Singer Salvage
Ξ August 25th, 2007 | → | ∇ Imitating Angels, PG, Supernatural, fanfic, gen |
Title: Singer Salvage
Author: Astrothsknot
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Bobby, John, pre-series/post-series
Rating: PG for language, Gen
Disclaimer: I don’t own a TV show.
A/N Written for inimicallyyours’ prompt of Dean and Sam meet Bobby for the first time, because she got her postgrad programme. Beta by missyjack
Bobby Singer could have been many things. He could have been a history professor at one o’ them fancy colleges. Stanford, Princeton, Yale. It didn’t even need to have been a fancy college. Nebraska State would have been enough for Bobby. He’s an ordinary man with ordinary desires, all he’s even been.
***
“Singer!” The voice cuts through his reading.
“Corporal!” Bobby snaps to attention as Corporal John “Lucky” Winchester looms over him.
“I hear you’ve been gettin’ friendly with one of the natives.” It’s not a question.
“Yes Corporal. Jinn Pei. Her Momma runs -”
Corporal Winchester cuts him off. “Stick to the whores in The Shamlock, Private. It’s easier. Charlie’s got eyes everywhere, maybe even your girl.”
“Corporal, maybe it’d be easier if we knew these people and what they believe. I’m readin’ up on Buddhism.” Bobby pushes his book towards the corporal.
“You’d think.” Corporal Winchester gives a bitter little smile. “Your girl’s either a spy or she’s about to be. You don’t think they’ll find her, use her to get to us? You keep seeing her and you’ll get her killed at the least.”
***
Bobby Singer could have done anything. He’d planned to go to college, not Ivy League, wasn’t his style, but ‘Nam got in the way and Lucky Winchester. Leastways, that’s how John was known then.
There’s a yell from the back room and jolts him out his reverie. Sam and Dean’s daughters squabbling, Dean’s boy trying to calm it down.
John’s grandkids.
“Are you doin’ your schoolwork in there?” He yells through. “You want presents when you’re parents get back? Do your damned work.”
“Can we have cookies, Uncle Bobby?” Jessica calls through. “Gimme the calculator, Joey!”
“Thirty minutes,” Bobby calls back through. “But quit the damn noise!”
Bobby wonders how many guys had grandkids because of Lucky Winchester.
***
The truck’s given up the ghost and as is the way of men in a group, they’re all standing about, looking at the engine and discussing it. Corporal Winchester and Bobby are the only ones having a go at actually repairing it.
“Fuckin’ crapped out piece of shit,” says Corporal Winchester. “How’d they expect us to fight when we’re -?”
He pauses, rubs his head. “So, you like engines, Private?
“Yeah, my pa owns a junkyard.” Bobby tightens a wire on his side of the engine.
“I’m a mechanic by trade. Raising the money for a garage of my own when this shit’s all done.” John rubs his head again and grimaces. One of the other Marines has noticed.
“Fuck, Lucky’s getting one of his migraines!” The men grab their weapons and start scanning the area.
John collapses, clutching on to Bobby. “Charlie’s…com-comin’ in from the west…grenade launcher…”
The Sarge starts shouting orders, Bobby helping drag John from the road. They get to cover. When Charlie comes for them, he’s facing a couple of abandoned trucks and a platoon of Marines, ready and waiting.
When it’s over, when the ringing in their ears has died down, John holds out his hand to Bobby with a dazzling smile that has the whores flocking in the Shamlock. “Now you know how I got my name.”
***
They don’t really keep in touch after the war - just cards at Christmas, a letter maybe twice a year, the odd call when John‘s sourcing something for his garage - but it was enough to whet Bobby’s curiosity. Started off with reading about ESP and two years later, guys are coming to him because he’s an expert of folklore and ghosts and shit like that. The junkyard’s an ideal business because it covers him for the amount of people traipsing through his doors.
Bobby sends a card and comes to the funeral when Mary dies. It doesn’t sound right, John’s story, when he hears it from John’s partner in the garage. He doesn’t stay long, just reminds John to call him.
John nods, dimly, worn out and tormented. He never calls.
***
“You got any spare rags?” Ricky asks, coming out of the room.
“And a sewing kit!” Shouts Jessica.
Bobby waves his hand in the direction of the rag bin. “What do you want rags for?”
“We’re making a poppet of Agent Henriksen. Then we’re gonna shoot it.”
“That your art project?” Bobby leafs through the lesson plans sent to him by Robin Wood.
Ricky grins and there’s more than a hint of his Grandaddy’s dazzler. He’s going to run Dean as ragged as he ran John when he gets to junior high. “It’s close enough.”
***
It’s two years after the funeral when John turns up on his doorstep with his two little boys in tow.
“Bobby,” John nods, carrying the smaller one. The older one is glued to John’s side, regarding Bobby, assessing him. He reminds Bobby of ‘Nam and going out on patrol. Shouldn’t see that look on a man, never mind a kid.
“John,” replies Bobby, offering his hand. John hesitates, then shakes it. Gun calluses, something else that should have been left behind.
“Didn’t believe it when I heard you’d gone into this,” John says as he sits down. “Took me a while to put two and two together. Thought it was some other guy they were talking about.”
“Should’ve come sooner,” Bobby says. “You want a drink, boy?”
Dean doesn’t answer, until John nudges him. “Yes sir. Thanks.”
He’s still assessing Bobby from those cool green eyes. Dean doesn’t touch the milk or the plate of cookies until John nods his assent. The toddler’s plainly tired, just cuddles into his father, though he takes the cookie that Dean passes to him, totally engrossed in the task of breaking it apart and making as many crumbs as possible. Bobby’s dog licks up the mess, to Sammy’s delight, before cleaning up Sammy.
“Reagan’s not had his walk yet, Dean,” says Bobby. “If it’s ok with your Daddy, you want to take him a walk around the house?”
It’s like a switch, Dean looking hopefully at his father, the way a kid should look. “Stay near the house,” says John. Sammy strains to go with his brother, so John sets him down.
“Does he have a ball?” Dean asks, taking Sammy’s hand.
“He’s got a rubber bone on the porch,” replies Bobby. Dean nods and runs off with dog and brother.
“Dog’s fucking useless,” says Bobby. “He’d take the burglars to the valuables.”
The kids can be heard laughing and playing, the dog barking as it brings back the bone. “He’s got a good throw on him,” says Bobby.
“Got a good aim as well,” agrees John. “Sorry to hear about Pei. I‘d have come, but there was that poltergeist in Kansas City.”
“S’alright.” Bobby nods. “Least it was quick. She never suffered till near the end.”
“Cancer’s a bastard.” John sits quietly for a moment. “Times like this is when a man needs his buddies. Guys who’ll understand or just listen.”
Bobby says nothing, just gets up and watches Dean and Sammy playing with Reagan. He barely hears John coming to stand beside him. “He looks like a kid again,” John says softly.
“C’mon,” says Bobby, gruffly, swallowing down tears of the woman he’s lost and the kids he’ll never have. “Let’s play fetch.”
He’s always been sure John was about to protest, but he’ll never know as John nods and heads to the door. They spend the rest of the afternoon discovering that Reagan is faster than Dean and that Sammy thinks the dog pissing on tyres is hysterical.
