Work Text:
Exhibit A
One weekend to convert an old underground fuel storage tank into an Apocalypse bunker? Doable, with the know-how and the right equipment.
Keeping the salt-coated iron walls from rusting, ah, now there was a challenge. You'd think. But they were Bobby's salt-coated iron walls, so they didn't dare rust.
Exhibit B
Bobby's house was full of books. Stuffed to the rafters. Name a tome, he probably had it, somewhere. He didn't have a filing system other people understood. Made it too easy for a person with sticky fingers to find the dangerous books. Sticky fingers, the gall (or desperation) to betray Bobby's trust and a burning need for an ass-load of rocksalt.
If Bobby was feeling ornery, he'd tell a hunter he'd have to go look for the book; it was green with gold lettering on the spine, or maybe blue with silver lettering, somewhere in the unsorted stacks. Could take weeks to find.
If he judged it to be a rush, Bobby would pick the book out of the unsorted stacks and dole out the information in under an hour. If it was an emergency, he'd quote the relevant portion verbatim without looking it up.
If it was a genuine emergency, he wouldn't pretend it strained his memory to do so.
Exhibit C
Five phones, a handful of hunters who liked to be smart-asses and use creative or unpronounceable aliases, and a minimum of eight 'official' identities to keep straight whenever one of those phones rang. Bobby answered them all and kept every story as straight as a mile of Highway 46.
None of the callers ever questioned the bacon frying, the dog barking, or on one notable occasion, an exorcism in progress in the next room.
Conclusion
"Bobby," said Dean, standing in the Apocalypse bunker and smiling with his whole face. "You're awesome!"
Some superpowers aren't so secret after all.