Sometimes I can't help but write Supernatural fluff

I knew Bobby died in season 7; someone had warned me. I even knew starting the particular episode that he would die at the end. And I expected to cry; Bobby is my favourite character on the show.

Dean's my man, but Bobby's my favourite.

So naturally I cried for about an hour and had to go buy ice cream and apple juice to help me through it. And then I had to write fan fiction about Bobby because that just felt like the best way I could honour his death.

So. Yeah.

        “It’s about time you showed back up!”

         Dean and Sam looked up in time to see her hop onto the railing and slide down the stairs, jumping down at the bottom and spinning around, the biggest smile on her face that either of them had ever seen.

         The smile vanished instantly at the sight of both of them, replaced by a scared glean in her eyes.

         Before either of them could speak, the girl whipped out a knife from her back and pointed it at the two of them, stepping back against the stairs, knife held high.

         “Whoa whoa whoa,” Dean began, throwing his hands up. “Just calm down.”

         “Who are you?” she shouted at them, pointing her knife at Dean then at Sam.

         “Look, I’m Dean, this is Sam. We, uh, we’re not here to hurt you.”

         “Dean?” The girl lowered her knife, staring intently at Dean. “Dean Winchester? You’re Dean Winchester?”

         “Uh…”

         “It’s just,” the girl began, taking a step closer. “I pictured you different.”

         “Excuse me?”

         “Bob described you differently,” she said, smiling.

         “Bob?”

         “Bobby, sorry,” the girl corrected. “I expected you to be… taller maybe.”

         “Taller?” Sam said, smirking.

         The girl turned to look at Sam, tilting her head to the side. “Nice hair,” she finally said after a moment.

         “I’m sorry, who are you?” Dean asked. “And where’s Bobby?”

         “He’s not here.”

         “Yeah, I gathered that. Where is he?”

         The girl turned back to Dean, tilting her head the opposite way.  “Hunting. He’ll be back.”

         “When? And what’s he hunting? Where’s he hunting?

         The girl hesitated for a moment, as if unsure what to say. “He’ll be back,” she finally said, her voice slightly shaky.

         Dean stared at her for a minute, the realization hitting him. “You don’t know where he is.”

         “He’ll be back,” she said again.

         “Who are you?” Sam asked once more.

         “Wendy.”

         “And you’re…” Sam trailed off, not sure how to complete his sentence.

         “Wendy?” the girl repeated, confused.

         “I mean, uh,” Sam tried again. “Like. Friends with Bobby?”

         The girl blushed slightly before responding. “You could say that.”

         “Could?”

         “You look hungry,” Wendy said quickly. “I’ll make you something.”

         The girl quickly walked towards the kitchen before anymore questions could be asked. Sam looked over at Dean, his eyebrows raised in confused. Dean shrugged in response, trailing Wendy towards the kitchen.

         Wendy grabbed food out of the kitchen, beginning to prepare them something.

         “Do you know when Bobby will be back?” Dean questioned again.

         “Soon,” Wendy said, focusing on the meal. “It’s been three days, so soon.”

         “Three days?!” Dean said in surprise.

         “It’s not the longest,” the girl said, a smile creeping up her face. “Longest was over a week.”

         “Okay, pause,” Dean said exasperated. “Seriously, who are you? And where’s Bobby? He told us to come here.”

         “When?”

         “Well, not now exactly. He told us if we ever couldn’t get ahold of him to come here.”

         Wendy dropped the mustard jar, her hands beginning to shake. “He’ll be back,” she repeated like a broken record.

         “Wendy-“

         Sam was cut off by the sound of a door slamming.

         Wendy set down the plate, running towards the door.

         “I’m sorry,” Bobby said, dropping his rucksack and opening his arms to Wendy, who ran straight to him. “I’m sorry,” he said again, picking her up.

         Wendy didn’t say anything, just wrapped her legs around his waist. “I’m sorry,” Bobby repeated.

         Wendy straightened, her legs still wrapped around Bobby. She took one hand and stroked his face, the grin from earlier coming back. She closed her eyes and kissed his forehead.

       “Let me make it up to you,” Bobby said, his voice dropping, walking towards the stairs with Wendy.    

        “We have company,” Wendy said, undoing her legs from around Bobby’s waist and dropping down.

