Chapter Text
Maybe, Dean thinks, the answer is not avoiding Abby. She always manages to corner him anyway. He can’t exactly run every time she approaches. His cubicle is basically on the way to everywhere and it only has one exit. He’s at an extreme tactical disadvantage. But she can’t (or won’t) approach when he’s around others, he’s noticed. If he’s eating lunch and there are other people making bored faces at their leftovers or sandwiches, Abby keeps her talons to herself. If he leaves a meeting in the first wave and doesn’t take his time clearing out, he doesn’t get cornered. So Dean stops trying to avoid her completely, because that’s not exactly possible, and starts putting his energy into being strategic. He can’t avoid being where she is, but he can avoid being where only she is.
It starts the second he gets off the elevator. She’s always in the office early. There’s a pattern to these things. If he makes a hard left as soon as the doors open he can make it to the sanctuary of the break room and most of the time, she doesn’t look up until the doors are already closed and he’s safe. At any given time there are at least three or four others in there, bleak faces staring into their shitty office coffee like it holds the answers to the universe. He even stops bringing the good coffee from home just so there’s an excuse to hang out in there until the last second before the clock clicks over to nine and he’s obligated to actually do things. The break room is life.
He starts taking shorter coffee breaks. If he ducks away from his desk a few minutes after others start to go and sneaks back before they drag themselves away, there’s no chance she can catch him out alone. There’s still the walk back to his cubicle of course, but that’s a hazard he can’t entirely avoid. Then it’s just a matter of keeping his eyes out for the flash of red hair coming his way. Sometimes one of the nature documentaries Sam is always watching will turn out to be one of those shark ones. That’s what she reminds him of. The bright red of her hair is like a shark’s fin cutting across the tops of the cubicle walls. Dean has never felt so much like the little feeder fish they sell down at the pet store, the ones you offer up to bigger fish and other aquatic predators. The cubicle is just the tiny little tank he gets to swim in until dinner time.
Over the next couple of weeks, Dean manages to avoid Abby as effectively as he could have hoped for with this strategy. It’s a lot of effort, but it keeps him sane.. He doesn’t avoid her completely. Can’t really, seeing as she’s actually, you know, his boss. But he does manage to minimize the unstructured time he has to spend in her presence, and as much as it’s exhausting doing it, at least he doesn’t have to feel like a piece of meat.
On Wednesday, after eight solid hours of mind numbing boredom and drudgery, Dean drives home in an exhausted haze. He’s considering skipping dinner and going right to bed, but he knows that’s not going to happen. His stomach rumbles aggressively the whole way home. Just as he steps out of the car, his phone rings in the pocket of his suit coat.
“Hello?” Dean answers, juggling the phone and his keys and his lunch bag as he makes his way to his front door.
“What’s up, Winchester?” Charlie’s cheerful voice chirps from the other end of the phone. “You got plans on Friday?”
“Uh, I don’t think so,” Dean replies. He’s been spending either Friday or Saturday with Cas most weeks since he decided to adopt Cas’ unorthodox approach to stress relief but they haven’t actually made plans for this weekend so far. It’ll just have to be Saturday.
“Come over for a lil dinner party? Gilda’s gonna make pizza dough from scratch and we can have another board game night. I got a friend I want you to meet.”
“You’re not trying to set me up, are you?” Dean warns. He tugs at the knot on his tie with his free hand only seconds after walking through the front door, making a beeline for his bedroom to shed the suit jacket and toss the tie on his bed. Dean’s eye falls forlornly to his pillow, thinking only of crawling in to bed and passing out until his stomach asserts itself again.
“Me? Play matchmaker? Dean Winchester, I’m offended. If I was gonna play that game, you’d never see it coming. I just think you guys would get along. Please? Come for dinner,” Charlie pleads.
“Far be it for me to pass on food,” Dean tells her. “I’ll be there.”
Sam, apparently, is out with Jess tonight. Again. He’s spending a lot of time with that girl lately, not that Dean minds, but it does mean he has to forge his own path in the kitchen. He’d like nothing more right now than to sit down in front of a hot meal he didn’t have to make for himself. But it’s not meant to be, so he settles on canned soup and toast. It’s at least low effort and warm, which is welcome now that the chill of autumn is starting to take hold. He’s about half way through his high-class dinner when the phone rings again. Dean sees his parents’ number on the call display and answers the call on the first ring.
