Riding the Fence -Part 5
Part Five:
Over the next few days, Dean settled into a routine: breakfast with Bobby, mornings at Gert’s, afternoons doing odd jobs around the salvage yard, supper at the diner and old western movies at night. It was almost comfortable.
In the mornings, it was eggs, toast and coffee over the morning paper and if Dean just happened to find something that was job worthy, well it was only to be expected. After all, it’s not like he could turn the hunter’s instinct off. Not to mention that Bobby was a sneaky bastard. If Dean had ever bothered to ask him, the older hunter would have freely admitted to honing the boy’s research skills by purposefully handing him sections of the paper in which he knew there would be jobs found.
For each job found, Bobby would make a case file, tearing the report from the paper and attaching it to a manila folder along with any notes he deemed appropriate, after which he would sort and file them according to importance and who he thought could take care of the situation the best. On those occasions in which it was determined especially urgent, Bobby would immediately call in a favor from whatever hunter was in the closest proximity to that location.
Dean had asked Bobby once about the hunters he knew and Bobby’s only reply had been to grunt unhappily and change the subject. Yet despite Bobby’s surly attitude, Dean had a sense of the close network of men and sometimes even women who were all woven around Bobby like a web. When Dean was around the house, it was impossible to ignore the goings on. Bobby spent a vast majority of his day on the phone, passing on information to this one, bailing that one out of trouble, providing well needed research to another. Maybe these hunters didn’t all know each other, but the common denominator was that they all knew Bobby. Not only that, but Bobby seemed to be the center, the core of that web, important and necessary. Remove the core and the rest would tear apart in the wind. It made Dean’s chest ache with what he could only attribute as pride and it made Dean want to work that much harder; to give Bobby a reason to be proud in return.
After breakfast Dean would make himself presentable and drive the half mile down to Gert’s house where she would employ him for the entirety of the morning. She discovered fairly quickly that he could be quite handy with a hammer and nails and set about making a list of odd jobs. Mid-morning, she would bring him a glass of sun tea and they’d find a shady spot where he could take a break and they could talk.
Gert had quickly pegged Dean as a young man who’d never had a problem talking to women. Pretty college girls, middle-aged diner waitresses, Gert bet he had them all eating out of his hand. She also bet that he’d never met a woman quite like her before. She was an older woman, had seen a lot in her time, and she wasn’t easily swayed by charm and good looks. Dean Winchester had both in spades, but what appealed to Gert about him was the integrity of his character. He was a good person, she was sure of it. An honest, hardworking, young man, he lived for his family, and he felt better about himself when he was able to help others. Those were admirable traits in any adult; in a man as young as Dean, they were remarkable.
Each day, the ever-inquisitive Gert would carefully probe Dean for details of his life, always aware of the invisible boundary that lay around the boy. For the most part, Dean spoke freely with her about life on the road with his father and brother. She never got a clear picture of why they needed to live such a nomadic existence, and even though she assumed there was something shady about it, she never judged him for his lifestyle. Gert prided herself on being a good judge of character and Dean Winchester may have been a little rough around the edges, he may have been used to living on his wits and operating in shades of gray, but he was an honorable young man none-the-less and Gert liked him. On his third morning with her, she ventured further than she’d dare gone before and asked him in tender tones where his mother was.
Dean took hold of his tea glass with both hands, desperate to anchor himself to something, his thumbs rubbing absentmindedly across the rim of the clear glass, the condensation gathering and trickling down the side and landing like tears in his criss-crossed lap. He swallowed hard and his head tipped forward to stare down at the small, round splotch of water spreading outward on his knee. He tried not to jump when Gert’s soft hand covered that spot.
“We don’t have to talk about it,” she said in an equally soft voice.
“No.”
Dean’s eyebrows drew tight at the center of his forehead, pulling the smallest hint of age lines around his eyes and for a moment Dean was lost somewhere between childhood and old age. She patted his knee accepting his answer and made to pull herself up from the ground where they were sitting in the shade.
