A Junkyard Christmas
Title: A Junkyard Christmas
Author: missyjack
Rating:PG-13
Pairing: Gen - Bobby, Dean, Sam, OCC (original canine character)
Words: 1,410
Beta: Many thanks torivers_bend
Summary: Bobby is alone at Christmas. Another 3.08 coda.
There was no snow in Nebraska.
No snow, but a cold biting wind still bearing its Alaskan zip code had whipped through the salvage yard. Bobby hadn’t slept much, just lain there with a chill in his bones that wasn’t entirely due to the weather. Outside, car carcasses groaned and creaked, metal scraped on metal, and a sound like the thin high cry of a banshee he’d once killed in Boise rose and fell, setting his teeth on edge.
He was awake when Sam called just after dawn, letting him know in a weary voice that the gods were dead. He and Dean were okay Sam reported, which Bobby knew for a Winchester probably meant some major pain and blood loss had been incurred. He smiled as he heard Dean in the background complaining about having to bandage himself. "Tell your brother to stop being a drama queen," Bobby said to Sam, who laughed before he hung up.
Bobby spent the morning working on a truck for the farmer down the road. The wind kept snatching his hat away, and his fingers were thick and clumsy in the cold, so when he realized there was nothing more he could do until he got the new brake pads he ordered, he was more than happy to call it a day. He rang the supplier to check whether they’d be in the next day and was surprised when the man laughed, “Not unless Santa brings ’em Bobby”.
It was Christmas Eve then. Bobby knew it was close, the boys’ case made him aware of that, but lately he’d found it hard to look at the calendar over his work bench, pretty though the Girls of AutoOil were. He didn’t need to be reminded of how quickly the months were passing .
He was washing up on the back porch, when he caught sight of a small dog, dark as grease and thin as a fan belt, watching him from around a stack of old tires.
“Get off with ya,” he shouted, “Go on, git.”
As she trotted off to toward the back of the yard, he saw a line of small but still swollen teats along her belly. She’d whelped a few weeks back he reckoned, pups most likely died of cold or starvation.
He put a pot of coffee on the stove, and made himself a sandwich. For a moment thought of tossing some scraps out for the bitch, but he knew that was how it started. That before long he’d be shooting rabbits for her, and then he’d have himself another dog in the house. He didn’t need a dog around - salt was better than a Rottweiler at guarding against demons and the like. Damn things just went and got themselves killed anyway.
The wind died down for a while, and it was quiet as Bobby settled back with the books he’d been studying. He’d read through Faust, both Marlow and Goethe, a stack of Christian texts, including a few the Vatican would be appalled to know still existed, and every grimoire he could lay his hands on. Most hoodoo lore and knowledge was not written down, so he’d made a number of trips in recent months to talk to practitioners across the South, but to no avail. He dreaded every time Sam would call, a note of desperate hope in his voice, asking if he’d found anything. And so he'd go back and read everything again.
As the night closed in, the wind started howling. Bobby stopped and rubbed his eyes. The letters were blurring into each other until the Latin looked like the Greek which looked like the Russian and it didn’t help that the ink was already faded on the page, smudged over centuries by the sweaty fingers of those who searched for answers. Bobby loved books, the feel, the smell, the substance of them, but if he was a rich man he’d get the lot of them scanned into a computer in an instant.
A ringing sounded from under the stack of books at his feet, and Bobby fished around until he found his cell between the pages of a book on Mayan sacrifices. It was Sam.
“Everything okay?”
“Hey Bobby. Yeah. I just need to know what type of oil the Impala uses.”
“Oil?”
“I never knew there were so many types. I mean all these grades and synthetic and non-synthetic, and…”
“Is there something wrong with the car?” Or Dean?, thought Bobby. Why was Sam buying oil?
“No, it’s fine. It’s just... It’s sorta a present.”
Bobby remembered a young boy looking at him with serious eyes. “Uncle Bobby, I need a present for my Dad and well I’ve got four dollars, but I don’t think I can get to a shop.”
Bobby never did find out why that amulet later appeared around Dean’s neck rather than John’s, but the fact that he’d worn it for over fifteen years made Bobby think the gift ended up where it belonged.
After talking Sam through his purchase, Bobby got up and stretched, poured himself the last of the coffee and wandered out to the back porch to smoke the joint Dean had left him last visit. The night sky was clear, crowded with stars, just few fingers of thin cloud ghosting across the moon, which was just starting to wane. He thought he saw a shooting star, but it was just the lights of a plane, probably the red eye heading to California, full of people going home for the holidays.