John Winchester is a man of few words. He’s gruff and quiet and he always has been. It is therefore no surprise when Dean answers the call and he cuts right to the chase. There’s no pleasantries, no small talk. Just straight to the details.
“Got a lead on a job for you,” John announces in his gravelly baritone. “Remember my hunting buddy Bobby Singer?”
“Yeah, sure. Surly guy, trucker hat. Taught me and Sam how to shoot soda cans one summer.” Dean smiles quietly at the memory. Bobby’s a good guy, one of the best.
“Did he now?” John laughs. “I’m gonna have to talk to him about that some time. He never told me he let you boys handle firearms. Rifles or handguns?”
“BBs,” is Dean’s somber reply. “You really think he’d let a couple kids get their hands on a .45?”
John laughs again. “No, no. Fair enough. Anyway, Bobby’s looking for some help at his salvage yard just outside of town. Sounds a whole lot more like your kind of thing than pushing paper.”
“You sure? I’m not exactly a trained mechanic, Dad.”
“You know enough. Anyway, he’s not looking for a mechanic. He’s looking for a pair of hands on the salvage parts end of things. You should call him, talk it out. Can’t hurt to see what he’s looking for. Could be good. You wanna talk to your mom?” John hands the phone over to Mary without waiting for a reply.
Predictably, she fusses. Are you eating enough? and Are you and your brother getting along? I know how you can push each other’s buttons, and Do you want to come spend the weekend with us? and Don’t work yourself too hard Dean, I worry about you, and all the other ways that moms say they love you.
“Yeah mom, Sam and I take turns cooking and you know how he is about vegetables so I promise you I’m not starving. He does try to make me eat tofu sometimes though.” Not for the first time, Dean catches himself feeling a little annoyed with all the mothering, but he stifles it. Mary is possibly the kindest person Dean has ever met and she’s just looking out for her boys. The least he can do is bear it with patience and appreciation.
“Well, I know you’re busy with the new job and everything, but you really should come up and spend a weekend sometime soon,” she persists.
“No promises. We’ll be up for Christmas though, for sure.”
Mary sighs, and Dean can totally imagine the tilt of her head, the way she leans against the counter with one hip. There’s patience and exasperation in her every gesture. It reminds him of home. “I suppose if it has to wait until Christmas, then it has to wait until Christmas. You tell your brother to invite that girl he’s seeing though.”
“Yeah mom,” Dean agrees. “I’ll make sure of it.”
It’s not until Dean’s off the phone with his parents and almost immediately tapping out a text message to Cas that he realizes how excited he is at the prospect of this new job. He hasn’t even called Bobby to find out what it is yet, doesn’t even know how likely it is that he’s the guy Bobby’s gonna hire, but he’s over the moon. Dean’s enthusiasm screeches to a halt as he realises, yet again, his immediate reaction is to message Cas about his good news. That says something, something Dean isn’t ready to think too closely on, so he stuffs it down and instead goes through his contacts to find Bobby’s number, leaving the message to Cas unfinished and unsent.
“Dean Winchester,” Bobby grumbles as the line clicks to life. “How the hell are you, boy?”
“Ah you know, been better,” Dean admits honestly.
“Heard you’re livin’ at Sam’s place these days.”
“Yeah, living on brotherly charity and pushing paper in a cubicle farm. It’s a thrilling life.” Dean cracks a beer and paces casually around the kitchen, not entirely certain if he should be expecting a lengthy chat or a short and direct exposition like when he talks to Dad.
“Well, I suppose John told you to call me, did he?”
“Uh huh,” Dean replies, sipping his beer. “Said you were looking for someone to do some work around the salvage yard, but he didn’t really go into detail. What’s the job?”