       Bobby looked up, noticing Dean and Sam for the first time.

       “Dean, Sam,” he said, walking over to grab both of them in a hug. “I’m glad to see you two.”

       “Nice set-up you have here,” Dean grinned, looking at Wendy.

        Wendy blushed again, then reached over to take Bobby’s hand in hers.

       “What are you doing here?” Bobby asked, reaching behind Wendy to pull her closer.

       “Got your message last week, couldn’t get ahold of you, decided to come check out this place for ourselves,” Sam answered.

       “I’m glad you did. Can you stay for awhile or are you working a case?”

       “Just finished one.”

       “Same. Look, relax for a bit, let me clean myself up a little and then we can talk.”

       “Sounds good,” Dean said, walking over to the living room couch and plopping down. Sam smiled at Wendy, then walked over to join Dean.

       Bobby reached all the way around Wendy, pulling her close to him and brushing her hair out of her face, kissing the top of her head.

       “You okay?” she asked, squeezing him tight.

       “I am now,” he answered, breathing slowly.

       “I’ll make some food, I’m sure you’re starving,” Wendy said, starting to pull away.

       “Not yet,” Bobby replied, holding onto her.

       Wendy smiled and buried her head into Bobby’s chest. “I missed you, crazy old man. Go get cleaned up,” she said, giving him a final squeeze.

                                    *                 *               *

       Bobby snuck up behind Wendy, slipping his arms around her waist. “Smells good,” he whispered, kissing her ear. 

       Wendy smiled, leaning back into Bobby. “Your favourite.”

       “Everything you make is my favourite.”

       “False, you hate that asparagus dish I make.”

       “Asparagus ain’t right,” Bobby grimaced.

       “You aren’t right,” Wendy said, putting emphasis on the middle word. “Go tell your boys that it’ll be ready in two minutes.”

       Bobby kissed her head again, then walked towards the living room. He smiled to himself when he walked in the living room, Dean snoring on the couch and Sam reading one of Wendy’s books.     “Typical,” he murmured to himself. “Dean, wake up! Food. Put the books down, Sam.”

       “Yeah, okay,” Dean said groggily, standing up. “Sam. Food.”

       “I wasn’t the one sleeping, so I heard.”

       Dean rolled his eyes, walking over to the table as Wendy set down several plates of food.     

       “Eat hearty.”

                                       *                 *               *

      “Yeah, she’s trying to fatten me up,” Bobby said, pushing back from the table, finishing up his beer.

       “I’ll say,” Dean said, trying to hide a burp.

       Sam frowned disapprovingly at Dean, then smiled at Wendy. “That was delicious.”

       “I’m glad,” she said, smiling back at Sam. “Cause you’re the cleanup crew.”

       Sam laughed, then stood up and started collecting the plates.

       “Dessert?” Dean asked, grinning up at Wendy.

       “Sure, after you clean up,” she replied, handing him a dirty plate.

       “Yes ma’am,” Dean laughed, standing himself and helping Sam.

       “What about me?” Bobby said, grinning playfully at Wendy.

       “I like you where you are,” she flirted, hugging his neck.

       “So what’s this thing you were hunting?” Sam called from the kitchen.

       “Same as always,” Bobby called back. “You?”

       “Yeah, usual.”

       “Where’s Cas?”

       “Sorry I’m late.”

       “Jeeeeeeeeez!” Wendy yelled, jumping around to see Cas standing about a foot away from her.

Cas tilted his head, looking at Wendy. “Hello.”

       “What the heck, dude? Personal space.”

       “My apologies,” Cas said, backing up. “My name is Castiel.”

       “Uh, Wendy,” she replied, her hand resting on her heart, trying to calm her breath. She stuck out her other hand to Cas, who looked down at it, not moving.

       Dean coughed loudly from the kitchen, making Cas look up at him. “Right,” he finally said, taking Wendy’s hand in both of his. When he didn’t let go, Wendy smiled and held his hands with both of hers.

       “It’s nice to meet you, Castiel.”

       “All right, so we’ve all met,” Dean said, walking back into the room with a dish towel over his shoulder. “Cas.”

       “Dean. Hello. Sam.”

“Hey, Cas,” Sam called from the kitchen, still washing dishes.

