SPN FIC - Meatloaf
Told ya: I can't predict where the Muse will wander off to. I told her, we're already working on three fics. But she was in a mood to talk about Bobby. So here ya go. Sam and Dean, post-Dream a Little Dream of Me.
Dean looks down at the mess on his plate and frowns as if he's just now noticed what he's doing, and what it's resulted in. He has a kind of Wow expression on his face, like he's a year old and he's just discovered that pudding is a really excellent fingerpainting medium. Ditto for gravy, and mashed potatoes. Meatloaf? Not so much.
Characters: Sam and Dean
Genre: Gen
Rating: G
Spoilers: Dream a Little Dream of Me
Length: 1641 words
MEATLOAF
By Carol Davis
What's on Dean's plate looks like dog food. He's taken his meatloaf and mashed potatoes and gravy and blended them together with his fork, producing a big, brown, gooey clot of stuff that's palatable in no sense whatsoever. Sam tries his best not to look at it, because even in its original condition, the meatloaf was considerably less than attractive, but it's tough to keep his attention from wandering in that direction - the same way it's tough not to look at a car accident, or any kind of accident, really. Dean's meatloaf is pretty low on the scale of catastrophic events, but it's right there, in front of Sam, kind of…staring at him. The edge of Dean's plate is only a couple of inches from Sam's own.
Dean goes on swirling and sculpting with his fork, and Sam tries to convince himself that it's a good thing Dean's using utensils. As far back as Sam can remember, Dean's been fond of sticking his fingers in things and then tasting them.
Which is…disgusting. Seriously.
"Dude," Sam says.
Dean lifts his head. Raises one brow inquisitively. The hand holding the fork goes on swirling.
"Could you not do that?" Sam asks.
"Do what?"
"I'm trying to eat my dinner."
"And I'm stoppin' you?"
"Dean -"
Dean looks down at the mess on his plate and frowns as if he's just now noticed what he's doing, and what it's resulted in. He has a kind of Wow expression on his face, like he's a year old and he's just discovered that pudding is a really excellent fingerpainting medium. Ditto for gravy, and mashed potatoes. Meatloaf? Not so much.
"You're regressing, man," Sam sighs.
Which isn't to say that he has much more of an interest in eating than Dean does. Sam killed someone, a little while ago - someone who was undeniably human. Jeremy Frost was a killer himself, yes, but he started out as an abused kid. He got shoved onto the wrong path, and that reminds Sam a little too much of himself.
"What?" Dean asks.
Sam peers across the table at his brother, sighs, rubs at his eyes with the flats of his fingers. Dean smiles at him, goofy and good-humored and entirely Dean, and for a moment that makes Sam feel even worse. It ends when Sam realizes Dean's hiding something. Something that happened in the dream world.
Something that's reduced him to making paste out of his dinner.
So Sam lobs Dean's question back at him. "What?"
"Nothin'."
"Dude. I'm listening."
Dean makes a hairball noise in his throat.
"We could go back to the room," Sam offers. "Or -"
"It's Bobby," Dean says. Solidly, like it's a cement block he's dropped in Sam's path.
"Bobby? What about Bobby?"
Bobby's awake, and well, none the worse for wear. The Winchesters haven't talked to him for a few hours, but there's no reason to believe he's not rolling along the highway into the night, headed west. He's on his way home.
"He -" Dean cuts himself off in favor of staring out the window. It seems to involve some serious effort for him to face Sam again. "He was married."
"Bobby?"
Sam does a little Magical Mystery Tour - back through the years, to what he can remember of the times he and Dad and Dean stayed at Bobby's place. It was a shambles, even when he and Dean were kids: packed to the rafters with books and charms and gadgets, much as it is now. As far back as Sam can remember, Bobby's house has looked like it hasn't been cleaned since…well, God knows when.
Then Sam remembers the house he walked through in Bobby's dream. Each room spotless, neatly arranged, pleasant, comfortable, welcoming. The outside of it was an explosion of color, a kid's Technicolor fantasy. Flowers everywhere, fresh, clean laundry flapping on clotheslines. It was Bobby's house, but what Sam saw wasn't Bobby's doing.
At least, not the Bobby he knows.
He looks at Dean and can't quite bring himself to ask.
"Demon," Dean says softly.
Sam's dinner rolls over in his stomach. He sorts through a couple of responses, but none of them seems like the right thing to say. It's as if Bobby's sitting right there with them. I'm so sorry. Is that what you say?
He looks at Dean. For a moment, he wants Dean to make this all right, somehow. Say he's kidding. Making some bleak, macabre joke.
