SPN FIC - Junkyard
Okay, back on track! Episode 3 in our Seven Nights of Dean (even though it's only 4:00 in the afternoon here).
"You want me to tell you one more time?" Uncle Bobby said, and the suddenness of it made Dean squeak like a hamster. He fumbled, trying to hold on to the double armload of stuff he'd been pulling off the wrecks in Bobby's yard since early morning, and lost his hold on the sideview mirror. The two of them watched it hit the ground, bounce twice, and then roll to a stop.
CHARACTERS: Dean (age 13), Bobby
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 858 words
JUNKYARD
By Carol Davis
It wasn't a good smell, really - rusty metal and glass and rubber and old, worn upholstery being baked under the South Dakota summer sun. And if you asked somebody else about the scenery, about whether this was a good thing to stand and look at while the sun was beating down on your head and sweat was trickling down the middle of your back, into your underwear and right on down into the crack of your butt…
Well.
More than one person had called Dean Winchester crazy, and they'd probably be doing it again. Probably in September, when Dad dumped him and Sammy at another school. School number…what, eight thousand and sixty?
Sammy could give you the right number.
Dean didn't give a damn about the right number. Didn't give much of a damn about school, period.
This was the school he was interested in. Right here. The place where he could learn something that'd be useful to him - and (this was the really helpful part) useful in a way that didn't involve guns and salt and exorcisms and sigils and freakin' butt-ugly things that could tear your intestines out before you had a chance to say Oh shit.
This was…good.
"You want me to tell you one more time?" Uncle Bobby said, and the suddenness of it made Dean squeak like a hamster. He fumbled, trying to hold on to the double armload of stuff he'd been pulling off the wrecks in Bobby's yard since early morning, and lost his hold on the sideview mirror. The two of them watched it hit the ground, bounce twice, and then roll to a stop.
"I don't do hats," Dean groused.
"Yeah, well, then, if you decide you do do sunstroke, don't come bellyachin' to me. Tops of your ears are bright enough already to help 'em land aircraft, ya idjit. You're fryin' like a damn hamburger out here."
"Sunburn never killed anybody."
Bobby lifted a brow. "Ya think?"
That took Dean by surprise, though not as much as Bobby jack-in-the-boxing out of nowhere. "It…does?"
"Go look it up."
"I just want -" Dean sputtered. "I want to get this done."
Bobby held onto the stern face for a moment, then bled out a sigh. "The clock ain't runnin', Dean. You don't need to do this today. Your dad's gonna be off his feet for a while. You're not goin' anywhere."
"But -"
"What?"
"I want it to be a surprise. I don't want him to know I'm doing it."
Shaking his head, Bobby bent down to retrieve the runaway mirror and laid it carefully on top of the pile of car parts in Dean's arms. "Trust me. He's doped to the gills. He's not gonna know up from down for another couple days, at least. You've got time. Besides that, you're not gonna be able to pound out those dents by yourself."
"I can -"
The eyebrow went up again.
"I can try," Dean mumbled.
"Yeah, well, good luck with that." Bobby turned then and took a couple of leisurely steps in the direction of the house.
"I want to do it myself," Dean said to Bobby's back.
Bobby held his position for a moment before he turned and squinted at Dean from underneath the bill of his cap. He took a long look at all the junk Dean was holding, the same look he gave customers who'd be paying for the parts they took. There was no way he was going to charge Dean, though.
No way.
Probably no way.
"You're not in this alone, son," Bobby said after a minute. "And it ain't a sin to ask for some help."
"I -"
The rest of what Dean intended to say didn't come out. It hung up midway between his brain and his mouth, leaving him to stand there in silence, shuffling his sneakered feet against the dusty ground of the junkyard.
Bobby came back then and lifted the mirror back off the top of Dean's pile of odds and ends. "You hear me?" he asked quietly.
Dean shrugged and looked off into the distance, at the gleam of an old Chevelle perched on top of a smashed-flat Mustang. There were dozens of cars here, all makes and models, and not a one of them had ever called him crazy.
Not a one.
"Run on in the house," Bobby said. "Get yourself a soda, or some water. And a damn hat. Then we'll take a look at your daddy's car and see about puttin' the damn thing back into some decent shape."
"I can -" Dean began.
"Yeah. I know you can. But this time, let's try it together." Before Dean could answer, Bobby gave him a wry smile. "You know, you're about the only fool walkin' who thinks this place is heaven on earth."
Dean went on looking at the Chevelle for a while. Then he murmured, "It is. Kind of."
That made Bobby snort softly. "You know what, kid?" he asked, reaching out to ruffle Dean's hair with his free hand, grinning at the way it made Dean wince. "You're right. Sometimes it kind of is."
