so long to get there... Bobby didn't know how to respond, couldn't imagine the minutes dragging into hours while Sam waited for help, watched his family die.
Bobby doesn't know much about fathering--though these boys are as close to family as any he's ever--but he does know demons.
He knows they don't leave you alive, and if they do, it's only a temporary reprieve.
When he gets better. Sam sounds so sure.
"There's nothing to fix," Bobby finally says. Your brother's as good as dead. "The frame's a pretzel. Engine's ruined." You gotta let him go.
They walk around the wreckage. There's barely a working part left. Nothing there to salvage, and he tells Sam so. Sam's still got time to get out of the game, to finish school, to not end up like this, like his brother, like his dad.
Bobby remembers--almost fondly--how pissed John was when Sam left. Drove into his yard in cloud of dust and fear. Wanted help to rescue his kid from college, threaten the deans, suspend the scholarship, whatever it took. Bobby shook his head and called him a stubborn bastard. He told John to look around, asked if this is what he wanted for those kids, cocked the shotgun and told him to get out of his yard until he had some perspective, 'til he'd grown up.
Rumsfeld--Quayle was long dead by then--had whined all night.
"Bobby, listen to me."
Bobby is listening, and he hopes he hears the things Sam doesn't say.
"If there's only one working part, that's enough. We're not going to give up on--"
They stand over the hood, Sam as determined as he was at age six, stubborn as his daddy and the brother whose blood is in every piece of this car. He touches the dry, scratched paint, remembering the way Dean would wax and shine it while the others fought inside over where to go, or how to hunt, or what to eat for dinner.
Dean should be dead, but he's not. Sam should be mourning, but he's not. Bobby exhales. He wonders if he's doing the right thing; hope is a dangerous thing to give someone.
"Okay," he says, "You got it." He never could refuse those boys anything, not weapons, or lemonade, or protection from the thing that's after them. This is no time to start.
"Here, um." Sam's trying to hide the broken relief in his voice as he hands him a list. "Dad asked if you could get this stuff for him."
Bobby reads it quickly. Shit.
"What's--" he starts, but his voice is operating on autopilot. He scans the list again, barely listening to Sam's answer. This is no protection, John wants. This is war. "...Nothing, it's just."
Sam looks at him. "Bobby, what's goin' on?"
Never could refuse them anything. "You'd better come back with me."
~
They pull into the well-paved roundabout, and it's like they never left. There are different Land Rovers and Saabs in front of the doors. Different teddy bears with different balloons.
What's left of the Impala is chained to the bed behind them. Sam barely casts it a backwards glance as he jumps out of the car and slams the door. He hasn't spoken since Bobby handed him the duffel--packed with rock salt, knives, and clothes, one legendary gun and the tools to summon a demon.
Sam storms around to the driver's side, no longer looking so lost or forlorn, but Bobby isn't sure this new attitude is an improvement. "Thanks," he says tightly. "You want to come up?"
Bobby takes one look at the hard set of Sam's jaw, thinks of the things he'd like to say to John now, but knows that this is family business. "I'd better not."
Sam nods.
"Take it easy on him. He's only doin' what he thinks is best."
"You'll have the car at your place?"
"Yeah," Bobby runs a hand through his beard. "You boys come by and get it whenever you're ready. I'll keep an eye out for spare parts."
For a moment, he sees a flicker of the Sam he knows in the eyes of the angry hunter before him. "Bobby?" Sam asks.
Bobby puts a hand on his shoulder. "You're doin' good. I'll see you both soon."
"Thanks." Sam doesn't smile, and the last Bobby sees of him is the old army duffel disappearing behind a lady holding a large bouquet of flowers.
~