But Dean's not going to make this better. He's going to make it worse.
"Bobby killed her," Dean murmurs.
Jesus.
"She - it - went nuts. Attacked him, I guess. And he…he didn't know. Self-defense, I guess. We -" Again, Dean stops and gazes out the window. He's looking at his car, parked in between a minivan and an almost-new Ford pickup. Without looking at Sam, he says, "She was there. In the dream. Had a bunch of stab wounds in her."
It's taken a lot of years to perfect, but they've figured out the right frequency at which to have these conversations. Loud enough to hear each other, soft enough to avoid attracting attention from the people in adjoining booths. Not that they'd get much more than a roll of the eyes, or some mock disgust (maybe a little real disgust) from anybody - what they say is just that absurd.
Their lives are just that absurd.
"He never said anything," Sam says. "Never."
"I figure Dad knew. Maybe."
"Maybe."
"Kinda… He liked Bobby. Trusted him."
Dean looks at Sam, looks steadily at him, like he's hoping to find something in Sam's expression that he needs. He looks at Sam like that a lot, these days, but if Sam responds to it, Dean rabbits. Maybe, Sam thinks, at some point in the little bit of time they've got left, Dean will stop rabbiting.
Right now, Dean has that same slump in his shoulders that he had in the hospital, sitting alongside Bobby's bed while Bobby was trapped in the dream. What he's thinking, Sam doesn't know, and isn't sure he wants to know. But part of it, Sam thinks, is that Dean didn't want Bobby to have been hurt like that. He'd made himself comfortable with the Bobby who's abrasive and blunt and no-nonsense. He doesn't want any of that to be a defense mechanism. He wants it to be just…Bobby.
The thing is, so does Sam.
For a moment, he thinks of Dad, sitting for long hours at a table in a ratty motel room, or a dingy apartment, or a diner like this one, making notes in his journal, poring through old newspapers, trying to make sense out of nonsense.
If Dad had had to kill Mom, Sam thinks, his next move would have been to put a bullet through his own head.
Does that make Bobby stronger than Dad?
Maybe.
Maybe not. Maybe Bobby's just found the right frequency to talk to himself.
Sam remembers Bobby, after Meg-the-demon fled Meg-the-girl, saying he'd handle things. Handle the paramedics. Handle the police. He knew how to lie, he said. Now Sam knows how Bobby came by that particular talent.
He sits and watches Dean run his thumb along the edge of his blue-rimmed white plate, as if he wants to fingerpaint with gravy but can't quite bring himself to go that extra step. He must have been hell to clean up after as a baby, Sam thinks. Must have had oatmeal in his ears and strained peas in his hair every time Mom and Dad tried to feed him.
He chuffs out a laugh, one quick exhale that makes Dean frown.
He remembers Bobby welcoming them into his home, feeding them, providing them with a place to sleep. Listening to them when Dad wouldn't, or couldn't.
"Dammit," he mutters. He has to lower his head, look at nothing.
When he lifts his head again, Dean has his cell in his hand and is picking out a number with a thumb that has gravy under the nail. He holds the phone to his ear and smiles at Sam, that drifting, wistful smile that makes him look like somebody's abandoned dog. They're sitting close enough together that Sam can hear Bobby's voice say an impatient, "Yeah?" at the other end of the call.
Dean didn't need anything to add to the burden of grief he hauls around with him.
And maybe Bobby didn't need the burden of Dean.
But they've got each other, for better or worse.
Sam half-listens to the conversation as he begins to push the remains of his own dinner around on his plate. He should get Dean to eat something, he thinks. Doesn't matter if it includes any of the required food groups. Pie, maybe. He remembers Dean calling out to him from inside the car, that night Azazel snatched Sam up and sent him to Cold Oak. Get me some pie!
It was forever ago, that night.
With a smile that feels more like a grimace, Sam shifts in his seat and looks toward the revolving glass case of desserts near the cash register.
It's another thing Dean can't fix, he thinks. He can't give Bobby his wife back. Can't work a miracle for someone he cares about.
But maybe Bobby can help work one for Dean.
Dean says goodbye after a couple of minutes. What he accomplished with that call, Sam isn't sure, unless it was simply to say I'm here.
Maybe, for now, that's enough.
"You want dessert?" Sam asks.
Dean considers his plate. Frowns at the Alpo-like mound of ruined meatloaf. Then he brightens. He's like a little kid, Sam thinks. Easily pleased. Easily hurt. And he thinks everything boils down to…him.
Maybe it does.