“Are you hungry?” Wendy asked, pointing to the extra food. “I cook enough for an army.”

“Are you expecting an army?”

“I never know what kind of appetite to expect when Bobby comes home,” Wendy said, smiling at Bobby.

“Bobby,” Cas said, nodding at him. “You look tired.”

“I am,” Bobby answered, sighing contently. “But I’m home now.”

                                   *                 *               *

Wendy smiled, brushing Bobby’s hair behind his ear, listening to the talk.

It felt good.

They had just enjoyed each other’s company for once, listening to the rain and talking, pretending they were some kind of normal family.

She tried to hide a yawn as Cas inadvertently made fun of Sam yet again.

“You are tired,” Cas said, tilting his head towards Wendy.

Wendy tried to cover another yawn with a smile.

“It’s gettin’ late,” Bobby said, rubbing Wendy’s back. “You boys staying tonight, right?”

“I think we might,” Dean said, stretching and yawning himself. “Be nice to sleep somewhere besides a motel for a change.”

“There are fresh towels in the bathroom at the top of the stairs, plenty of hot water and blankets,” Wendy said, standing up. “I’ll show you the rooms.” 

Wendy walked towards the stairs, Bobby slowly letting go of her hand as the others followed her.

“You guys can fight on the rooms.”

“Hey, uh, Wendy,” Dean started, “Look, thanks for this. I know we’re not what you expected, but I really do appreciate you letting us crash here like this.”

Wendy looked over at Sam and Cas, arguing over the beds. “You made Bobby happy, you know. Showing up here like this. I haven’t seen him so happy in awhile.”

“He’s happy with you,” Dean said quietly. “With… whatever this is.”

Wendy punched Dean’s arm playfully, and Dean smiled before continuing. “But really, I do appreciate this.”

         Wendy looked at Dean for a moment before saying anything, all humour leaving her face. “Whatever you need, Dean. Always.”

         Dean instinctively touched her shoulder. He had known this girl for less than five hours, but he felt drawn to her for a reason he couldn’t explain.

         “I should check on Bobby,” Wendy finally said, gently shrugging Dean’s hand off her shoulder.

         “Right,” he replied, clearing his voice. “Well. Goodnight.”

         “Night, Dean.”

         Wendy walked back down the stairs, trying to shake off the feeling that Dean was going to end up meaning more to her than she wanted right now.

         “Bobby?” she called softly, walking back into the living room. Not seeing him, she walked towards the master bedroom in the back. She smiled to herself as she saw him standing on the back porch, his back towards her. Walking up behind him, she reached around, standing on her tiptoes and resting her chin on his shoulder. He sighed happily, putting his arms around hers.

         “It gets harder leaving you every time,” he whispered.

         “I know,” she answered quietly. “But you’re home now. And I’m exhausted from lack of sleep from worrying about you for the last three days. Bed time,” she finished, kissing his cheek and walking to the bed, slipping out of her jeans.

         “Let me help,” Bobby breathed, coming up behind her and slipping a hand up her shirt.

         “Hey thanks,” Wendy joked, lifting up her hands so Bobby could pull off her shirt. Pulling away, she crawled into bed, patting the side next to her.

         Kicking off his shoes and pants, Bobby grinned and climbed into bed next to her, pulling her against his chest and wrapping his arms tightly around her.

         “Don’t leave again so soon,” Wendy mumbled, curling up in his embrace.

         “I won’t,” Bobby sighed, kissing her cheek. “I promise.” 

The Meeting

So I'm going to Ireland in just a little bit. 

And I have a layover in Georgia. And in my head, Benedict Cumberbatch is in Georgia and is going to be flying back to London. 

Shut up, it's not completely impossible. 

Okay, it is, but I like pretending things are possible. 

Moving on. 

In this impossible possibility, we are going to be on the same plane going to London. And we will be sitting together. Obviously. 

Hey, I upgraded my seat. I may not be sitting in first class, but I have those economy seats where you have the extra leg room. So that means I'm a poor girl pretending to be rich. And naturally Benedict won't want to bother with first class (what a bother first class is...) so he will be sitting in these poor-people-pretending-to-be-rich seats as well. 

Carrying on. 

I will of course get to my seat before he does, and will be reading Sherlock Holmes before we takeoff to calm me down because I hate takeoffs. 