“Well,” Bobby sighs heavily. “It’s like this.” Dean can imagine him sinking into an armchair, kicking up his tired feet. “I got too much goin’ on these days. Between the salvage yard and the garage, I’m goin’ dawn ‘til dusk all of my days. I’m too old for this shit. I need someone with smarts who knows their way around an engine to take over the day-to-day at the yard and make sure it keeps makin’ me money. I got three classic project cars in the garage under tarps collectin’ dust and gettin' more classic by the minute and if I can get myself a couple days a week where I don’t have to run everything myself, might be I can restore ‘em before I’m too old to give a shit. You think you can manage that?”
Dean ponders for a second, and realizes he has no idea whatsoever. “What exactly does that mean?”
Bobby laughs, short and sharp. “Fair question. I guess technically you’d be the manager. Not a ton of hands on stuff, but sure as shit not a desk job. There’s some paperwork, true, but mostly you’d be wrangling the two guys I got doin’ the grunt work out there, inspecting any cars we bring in for scrap and making sure there’s actually enough salvageable parts on ‘em to turn a profit, and when we got restoration guys who wanna come in and search the yard for something special, you’d be tour guide. Pay’s not huge, but it ain’t minimum wage either, and if you take to it and do right by me, you know there’s more comin’ your way.” Bobby stops dead, letting the unspoken question hang in the air. And perhaps it’s an ill-advised decision, but Dean replies without giving it much thought at all.
“When can I start?” Dean blurts the answer out enthusiastically, shaking his head at himself even as the words are still falling from his mouth. There was a time when he would have second-guessed the shit out of a choice like this. He’s never done anything even remotely like this. He probably wouldn’t even be considered for a job in a place like this if Bobby weren’t a family friend. But Cas and Charlie and Jess keep telling him to find something that makes him happy and find a way to get paid doing it. And Sam knows deep down that Dean doesn’t belong in an office, it’s just the best path to stability that Sam knows and he wants that success for Dean too. This is the kind of job Dean can do and come home from every day, tired but satisfied instead of exhausted and full of loathing. And he’s good with cars whether he’s a trained mechanic or not. Engines speak to him. The weekend after Bela left, working on his baby was probably the only reason he didn’t start punching things. Dean knows now that he can’t pass up an opportunity like this. He needs it.
“Whenever you can get yourself unshackled from that desk of yours, I guess. Monday’s probably too early for that but you just figure out when you can get here and we’ll make it happen.”
“Seriously?” Dean queries incredulously. “That’s it? You don’t wanna like, I don’t know, quiz me about cars or something?”
“Dean,” Bobby says flatly. “I’ve known you since you were in diapers and I’ve known your old man even longer. The fact that John let you even test drive the Impala let alone take it off his hands says ‘bout all I need to know ‘bout your usefulness around cars. This ain’t some job I’m just gonna post in the classifieds. It’s someone I know and trust or no one at all. Right about now, you’re the entire short list. Gimme a call when you know how soon you can start.” He hangs up before Dean can say anything further and he’s just left staring at his phone, totally floored. Dean’s always known Bobby to be a man of few words, but he’s also observant and incredibly wise. It’s beyond flattering to hear Bobby sing such glowing praises about his qualifications. It also means he has something tangible to be excited about so his unfinished message to Castiel gets sent.
<<Quittin my job tomorrow.
Castiel doesn’t text back right away, but instead Dean’s phone rings in his hand.
“Finally fed up?” Cas asks wryly.
“Got something better,” Dean tells him, practically vibrating with excitement. “Friend of my dad’s runs a salvage yard. Wants me to come run the thing so he can spend more time on his project cars. I’m gonna give notice tomorrow.”
“That’s excellent news!” Cas chirps excitedly. “I’m so glad. Hey, listen, I know we’ve been hanging out most Friday nights lately, but I’ve had something come up tomorrow. We could still get together later in the evening if that works for you? Or I suppose we could just meet up Saturday night if you still want to scene this weekend.”
“Well that’s a fun coincidence. I’ve got plans tomorrow night too, but it shouldn’t go too late. Let’s say Saturday for sure, but I’ll let you know when I’m free Friday and we can maybe get together then too.” That settled, Dean bids Cas good night, and tries to calm himself down enough to actually fall asleep. He’s still got Abby to contend with tomorrow, and he doesn’t need to be reminded that, best-case scenario, it’s going to be an uncomfortable conversation. He does not need to be sleep deprived while he does it.