"Yeah," Dean beams. "Yeah. You?"
Sam smiles across the table at his brother. "Yeah," he says. "Okay."
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dean looks down at the mess on his plate and frowns as if he's just now noticed what he's doing, and what it's resulted in. He has a kind of Wow expression on his face, like he's a year old and he's just discovered that pudding is a really excellent fingerpainting medium. Ditto for gravy, and mashed potatoes. Meatloaf? Not so much.
Characters: Sam and Dean
Genre: Gen
Rating: G
Spoilers: Dream a Little Dream of Me
Length: 1641 words
MEATLOAF
By Carol Davis
What's on Dean's plate looks like dog food. He's taken his meatloaf and mashed potatoes and gravy and blended them together with his fork, producing a big, brown, gooey clot of stuff that's palatable in no sense whatsoever. Sam tries his best not to look at it, because even in its original condition, the meatloaf was considerably less than attractive, but it's tough to keep his attention from wandering in that direction - the same way it's tough not to look at a car accident, or any kind of accident, really. Dean's meatloaf is pretty low on the scale of catastrophic events, but it's right there, in front of Sam, kind of…staring at him. The edge of Dean's plate is only a couple of inches from Sam's own.
Dean goes on swirling and sculpting with his fork, and Sam tries to convince himself that it's a good thing Dean's using utensils. As far back as Sam can remember, Dean's been fond of sticking his fingers in things and then tasting them.
Which is…disgusting. Seriously.
"Dude," Sam says.
Dean lifts his head. Raises one brow inquisitively. The hand holding the fork goes on swirling.
"Could you not do that?" Sam asks.
"Do what?"
"I'm trying to eat my dinner."
"And I'm stoppin' you?"
"Dean -"
Dean looks down at the mess on his plate and frowns as if he's just now noticed what he's doing, and what it's resulted in. He has a kind of Wow expression on his face, like he's a year old and he's just discovered that pudding is a really excellent fingerpainting medium. Ditto for gravy, and mashed potatoes. Meatloaf? Not so much.
"You're regressing, man," Sam sighs.
Which isn't to say that he has much more of an interest in eating than Dean does. Sam killed someone, a little while ago - someone who was undeniably human. Jeremy Frost was a killer himself, yes, but he started out as an abused kid. He got shoved onto the wrong path, and that reminds Sam a little too much of himself.
"What?" Dean asks.
Sam peers across the table at his brother, sighs, rubs at his eyes with the flats of his fingers. Dean smiles at him, goofy and good-humored and entirely Dean, and for a moment that makes Sam feel even worse. It ends when Sam realizes Dean's hiding something. Something that happened in the dream world.
Something that's reduced him to making paste out of his dinner.
So Sam lobs Dean's question back at him. "What?"
"Nothin'."
"Dude. I'm listening."
Dean makes a hairball noise in his throat.
"We could go back to the room," Sam offers. "Or -"
"It's Bobby," Dean says. Solidly, like it's a cement block he's dropped in Sam's path.
"Bobby? What about Bobby?"
Bobby's awake, and well, none the worse for wear. The Winchesters haven't talked to him for a few hours, but there's no reason to believe he's not rolling along the highway into the night, headed west. He's on his way home.
"He -" Dean cuts himself off in favor of staring out the window. It seems to involve some serious effort for him to face Sam again. "He was married."
"Bobby?"
Sam does a little Magical Mystery Tour - back through the years, to what he can remember of the times he and Dad and Dean stayed at Bobby's place. It was a shambles, even when he and Dean were kids: packed to the rafters with books and charms and gadgets, much as it is now. As far back as Sam can remember, Bobby's house has looked like it hasn't been cleaned since…well, God knows when.
Then Sam remembers the house he walked through in Bobby's dream. Each room spotless, neatly arranged, pleasant, comfortable, welcoming. The outside of it was an explosion of color, a kid's Technicolor fantasy. Flowers everywhere, fresh, clean laundry flapping on clotheslines. It was Bobby's house, but what Sam saw wasn't Bobby's doing.
At least, not the Bobby he knows.
He looks at Dean and can't quite bring himself to ask.
"Demon," Dean says softly.
Sam's dinner rolls over in his stomach. He sorts through a couple of responses, but none of them seems like the right thing to say. It's as if Bobby's sitting right there with them. I'm so sorry. Is that what you say?
He looks at Dean. For a moment, he wants Dean to make this all right, somehow. Say he's kidding. Making some bleak, macabre joke.
But Dean's not going to make this better. He's going to make it worse.
"Bobby killed her," Dean murmurs.