But before she could rise, Dean’s cool damp hand encircled her wrist.
“No, we can talk about her,” he said quietly.
When he did look up and met her concerned gaze, his eyes were heavy with sadness, his lower lip sucked into his mouth where his teeth worried the tender flesh. Once again, she placed a comforting hand on him and that one gesture seemed to greatly soothe Dean’s raw emotion.
“I’d like to,” he added, a slight smile adorning his features. “tell you about my mom.”
There was no further work done that day. They spent the rest of their time together sharing stories, and Gert was saddened but not surprised to hear of the fire that had robbed Dean of his mom when he was just four years old. Not surprised at all in fact, because that little boy who so desperately missed his mother was quite visible beneath the tough exterior that Dean tried so hard to maintain. Still, not all their stories were sad and heartbreaking. Once they got started, Dean and Gert had lots to share, not only about Mary Winchester but also about Mr. Thomas, Gert’s late husband, but where Gert’s stories were vivid memories, Dean’s stories were snippets of a life only remembered through his father’s words. Even so, they were no less important and when Gert had pulled Dean into a hug, expressing her appreciation for sharing his mother with her, Dean was surprised to find himself sinking into the warm embrace, not remembering the last time he’d been on the receiving end of a full-on hug by anyone other than his brother. He was even more surprised to find that this was exactly what he seemed to need most.
After lunch with Gert, Dean would return to the salvage yard, collect his work list from Bobby and get started straight away. His afternoons would be filled with service work, the occasional research job, but more often than not, Dean spent his time perfecting his shot with a bow set he’d found neglected in Bobby’s basement, setting up targets of varying sizes and distances.
John, a marksman in his service to his country, had been sure to train his boys in the many tools of their trade, each of them becoming marksmen in their own right. John had taken care to focus their interests and hone their abilities on the weapons that each boy excelled at. For Sam it had been knives; either in close combat or at a distance, Sam was deadly accurate with any blade in John’s extensive arsenal. Dean, John was proud to say, had a superiorly accurate eye. Any weapon he took into his hand, made him lethal, not to mention more than a little scary.
But an archery bow was not something Dean had picked up in a long time, probably not since he was a young teenager and through the practice, Dean found himself rejuvenated and feeling like a little kid again. It was the almost playful times like these that made Dean think of Sam and wonder how his little brother was getting along on his first one-on-one hunt with their father. He hadn’t heard a thing from them since Tuesday morning when Bobby had last spoke with John. Dean just hoped everything was going alright.
Late Thursday afternoon, Bobby met him out on Dean’s make-shift archery range, a sheet of notebook paper in hand.
“I’ve got a job for you, if you’re interested.”
“Really?”
Dean released the bow string, its arrow flying straight and true even without Dean’s full attention and connected solidly with a spoiled apple that Gert had sent home with him to use as he saw fit. Dean lowered the bow and turned to face the older hunter, definitely interested in whatever he had to offer.
“Yup. Had a hunter friend of mine, by the name of Telly, call a little while ago. He’s makin’ an emergency run into Minnesota and is running low on salt rounds with no time to stock up. So, I need you to run into town for me. Think you can handle that?”
“Course, Bobby.” Dean scoffed as though the older hunter had just asked him if he could tie his shoes.
“Alright.” Bobby pressed the bit of notebook paper into Dean’s hand. On it was scrawled out in Bobby’s block-style hand writing, a list of instructions. “Clive Poole is a friend, owns the sporting goods store just inside of town. He already knows you’re coming. There’ll be a case of shell casings waitin’ for you. But tell him I also need this,” Bobby pointed at the note, “I need a six to eight inch silver blade. I lent my spare out and it hasn’t come home yet. Can’t afford to loan out my good knife. Never know when I might need it. ‘Kay, here’s the address, got all that?”
“Yeah, S’not hard. I was hoping you’d have something a little more challenging for me today.”