Bobby always spent Christmas alone, except that once Ellen had talked him into coming to the Roadhouse for lunch. He’d gone along, more for her than for himself. It was miserable, despite the decorations and little Jo singing rocked out versions of carols. Hunters were usually in the life because they’d lost loved ones to something evil, and so while the tables were laid with red and green napkins and festive food, a shroud of sullen grief hung over them. The following year he made his excuses and Ellen didn’t ask again.
He’d had the thought once or twice, many years ago, of asking John and the boys if they wanted to stay over for the holidays. Figured it would be better for the kids than being holed up in some motel, but they were a family, with their own grief, and he figured it was a private time he shouldn’t intrude on.
Didn’t matter anyways, he thought, the holiday meant nothing to him. It held no religious significance for him, he had no family to spend time with and he certainly had no memories of tinsel and trees he needed to recapture.
As Bobby ground out the remains of the smoke under his boot, he caught a glimpse of something moving by the shed and reached behind him for the shotgun propped near the back door. Two silver discs shone in the dark, and Bobby held his breath. Could be a black dog, or a chupacabara maybe. Maybe an Amarok although he’d never heard of one this far south.
Just then his cell rang and the shape moved quickly across the yard, and Bobby laughed. It was a black dog alright, but more of the mongrel than the supernatural variety.
He checked his cell. It was Dean.
“Bobbbyyyyyyy!”
“What’s up Dean?”
The phone was muffled for a moment, and Bobby could hear the sound of a TV and Sam laughing as Dean relayed Bobby’s question.
“Sorry Bobby, little brother’s had waaay too much eggnog.”
Bobby looked up at the sky and counted to five.
“Call me tomorrow.”
“No, wait, thing is we were thinking of swinging by. Probably wouldn’t be til late tomorrow night. I don’t think we’ll be getting an early start.”
“I haven’t found anything new Dean. I’m sorry but I haven’t got anything for you.”
The phone was quiet for so long, Bobby thought maybe his signal had dropped out, until he heard Dean say in a quiet voice, which sounded completely sober.
“Forget that Bobby. We just wanted to see you.”
“Tomorrow night then.”
“Yeah. And… Merry Christmas Bobby.”
Bobby flipped the phone shut. The cold wind was stinging his eyes, and he turned to go in but then changed his mind and wandered along to the garbage can at the end of the porch where he fished out a couple of pork bones.
He turned and tossed them out into the yard. Even a stray dog deserved a treat at Christmas.
Author: missyjack
Rating:PG-13
Pairing: Gen - Bobby, Dean, Sam, OCC (original canine character)
Words: 1,410
Beta: Many thanks torivers_bend
Summary: Bobby is alone at Christmas. Another 3.08 coda.
There was no snow in Nebraska.
No snow, but a cold biting wind still bearing its Alaskan zip code had whipped through the salvage yard. Bobby hadn’t slept much, just lain there with a chill in his bones that wasn’t entirely due to the weather. Outside, car carcasses groaned and creaked, metal scraped on metal, and a sound like the thin high cry of a banshee he’d once killed in Boise rose and fell, setting his teeth on edge.
He was awake when Sam called just after dawn, letting him know in a weary voice that the gods were dead. He and Dean were okay Sam reported, which Bobby knew for a Winchester probably meant some major pain and blood loss had been incurred. He smiled as he heard Dean in the background complaining about having to bandage himself. "Tell your brother to stop being a drama queen," Bobby said to Sam, who laughed before he hung up.
Bobby spent the morning working on a truck for the farmer down the road. The wind kept snatching his hat away, and his fingers were thick and clumsy in the cold, so when he realized there was nothing more he could do until he got the new brake pads he ordered, he was more than happy to call it a day. He rang the supplier to check whether they’d be in the next day and was surprised when the man laughed, “Not unless Santa brings ’em Bobby”.
It was Christmas Eve then. Bobby knew it was close, the boys’ case made him aware of that, but lately he’d found it hard to look at the calendar over his work bench, pretty though the Girls of AutoOil were. He didn’t need to be reminded of how quickly the months were passing .
He was washing up on the back porch, when he caught sight of a small dog, dark as grease and thin as a fan belt, watching him from around a stack of old tires.
“Get off with ya,” he shouted, “Go on, git.”
As she trotted off to toward the back of the yard, he saw a line of small but still swollen teats along her belly. She’d whelped a few weeks back he reckoned, pups most likely died of cold or starvation.
He put a pot of coffee on the stove, and made himself a sandwich. For a moment thought of tossing some scraps out for the bitch, but he knew that was how it started. That before long he’d be shooting rabbits for her, and then he’d have himself another dog in the house. He didn’t need a dog around - salt was better than a Rottweiler at guarding against demons and the like. Damn things just went and got themselves killed anyway.