He will find his seat next to me, and smile at me, and I, not wanting to freak out on him, will simply smile back, and go back to my book as he puts his things away in the overhead compartment.

When he sits down, he will playfully tap his long, beautiful fingers on the armrest between us, and I will sneak a peek at him, seeing in his deep, luscious eyes that he also is nervous about takeoff. 

He will see me peeking, and his eyes will crinkle into a broad smile. I will blush courteously, and pretend to go back to reading my book.

"Excellent choice of reading material," he will say sweetly.

"Thanks," I'll say, my voice cracking a little. "I don't go anywhere without a copy."

"Smart woman," he will chuckle, still tapping his fingers on the armrest. His leg begins to shake as well.

"Don't like takeoffs either?" I'll say, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Worst part about flying for me," he'll say, turning to smile at me again. "You?"

"I have to have something to keep my mind off this part of flying," I'll smile back, holding up my book.

 

We'll both stare at each other for another few seconds before I feel myself beginning to blush again and turn back to my book in embarrassment. 

He'll think that's cute.

As the plane begins to crawl out of the airport and head towards the runway, he'll turn back towards me.

"So which one's your favourite?"

"Pardon?" I'll ask, confused.

"Of his stories," he'll say, pointing to my book.

I won't respond right away because while I'm not embarrassed by my favourite Sherlock Holmes story, it's not one many people have heard of, and I'm debating saying a common story so he doesn't think me weird.

"Sorry if I'm being rude and interrupting you," he'll continue in my silence. "It's just, since you said you needed Sherlock to distract you from the takeoff, I thought that sounded like a good idea to me, too, only I don't have a copy with me because I'm not as smart as you, and I thought maybe we could talk about him until we're up the air, you know."

He'll say all of this in a hurried fluster.

"No no no no," I'll say, willing myself to say more than no. "I just have a favourite that's a bit weird for a favourite, so I was debating how odd I wanted to sound."

He'll laugh heartily at this, and I'll sit in utter happiness - his laugh is intoxicatingly wonderful.

"If I tell you mine, which is quite a random one, will you tell me yours?"

"Go on, then."

"The Adventure Of The Dancing Men. I know it's an odd choice, but I just love it."

"I approve," I'll say slyly.

He'll smile for a moment before saying, "All right. Your turn."

"The Dying Detective."

He'll blink at me for a moment, then a wonderful smile will creep across his delightful face. "Perfect choice."

"I do think you ought to convince Mr. Gatiss to incorporate my favourite into one of the shows since he incorporated yours," I'll say, then go pale.

I hadn't meant to reveal that I knew who he was. I curse in my head, afraid he'll stop talking to me now.

 

Instead, he laughs again. "So the game's afoot, and I've been discovered."

"It's hard to miss that face." I close my eyes in exasperation. Could I sound ANYMORE like a stupid fangirl?

"You're right, I must do something about this big, ugly face," he says good-naturedly.

"No, I think it suits you." Well now I just sound ridiculous, looking around the plane for the nearest exit.

He'll look down at his hands, and I'll notice he's blushing. 

Dear god, I'll think, I made the beautiful boy blush. This somehow will give me confidence to again put my foot in the vicinity of my mouth.

"In the interest of sounding like a complete, loony fangirl, I hope you don't mind me saying that I cannot wait till season 3. I'm envious you've gotten to read the script and I'm still here waiting."

"To be honest, I can't wait for you to see it," he'll say, recovering from my compliment and jumping right back into the conversation. "It really is a doozy."

"Spoilers," I'll say warningly before realizing I said this in a total Doctor Who reference, even doing the Riversong voice.

He'll of course pick up on this. "A Doctor Who fan as well?"

"Guilty."

"And which Doctor is yours?"

"Christopher Eccleston," I'll say, not even hesitating.

"And you even pronounced his name correctly!" he'll praise. "A true fan."

"I've watched ridiculous films just for him," I'll say, hoping that's not going too far.

"Don't tell me you suffered through G.I. Joe too? Worst. Movie. Ever."

"Obviously you've never seen The Green Hornet," I'll say.

"Let me guess, you watched that just for Christoph Waltz?"

"I suppose I'm just a sucker for men whose name starts with C," I'll offer shyly.

"Do last names count?" He'll say, beginning to blush a little again.

