Riding the Fence (A Supernatural FanFic)

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. Midmorning, 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 grey, 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 absently-mindedly 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.