remember this? yeah, anyway, i wrote Dabb and Singer tangoing...
The lights are dim, the show is done. There’s still a few people taking selfies, tweeting about the day no doubt, the set is still up (who would have thought seven years ago the Bunker would have a ballroom? Certainly not Bob), but no one notices the lone figure sitting on the barstool.
Bob lounges on the other seat and leans on the table. “So, all done?” he asks Andrew, not knowing how to address his forlorn look.
“All done,” Andrew answers, his fingers playing with a single red rose on the table.
“You finally asked him, huh?” now he gets what this is all about. Castiel.
“Yeah. I had to you know. Obvious rejection, but at least I told him how I felt. Hell, maybe it wasn’t me at all, probably just projected Dean’s feelings on myself or something, you know how it is,” Andrew rubs his face.
“Huh,” Bob doesn’t know. “Gotta let them go. Not get too attached. You know I have no problem with killing them off if needs be. Eugenie always tells me there’s gotta be a line between fiction and reality.”
“Good ol’ Eugenie,” Andrew gives a small smile.
“You know, she colored her hair pink and blue? Thinks she’s hip like Dean Winchester now, ah, good ol’ Eugenie,” Bob smiles himself, thinking of his wife.
“Good luck with that to her!” Andrew raises a glass and takes a sip.
“You know, we’ve had our differences, but you’re a great guy, Andrew. Come on, smile a little, there’s still Wayward and you just wrapped the greatest tv-show of our time on a high note, who cares you’ll never see Castiel again,” he grabs the rose and puts it between his teeth, grinning around it, “where’s that troll everyone loves so much?”
“You can really be an idiot you know, and for your information I am not a troll, I just happen to be trolling around sometimes,” Andrew finally sounds like himself again, “oh well, it was never real you know, got myself too deep with all this. Hey, do you think they’ll like the finale? I gave my everything,” her grabs the rose back and caresses the blossom with his fingers.
“Please, it’s you and me, of course they do!” For all the talk and excitement, the man still suffers from low self esteem sometimes. Stupid.
“They didn’t get your irony in ‘Let the Good Times Roll’, thought it was lame with the slow mows and freeze frame.
“Not my fault they don’t know how I’m able to make fun of myself, think I’m the single douche bag on this show. I’m not sweating it, everyone needs an enemy. As Eugenie says, don’t take it to heart! The episode will be beautiful, promise.”
Andrew smiles and Bob acts on an instinct.
“Hey! Can we get some music here!” he calls out to the people still here.
“Sure, whatever you want!” someone he doesn’t see calls back and after a second a rhythm fills the air.
He bites back the rose from Andrew’s hand, stands and bows theatrically: “Cr for dnce, my frnd?”
Andrew chuckles. “Can’t see why not, dear Bob,” he steals back the rose and holds it between his own teeth, spreading his arms and grabbing onto Bob’s shoulder and hand.
Tat-tat-da-da, they stumble on each other’s feet, grip tighter and Bob takes a step back. And another. And one and stand. And then the turn. Tango rhythm echoes in the room, someone wolf whistles and he’s pretty sure someone’s recording it.
He drags back the rose and leads the other sequence of steps. They’re starting to get a hold of this!
The rose falls on the ground, they both laugh. Andrew steps on it as he takes the lead again. Ta-ta-da-da-daah, tat-tat-da-daah, they knock down a small table and step over it, turning around, Andrew lifts his leg as up as it goes and Bob has to catch him. Next turn Bob leans his back to the ground, Andrew supporting it, that makes him breathy. They both laugh as they whirl around the room until they’re so out of breath they just sit on the floor.
“I hope someone filmed it,” Andrew wheezes.
“Yeah, I noticed a camera whirring. Want it in gag reel?”
“No! I want it in the episode! Gotta keep our promises,” Andrew flings his arm around him.
“Damn all, I’m gonna miss this show,” it suddenly hits Bob it is done. Fifteen years of his life.
“On to the next adventure,” Andrew mutters.