The wind died down for a while, and it was quiet as Bobby settled back with the books he’d been studying. He’d read through Faust, both Marlow and Goethe, a stack of Christian texts, including a few the Vatican would be appalled to know still existed, and every grimoire he could lay his hands on. Most hoodoo lore and knowledge was not written down, so he’d made a number of trips in recent months to talk to practitioners across the South, but to no avail. He dreaded every time Sam would call, a note of desperate hope in his voice, asking if he’d found anything. And so he'd go back and read everything again.
As the night closed in, the wind started howling. Bobby stopped and rubbed his eyes. The letters were blurring into each other until the Latin looked like the Greek which looked like the Russian and it didn’t help that the ink was already faded on the page, smudged over centuries by the sweaty fingers of those who searched for answers. Bobby loved books, the feel, the smell, the substance of them, but if he was a rich man he’d get the lot of them scanned into a computer in an instant.
A ringing sounded from under the stack of books at his feet, and Bobby fished around until he found his cell between the pages of a book on Mayan sacrifices. It was Sam.
“Everything okay?”
“Hey Bobby. Yeah. I just need to know what type of oil the Impala uses.”
“Oil?”
“I never knew there were so many types. I mean all these grades and synthetic and non-synthetic, and…”
“Is there something wrong with the car?” Or Dean?, thought Bobby. Why was Sam buying oil?
“No, it’s fine. It’s just... It’s sorta a present.”
Bobby remembered a young boy looking at him with serious eyes. “Uncle Bobby, I need a present for my Dad and well I’ve got four dollars, but I don’t think I can get to a shop.”
Bobby never did find out why that amulet later appeared around Dean’s neck rather than John’s, but the fact that he’d worn it for over fifteen years made Bobby think the gift ended up where it belonged.
After talking Sam through his purchase, Bobby got up and stretched, poured himself the last of the coffee and wandered out to the back porch to smoke the joint Dean had left him last visit. The night sky was clear, crowded with stars, just few fingers of thin cloud ghosting across the moon, which was just starting to wane. He thought he saw a shooting star, but it was just the lights of a plane, probably the red eye heading to California, full of people going home for the holidays.
Bobby always spent Christmas alone, except that once Ellen had talked him into coming to the Roadhouse for lunch. He’d gone along, more for her than for himself. It was miserable, despite the decorations and little Jo singing rocked out versions of carols. Hunters were usually in the life because they’d lost loved ones to something evil, and so while the tables were laid with red and green napkins and festive food, a shroud of sullen grief hung over them. The following year he made his excuses and Ellen didn’t ask again.
He’d had the thought once or twice, many years ago, of asking John and the boys if they wanted to stay over for the holidays. Figured it would be better for the kids than being holed up in some motel, but they were a family, with their own grief, and he figured it was a private time he shouldn’t intrude on.
Didn’t matter anyways, he thought, the holiday meant nothing to him. It held no religious significance for him, he had no family to spend time with and he certainly had no memories of tinsel and trees he needed to recapture.
As Bobby ground out the remains of the smoke under his boot, he caught a glimpse of something moving by the shed and reached behind him for the shotgun propped near the back door. Two silver discs shone in the dark, and Bobby held his breath. Could be a black dog, or a chupacabara maybe. Maybe an Amarok although he’d never heard of one this far south.
Just then his cell rang and the shape moved quickly across the yard, and Bobby laughed. It was a black dog alright, but more of the mongrel than the supernatural variety.
He checked his cell. It was Dean.
“Bobbbyyyyyyy!”
“What’s up Dean?”
The phone was muffled for a moment, and Bobby could hear the sound of a TV and Sam laughing as Dean relayed Bobby’s question.
“Sorry Bobby, little brother’s had waaay too much eggnog.”
Bobby looked up at the sky and counted to five.
“Call me tomorrow.”
“No, wait, thing is we were thinking of swinging by. Probably wouldn’t be til late tomorrow night. I don’t think we’ll be getting an early start.”
“I haven’t found anything new Dean. I’m sorry but I haven’t got anything for you.”
The phone was quiet for so long, Bobby thought maybe his signal had dropped out, until he heard Dean say in a quiet voice, which sounded completely sober.
“Forget that Bobby. We just wanted to see you.”
“Tomorrow night then.”
“Yeah. And… Merry Christmas Bobby.”
Bobby flipped the phone shut. The cold wind was stinging his eyes, and he turned to go in but then changed his mind and wandered along to the garbage can at the end of the porch where he fished out a couple of pork bones.
He turned and tossed them out into the yard. Even a stray dog deserved a treat at Christmas.