“Oh, believe me, it’ll be a challenge. We’ve got about three hours to get all those shells loaded and packed before Telly gets here. So you need to get movin’. Don’t dilly dally, got it?”
“Yessir.”
“Here, take the Chevelle,” Bobby added, tossing the keys off to the kid.
“Really? Cool. I mean, not as cool as my baby, but…”
“Yeah, yeah. Get going all ready. We can drag race later.”
Dean wasted no time, burning up the poorly paved road between Bobby’s and the small business district that lay just inside town. Sure there were other places in Sioux Falls, better places even, but this small section of the city was as close to true small town living as one could get. Everyone knew everyone and of course that meant they knew everyone’s business. So it came as no surprise to Dean when he walked into the small, outdated sporting goods store, that he was greeted not only by name, but like a long lost friend.
“You must be Dean, good to meet you. How was the drive in? Your Uncle Bobby said you were trussed up a bit, but you don’t look too worse for wear.”
Dean reeled momentarily at the flurry of speech, but only for a moment. Then he rolled into the well-practiced groove of working a stranger. He extended a cordial hand and a sincere smile, his eyes alert and watching; getting a read on the man in front of him.
“You must be Clive. So…you’re a friend of Uncle Bobby. What’s that like?”
Clive Poole was an entire head shorter than the six foot - and still growing - twenty year old. He was a wiry man, slender yet wide in the shoulders with an iron grip that surprised Dean.
The man smiled, his wide mouth framed by the flare of an auburn and orange mustache and set off by wild grey eyes. Dean could see the live wire within, the zest for life and an eye for trouble. Clive was the perfect Yang to Bobby’s Yin.
Clive’s bark of a laugh brought Dean out of his head space.
“I could tell you stories about your uncle,” Clive exclaimed, slapping a hand to his knee. Honest to God, slapped his knee. Dean’s mouth turned up at the corner, struggling to hide the grin in response to the joyful, simplicity of the gesture.
“There was the one time,” Clive choked over his own excitement, pausing to come to grips. He put a hand to the back of Dean’s arm, directing him toward the rear of the store. They could walk and talk at the same time. Good man, Dean thought, keeping us moving.
“Your Uncle Bobby had this pickup,” Clive continued, pushing through a swinging door into the back room, “an old Ford, nothing fancy, but he had a six inch lift on it, just for shits and giggles, you see.”
Clive stopped at a long utility table, flipped open a box cutter and split the packaging tape to reveal a case of boxes full of 12 gauge shell casings. He nodded with satisfaction and closed the box up, all the while still talking away.
“There was this night when he and I and our bud, Ted, took that ole truck out to the River. We lit us a fire out on the sand and cracked a few beers or twelve.”
Clive turned and led Dean back toward the front of the store, stopping to relay the climax of his story. “But about halfway through the second case, Bobby gets this grand plan. He jumps in his truck and comes tearing down the hill toward the river,” the man’s hand soared through the air, representing the Bobby’s decent down into the river. “Planned to ford across it like Louis and Clark or something. Woulda worked too,” he nodded excitably but then switched and shook his head with just as much vigor, “if it hadn’t rained three inches that morning. The trucked splashed into the river, parting it like the Red Sea, rooster tails of water flying up from behind.”
Dean was getting dizzy just watching Bobby’s friend tell the tall tale, but he did his best to keep up.
“It was an amazing sight, until the water came crashing down and flooded into the engine compartment, blowing a head gasket. Your uncle climbed out the window of that truck and into the box and spent the next five minutes entertaining us, cussing to beat the devil. Threw his hat down and everything. Took us the rest of the night, walkin’ across half the county to get Ted’s tractor to haul his ass outta that mud. Had a helluva time explaining to all our wives why we were soaking wet & walking in at dawn. But it was worth it. Best damned night.”
Clive set the large box down on the front counter. “Anything else?” he asked.
“Oh, yeah. I need this.” Dean handed the request for a silver knife over to Clive, who nodded.
“Mira, write all this up for me, will ya? And put it in Bobby Singer’s file. I‘ll be right back.”