It will take a moment to click in my head that his last name is Cumberbatch, and I will blush furiously once I realize this. He'll see me blushing and think it's absolutely adorable and laugh again.

"I think we made it through takeoff," I'll say, looking out the window.

"Not quite," he'll say, offering me his hand. I'll take it, hoping my handshake isn't too weak or girly.

"Benedict Cumberbatch."

"Meagan Bateman."

"Bateman," he'll say, "Is that kind of like Batman?"

"Just add an extra e and you've got it."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Bateman."

"It's an honour to meet you, Mr. Cumberbatch."

"Please," he'll begin, cocking his head down and looking at me a little sarcastically. "We're past takeoff. Call me Benedict."

"Only if you'll call me Meagan," I'll say shyly.

"For now," he'll say, winking. "So, business or pleasure?"

"Pardon?" I'll say again, blushing furiously. He'll laugh heartily at my blushes again.

"I mean this trip for you. Is it business or pleasure?"

"Pleasure," I'll say, suddenly realizing that if he asks what I'm going to be doing, I'll either have to lie or sound like a crazy person, or worse, a stalker.

"What's your pleasure?"

Gah, I can't lie. Not to that beautiful face, those adoring eyes. I'll have to tell the truth. I'll say it all in a hurry and hope he doesn't ask to switch seats after he hears it.

"My friend and I are traveling around London on a Sherlock Holmes excursion and we've gone through all the stories and films and made a list of all the highlights from both and we're taking a week and seeing them all and please don't think I'm creepy I'm just really nerdy okay I know that's not much better but I've just been in love with Sherlock Holmes since I was fourteen, not you, I would never be in love with you I mean you're wonderful I mean you seem wonderful but I'm hopelessly in love with a fictional character and have been spoiled for all other men because of Sherlock and wow you did not need to know this about me and I'm sorry and I'm going to shut up now."

Through this whole ordeal, his smile will have gotten broader and broader until it's taken over his entire face and when I finish he'll erupt in giggles.

"I think that sounds absolutely perfect," he'll say once he composes himself. "I'm a little bit jealous."

I'll smile weakly and again look for the nearest exit. "It should be fun," I kind of whisper.

"Oh yes, the trip sounds great, but I meant I'm jealous of Sherlock. He's a lucky man to have you."

I'll stare blankly at him, not knowing what to say. He'll keep my eye contact for a moment, then look down at his hands, then back at me slyly.

To save me from saying anything else incredibly stupid, the flight attendant will thankfully show up right at that moment and ask us both what beverage we like.

"Just water for me, thanks," he'll say.

"Do you have apple juice?" I'll ask, without thinking. (You know I love me some apple juice).

Benedict will burst out laughing. "Apple juice? Oh my god, you're adorable."

The flight attendant will silently laugh when he sees my face turn red as an apple, then hand us both our drinks.

"To Sherlock Holmes," he will say, raising his glass of water.

"To Sherlock Holmes," I'll reply, clinking my glass with his.

"The lucky bloke," he'll say under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear.

"So, so, so what about you, business or pleasure?" I'll say, trying to save face.

"Not business, but not exactly pleasure either. I mean, more like relaxation and boredom. I'm not expected for filming for another two weeks, so I'll really have nothing to do. Another reason I'm jealous of your trip."

An idea will pop into my head, making me so nervous I nearly spill my apple juice my hands are shaking so much.

In order to calm myself down, we'll chit chat some more about whatever subject comes up. I'll try to steer away from bragging on him or anything, which I think he'll take notice of.

"Excuse me," the attractive woman across from us will interrupt. "I hope you don't mind me asking, but aren't you Benedict Cumberbatch, the famous Mr. Holmes?"

What follows will be an annoying conversation where this woman makes an even bigger idiot of herself than I did, fawning all over him and making sure she's leaning down enough to show a disgusting amount of cleavage. Benedict will be very polite, but I will be able to hear the triteness and slight annoyance in his voice as she brags on and on about all of Benedict's achievements. It will start to disgust me, so I will slip on my headphones and begin watching one of the in-flight films.

A few minutes into the film, I'll feel a finger poke my arm in repetition. I'll slip my headphones down to my neck and grin in a way I hope is not too stupid at the pokester sitting next to me.