Jesus.
"She - it - went nuts. Attacked him, I guess. And he…he didn't know. Self-defense, I guess. We -" Again, Dean stops and gazes out the window. He's looking at his car, parked in between a minivan and an almost-new Ford pickup. Without looking at Sam, he says, "She was there. In the dream. Had a bunch of stab wounds in her."
It's taken a lot of years to perfect, but they've figured out the right frequency at which to have these conversations. Loud enough to hear each other, soft enough to avoid attracting attention from the people in adjoining booths. Not that they'd get much more than a roll of the eyes, or some mock disgust (maybe a little real disgust) from anybody - what they say is just that absurd.
Their lives are just that absurd.
"He never said anything," Sam says. "Never."
"I figure Dad knew. Maybe."
"Maybe."
"Kinda… He liked Bobby. Trusted him."
Dean looks at Sam, looks steadily at him, like he's hoping to find something in Sam's expression that he needs. He looks at Sam like that a lot, these days, but if Sam responds to it, Dean rabbits. Maybe, Sam thinks, at some point in the little bit of time they've got left, Dean will stop rabbiting.
Right now, Dean has that same slump in his shoulders that he had in the hospital, sitting alongside Bobby's bed while Bobby was trapped in the dream. What he's thinking, Sam doesn't know, and isn't sure he wants to know. But part of it, Sam thinks, is that Dean didn't want Bobby to have been hurt like that. He'd made himself comfortable with the Bobby who's abrasive and blunt and no-nonsense. He doesn't want any of that to be a defense mechanism. He wants it to be just…Bobby.
The thing is, so does Sam.
For a moment, he thinks of Dad, sitting for long hours at a table in a ratty motel room, or a dingy apartment, or a diner like this one, making notes in his journal, poring through old newspapers, trying to make sense out of nonsense.
If Dad had had to kill Mom, Sam thinks, his next move would have been to put a bullet through his own head.
Does that make Bobby stronger than Dad?
Maybe.
Maybe not. Maybe Bobby's just found the right frequency to talk to himself.
Sam remembers Bobby, after Meg-the-demon fled Meg-the-girl, saying he'd handle things. Handle the paramedics. Handle the police. He knew how to lie, he said. Now Sam knows how Bobby came by that particular talent.
He sits and watches Dean run his thumb along the edge of his blue-rimmed white plate, as if he wants to fingerpaint with gravy but can't quite bring himself to go that extra step. He must have been hell to clean up after as a baby, Sam thinks. Must have had oatmeal in his ears and strained peas in his hair every time Mom and Dad tried to feed him.
He chuffs out a laugh, one quick exhale that makes Dean frown.
He remembers Bobby welcoming them into his home, feeding them, providing them with a place to sleep. Listening to them when Dad wouldn't, or couldn't.
"Dammit," he mutters. He has to lower his head, look at nothing.
When he lifts his head again, Dean has his cell in his hand and is picking out a number with a thumb that has gravy under the nail. He holds the phone to his ear and smiles at Sam, that drifting, wistful smile that makes him look like somebody's abandoned dog. They're sitting close enough together that Sam can hear Bobby's voice say an impatient, "Yeah?" at the other end of the call.
Dean didn't need anything to add to the burden of grief he hauls around with him.
And maybe Bobby didn't need the burden of Dean.
But they've got each other, for better or worse.
Sam half-listens to the conversation as he begins to push the remains of his own dinner around on his plate. He should get Dean to eat something, he thinks. Doesn't matter if it includes any of the required food groups. Pie, maybe. He remembers Dean calling out to him from inside the car, that night Azazel snatched Sam up and sent him to Cold Oak. Get me some pie!
It was forever ago, that night.
With a smile that feels more like a grimace, Sam shifts in his seat and looks toward the revolving glass case of desserts near the cash register.
It's another thing Dean can't fix, he thinks. He can't give Bobby his wife back. Can't work a miracle for someone he cares about.
But maybe Bobby can help work one for Dean.
Dean says goodbye after a couple of minutes. What he accomplished with that call, Sam isn't sure, unless it was simply to say I'm here.
Maybe, for now, that's enough.
"You want dessert?" Sam asks.
Dean considers his plate. Frowns at the Alpo-like mound of ruined meatloaf. Then he brightens. He's like a little kid, Sam thinks. Easily pleased. Easily hurt. And he thinks everything boils down to…him.
Maybe it does.
"Yeah," Dean beams. "Yeah. You?"
Sam smiles across the table at his brother. "Yeah," he says. "Okay."
~~~~~~~~~~~~