“Sure, Clive.”
Dean’s head spun around to the honey voice belonging to the college-aged girl working behind the front counter. He’d been so distracted by the “Adventures of Bobby and Clive” that he’d failed to notice her. But now that he had, he was kicking himself for not seeing her sooner.
Mira. Rolling the name mentally over his tongue, Dean smiled. He liked that name and from what he could see, he liked this girl.
Mira was Athena personified, a lean, athletic build, poised and graceful in her posture with long golden curls gathered loosely at the neck and trailing down her back. She was beautiful in an effortless way and worldly confident. And she was smiling at him.
Dean couldn’t help the boyish grin and uncharacteristic stammer as he introduced himself.
“I-I’m uh, Dean.” He leaned towards the counter in what he had intended to be a calculated come-on move, but forgot about the crutches, and lurched forward falling hard against the counter, groaning inwardly at the Freshmen mistake.
Mira reached out and caught him by the arms, pushing him upright.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Dean answered, nonchalantly, “I’m fine.”
The soft, sympathetic look she gave him had Dean scrambling for damage control.
“I’m usually much cooler than this,” he blurted out before his mouth could slam shut.
“Of course you are,” Mira reassured, her voice soft, sweet and a touch patronizing. She might as well have patted him lightly on the head, like a puppy.
“Here’s your copy of the invoice.” And with that she turned away and returned to the inventory form she’d been working on at the back counter.
Confused by the not-so-subtle brush off, Dean blinked, wondering what had just happened. She’d shot him down before he’d even had a chance. No opportunity to give her the trademark smile that had won him hearts all over the country. No chance to purse his lips suggestively before the hint of a wink. Not even a moment to catch a glimpse down the open V of her Poole Sporting Goods polo. Even now, Dean was so distracted by her quick dismissal, that he couldn’t properly admire the long legs and back bent over the opposite counter. He blinked again, his pout forming into a full on frown.
“Thank you,” he replied a little too loudly and with the appropriate amount of sarcasm.
“You’re welcome,” she answered with a wave over her shoulder.
He puffed out a quiet ‘huh’ of disbelief and was about to say something more, when Clive returned, holding a small oak clamshell case in his hand.
“Here we go,” he announced, presenting Dean with the box.
The young hunter snapped the case open and let loose a low whistle of amazement. Inside the case, beneath a leather security strap, was a long and tempered blade. It was solid silver, tip to grip, with decorative etchings and trim up the entire length. It was a formidable weapon in the right hands and an expensive one from the looks of it. Not something that Dean could picture Bobby purchasing and definitely not something you’d get at even your higher scale sporting goods stores, let alone a small Mom and Pop store like Poole’s.
“Wow, that was a fast transition, Kid.” Clive laughed.
“I‘m sorry, what?”
“You went from impressed to apprehensive in about point four-five seconds.”
When Dean’s pinched expression didn’t ease, Clive tried to soothe the worry, “I know what you’re thinking, but you don’t need to worry. This isn’t gonna break his bank. Bobby and I have this…arrangement. He saved my life and I requisition special pieces when he needs them. I’ve had this particular Facon on hand for some time.”
“Facon?”
“It’s Argentine and very old. Had to call in a few favors to get it, but that’s what ya gotta do to get authentic silver blades. Come on, let’s get you loaded up. Bobby’ll be lookin’ for you if he’s not already.”
Clive lifted the box of shells and followed Dean out to the car, placing them into the passenger seat. He closed the door and leaned in the window as Dean maneuvered himself into the driver’s seat.
Dean slid the keys into the ignition and was about to turn the engine over, but a thought stopped him.
“You said Bobby saved your life. How?”
“That, my young man, is a story better left for another day. Specifically a day well doused in whiskey,” he grinned, patting the interior of the door in farewell. “You tell that uncle of yours, that I’ll be out to see him yet this week.”
“Yessir.”
Clive ducked out of the window and smacked the roof just as the engine roared to life. Dean lifted a hand, saluting out the windshield and backed out and made his way out of town.