"How am I suppose to bug you with headphones on?" he'll tease.

"You're doing a good job with the poking," I'll say sarcastically back, then hope he realizes I'm joking.

When he smiles, I'll realize he gets my humour.

"So if I were going to chose an in-flight movie, I'd chose the same one as you."

"Oh yeah?" I'll respond. "Great minds think alike, I suppose."

"The problem is," he'll start, "is that you're ahead of me now in the movie by a full six minutes. I'll want to keep looking over at your screen to see what's going to happen six minutes down the road."

"Dear oh dear, whatever shall we do about this conundrum?"

"I think you're just going to have to share your headphones with me so that I can watch it on your screen with you."

I'll pretend to think about this for a few seconds, leaving him in suspense. "You know something, I think you've hit on the only solution to this problem. Only I'm not starting the film over again. You're just going to have to catch up on your own time."

"Fair enough," he'll smile, taking one of the ear pieces.

So we'll watch this movie together. And we'll laugh at it and gasp at it and feel all the emotions together.

He'll insist after this movie that we should watch the next one together since this one turned out so well for us. Which we will.

At the sound of the pilot announcing we're nearing London, I'll jerk awake, my head rising up from Benedict's shoulder, his arm snuggly around my back, his hand resting on my own arm.

"Geez, I'm sorry," I'll say, making an attempt to extricate myself from him, only to feel his hand firmly grasping my arm as if to hold me in that position.

"Don't be," he'll say, turning from his book to smile at me. "You fell out pretty cold during that second movie, and I joined you shortly after myself. I hope you don't mind I took the liberty of taking out your earpiece and giving you a blanket. Also, I miiiiight have used the top of your head as a pillow for most of the night."

I'll look down at the blanket sweetly placed over my legs, feeling another blush creep up my neck.

"How, how, how, how much longer do we have till landing?" I'll ask, trying to remember how to talk.

"About twenty minutes is what the pilot just said. So not long now."

I'll feel a slight twinge of disappointment - only twenty minutes left with this wonderful man.

"Listen, I was wondering about something," he'll begin, looking at me in a very sincere and endearing way. "I was just thinking, you said you've included things from Moffat's Sherlock in your Sherlock adventure. And since I know a great deal about that version, I thought I could maybe take a looksie at your list and make sure you've not missed anything, you know, and if you have, well, I mean, I'm not going to be doing anything for the next two weeks but sitting around my flat wondering if I should repaint the walls so I don't have to stare at whiteness."

My heart will stop beating for a moment. Is he really saying what I think he is? I'll wonder to myself. I won't trust myself to speak so I sit in silent shock.

"Anyways, just a thought," he'll say in a somewhat hurt voice, mistaking my silence for a deafening no.

 

"That, that, that, that, that would be," I swallow before continuing. "Brilliant."

He'll smile the broadest smile yet.

"I'll give you my number, and you can just call me after you connect with your friend. We can meet up then. That is, if you don't mind me tagging along. I don't want to interfere with your vacation. In fact, I'm probably imposing a lot, inviting myself along like this."

"No no no no no no no no!" Okay, I'll think, say something besides no. "I mean, we may make you wear the long coat and scarf so as to pretend we really have Sherlock with us."

He'll laugh at this idea. "I may not be your love Sherlock, but I daresay I'm the next best thing."

For the millionth time, I'll blush fervently.

"Oh, by the way," he'll say, leaning in so his lips are mere centimeters from my ear, "you're pretty cute when you blush."

"You're not so bad yourself," I'll say, hoping he can't hear my heart from how loudly it's beating.

When the plane lands, he'll make sure to help me gather up all my things and walks right next to me out of the terminal, ignoring the sounds of recognition the public makes at the sight of him.

"Are you hungry?" He'll ask, turning towards me. "I'm always starved after a flight."

"I could go for a giant plate of fish and chips," I say hungrily, my stomach growling so loudly at the thought I slap my hand to my stomach in embarrassment.

For the millionth time, he'll laugh. "Your stomach obviously approves of this," he'll say, touching my stomach with his hand as he says this. When he takes his hand from my torso, he takes my hand in his.

"Allow me to treat you to the best fish and chips of your life."

And so we'll walk to gather our luggage and find the best fish and chips in all of London, hand in hand.