* * * * *
"You want me to tell you one more time?" Uncle Bobby said, and the suddenness of it made Dean squeak like a hamster. He fumbled, trying to hold on to the double armload of stuff he'd been pulling off the wrecks in Bobby's yard since early morning, and lost his hold on the sideview mirror. The two of them watched it hit the ground, bounce twice, and then roll to a stop.
CHARACTERS: Dean (age 13), Bobby
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 858 words
JUNKYARD
By Carol Davis
It wasn't a good smell, really - rusty metal and glass and rubber and old, worn upholstery being baked under the South Dakota summer sun. And if you asked somebody else about the scenery, about whether this was a good thing to stand and look at while the sun was beating down on your head and sweat was trickling down the middle of your back, into your underwear and right on down into the crack of your butt…
Well.
More than one person had called Dean Winchester crazy, and they'd probably be doing it again. Probably in September, when Dad dumped him and Sammy at another school. School number…what, eight thousand and sixty?
Sammy could give you the right number.
Dean didn't give a damn about the right number. Didn't give much of a damn about school, period.
This was the school he was interested in. Right here. The place where he could learn something that'd be useful to him - and (this was the really helpful part) useful in a way that didn't involve guns and salt and exorcisms and sigils and freakin' butt-ugly things that could tear your intestines out before you had a chance to say Oh shit.
This was…good.
"You want me to tell you one more time?" Uncle Bobby said, and the suddenness of it made Dean squeak like a hamster. He fumbled, trying to hold on to the double armload of stuff he'd been pulling off the wrecks in Bobby's yard since early morning, and lost his hold on the sideview mirror. The two of them watched it hit the ground, bounce twice, and then roll to a stop.
"I don't do hats," Dean groused.
"Yeah, well, then, if you decide you do do sunstroke, don't come bellyachin' to me. Tops of your ears are bright enough already to help 'em land aircraft, ya idjit. You're fryin' like a damn hamburger out here."
"Sunburn never killed anybody."
Bobby lifted a brow. "Ya think?"
That took Dean by surprise, though not as much as Bobby jack-in-the-boxing out of nowhere. "It…does?"
"Go look it up."
"I just want -" Dean sputtered. "I want to get this done."
Bobby held onto the stern face for a moment, then bled out a sigh. "The clock ain't runnin', Dean. You don't need to do this today. Your dad's gonna be off his feet for a while. You're not goin' anywhere."
"But -"
"What?"
"I want it to be a surprise. I don't want him to know I'm doing it."
Shaking his head, Bobby bent down to retrieve the runaway mirror and laid it carefully on top of the pile of car parts in Dean's arms. "Trust me. He's doped to the gills. He's not gonna know up from down for another couple days, at least. You've got time. Besides that, you're not gonna be able to pound out those dents by yourself."
"I can -"
The eyebrow went up again.
"I can try," Dean mumbled.
"Yeah, well, good luck with that." Bobby turned then and took a couple of leisurely steps in the direction of the house.
"I want to do it myself," Dean said to Bobby's back.
Bobby held his position for a moment before he turned and squinted at Dean from underneath the bill of his cap. He took a long look at all the junk Dean was holding, the same look he gave customers who'd be paying for the parts they took. There was no way he was going to charge Dean, though.
No way.
Probably no way.
"You're not in this alone, son," Bobby said after a minute. "And it ain't a sin to ask for some help."
"I -"
The rest of what Dean intended to say didn't come out. It hung up midway between his brain and his mouth, leaving him to stand there in silence, shuffling his sneakered feet against the dusty ground of the junkyard.
Bobby came back then and lifted the mirror back off the top of Dean's pile of odds and ends. "You hear me?" he asked quietly.
Dean shrugged and looked off into the distance, at the gleam of an old Chevelle perched on top of a smashed-flat Mustang. There were dozens of cars here, all makes and models, and not a one of them had ever called him crazy.
Not a one.
"Run on in the house," Bobby said. "Get yourself a soda, or some water. And a damn hat. Then we'll take a look at your daddy's car and see about puttin' the damn thing back into some decent shape."
"I can -" Dean began.
"Yeah. I know you can. But this time, let's try it together." Before Dean could answer, Bobby gave him a wry smile. "You know, you're about the only fool walkin' who thinks this place is heaven on earth."
Dean went on looking at the Chevelle for a while. Then he murmured, "It is. Kind of."
That made Bobby snort softly. "You know what, kid?" he asked, reaching out to ruffle Dean's hair with his free hand, grinning at the way it made Dean wince. "You're right. Sometimes it kind of is."
* * * * *