-X-
Bobby was indeed waiting when Dean pulled in the drive. Coming down the front walk, the older man's long gait and quick pace was a stern reminder that this was most certainly an experienced hunter and just as capable of break neck speed as Dean's father, who was just five years his junior.
"Took you so long?" he hollered, crossing to the passenger side. Bobby didn't even bother with the door; he just reached through the open window to claim the case of empty shells.
"Well. Don't just sit there," he growled. Not waiting for Dean, Bobby headed for the house with Dean fast on his heels, doing his best to keep up with the fifty year old.
The front room, which Bobby off-handedly referred to as his library, was laid out with all the tools necessary to pack 200 plus shells. His desk had been cleared and an antique-looking reloader set up in the center along with materials needed. Bobby dropped the case of shells unceremoniously onto the desk with a hollow bang and pulled up a chair.
Dean hobbled into the room behind him, drawing the knife case out of his jacket pocket and setting it down on the desk in front of Bobby, who pushed it aside to make room for the box of hulls he pulled out of the case.
Dean settled into a chair across the desk and joined the older hunter in unloading the box. And so began the well-oiled machine of loading the rock salt shells. They did so without speaking, working in a fast-paced yet precise give and take; Bobby setting the primer, powder and wad, while Dean loaded the rock salt load, crimping the hull and stacking the completed shell to be reboxed for transport.
Bobby paused after the sixth box to check his watch. They were making good time. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the narrow oak knife case and reached out for it.
Upon inspection, Bobby huffed a derisive snort and rolled his eyes, muttering beneath his breath and snapping the case closed. He glanced up and caught Dean watching him, his young hands working on auto pilot. Bobby huffed again and went back to work, still feeling the warmth of Dean’s ever alert eyes on him.
“You been friends with Clive a long time, huh?”
“A while,” was the curt answer.
Sucking his lower lip in between his teeth, Dean leaned in to survey Bobby’s reaction and clipped reply but backed off quickly when Bobby glowered up at him.
“You got a real question in there? Or do you just think I’m pretty?”
The brisk bark sparked a second’s panic within Dean, but with as much composure as he could muster, Dean leaned back into his chair, sliding into a cocky confidence, his fingers locking together behind his head, “Pshh, Bobby, I think you’re downright adorable.”
The older man’s mouth twitched minutely, fighting the internal battle between annoyance and amusement.
“More work, less flirting.”
Dean couldn’t contain the grin as he leaned back into his work. Bobby, too, went back to tamping the wad down into the hull with a hint of a smile hidden beneath his facial hair. And although he hadn’t really answered Dean’s question, Dean figured he was probably better off letting the subject die…for now.
They worked in companionable silence for ten minutes or so until Bobby noticed the subtle movement on the other side of the desk. At first it was a shift in his seat followed by a soft intake of breath and a long sigh. Then came the shoulder roll and finally the cracking of knuckles. Had it been a solitary occurrence, Bobby might have been able to ignore it, but when he when he looked up, he found the young man squirming in his seat.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“Nuthin’” Dean muttered.
“Your leg botherin’ you? You need more meds?”
“Nah. I’m good.”
“Then knock off the damn fidgeting. You’re giving me a complex,” Bobby growled.
Swallowing down the comment he’d been about to voice, Dean subconsciously held his breath. From beneath the bill of his hat, Bobby watched, knowing instinctively that there was more to come. He’d been around the boy too many years not to recognize the nervous energy building to a climax. It started around his mouth; a twitch of his lips to one side leading to the gasped inhale when Dean’s lungs finally gave in. “It’s too quiet in here. Don’t you think it’s too quiet in here?”
“No! Not with you prattling on. Seriously, are you hopped up on something?”
“No!” Dean defended. “It’s just…all this quiet. It’s driving me nuts. Gives me too much room to think.”
Bobby rolled his eyes.
“Uh huh.”
Dean was silent a moment and then he met Bobby’s eyes, a deep-seated anxiety evident in his own.
“D’ya think he’s alright? Sam, I mean. It’s a big job for a kid his age. Maybe Dad shoulda waited until my leg was better.”
“And let more folk get hurt? No Dean, John’s doing the right thing here. Sam’s well trained, brought up in the life, and he’s smart. He can do this. Besides, you were doin’ tougher jobs than this with your old man when you were years younger than Sam.”
Far from calming Dean down, Bobby’s words of wisdom seemed to get him wound up even tighter.
“But Sam’s always had me watching his back on a hunt,” Dean said urgently, leaning anxiously towards Bobby, “He doesn’t understand how focused Dad gets, doesn’t know what it’s like to have no-one watching your back, looking out for you. Dad just zeros in on the monster, he-”
Dean broke off as Bobby pushed his chair abruptly back from the desk and stood up. Nearly frozen in anxiety, Dean watched Bobby walk into the kitchen and retrieve one of the many phones from the wall. Bobby dialed and waited quietly for the connect, keeping a watchful eye on the young man who continued to twitch in his seat.
“Well hello to you too,” Bobby said in response to the terse greeting he received from the other end of the line.
The concern in Dean ratcheted up a notch and his heart was suddenly hammering in his chest. Dean would recognize that voice on the other end of the phone anywhere. Bobby had called his father on him. Shitshitshit. A flurry of irrational fears raced through Dean’s head, the greatest of which was that Bobby didn’t want his whiney ass here anymore and was going to send him away. Wouldn’t blame him. Just give me a car and I’ll go, he thought.
As if Bobby could read his mind, Dean suddenly found the man standing beside him, with a warm hand on his shoulder, holding him firmly in place.
“No, everything’s fine, John. Just wondered if I could talk at your youngest for a bit.”
Dean sat as still as he possibly could, confused by what was going on around him.
“Heya kiddo…no, no, he’s fine…here, he wants to talk to you.”
The phone slid down into Dean’s line of vision and it was all he could do not to snatch at it like a wild animal. But once in his hand, he gripped it like a lifeline and secured it with two hands to his ear.
“Sammy?”
The deep sigh that escaped the boy was cleansing, both for him and for Bobby and all the tension seemed to drain from the room as a slew of words came pouring from the young man. Dean clambered out of the chair, hobbling out of the room to the staircase, where he perched, talking a mile a minute, only pausing to breathe and to let his little brother speak.
Back at his desk, Bobby picked up the slack for the both of them, smiling quietly as he watched Dean reassure himself that his baby brother was doing okay. Bobby had never been a parent, but playing uncle to the Winchesters had given him some insight into what it was like, and it was as plain to Bobby as the nose on his face that Dean was just as much a parent to Sam as John was, and had been since the age of four. Watching out for Sam had been Dean’s job, his whole life; more than that, it was kind of who he was. Sitting safe at Bobby’s while Sam risked his life on a hunt went against every fiber in Dean’s being. No wonder he couldn’t sit still in his own skin.
Bobby smiled again and watched Dean listening to his brother, his calm, confident demeanor firmly back in place.
When Dean slipped back into his seat some ten minutes later he was much more relaxed.
“Thanks Bobby,” he said.
Bobby nodded.
“Think we can get a move on with this now? Telly’ll be here soon and we ain’t near done.”
“No problem.” Dean reached for a shell case, his trademark cocky smirk lighting up his face, “Lemme show you how it’s done, old man!”
Bobby raised his eyebrows.
“Think your ass can sit through this without wriggling now? Cuz if it can’t, it’s gonna meet my boot!”
Dean sighed. “It annoys the hell outta Dad and Sam too. They can focus on this boring shit. Me…,” he sighed again, “Can we at least put some music on?”
“Sure. I got me some Kenny Rogers LPs somewhere. You wanna put one on?”
The look of horror on Dean’s face was truly a sight to behold.
“Forget it,” he muttered, “I’ll just hum.”
Next Part - Back to Master Post