Shotgun Friendship - Part Three, cont'd
The bell above the door announced his arrival even before he stepped into the establishment, but the dinner rush had the place buzzing and one new face among many wasn’t enough to stem the bartender’s flow. “Be right with you,” she called out, just barely acknowledging him.
He took a seat at the bar and watched her as she moved fluidly from the kitchen to the bar and from the tap to the sink, always busy, always with at least three tasks at hand. She scraped a dinner plate into the garbage before dropping it into the sink where it sank beneath the warm suds, and then she reached into them herself, pulling out a dish rag. She wrung the water from the cloth and ran it down the length of the bar until she was standing directly in front of him, and without looking up, asked, “What can I get for ya?”
“Whiskey sour,” he answered without hesitation, a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth when her hand froze mid-swipe. She looked up sharply; a mix of surprise and something else he couldn’t quite name.
“Oh no,” she said, pointing an accusing finger at his chest. “Not today.”
“Hello Ellen.” He tilted his head down into his hand and rubbed along his bristled jawline, looking up at her from beneath long dark eyelashes and smiling.
“Stop that. You do not get to come at me with that voice of yours -”
“My voice?”
“- and those…those bedroom eyes and expect to get whatever you want. I’m not a fool for your charms, John Winchester.”
“You’re makin’ me blush.” He flashed a full-scale grin, exposing the dimples that lay hidden beneath his three-day-old beard growth.
“Forget it,” she continued to argue. “No way, no how. Not today, no thank you.”
John raised a perplexed eyebrow. “Seriously, Ellen? Things are so good you can afford to turn away paying customers?”
“I’ve had about all I can handle today. I don’t know what’s going on, and I know it’s not good, but I’ll be damned if I’m gonna have the both of you wallowin’ and cryin’ and drownin’ your sorrows; keepin’ me here all blasted night, just because you haven’t got a natural born coping mechanism between you.”
“What? Who’s crying? When have you ever seen me cry? Wait…whadaya mean, ‘both’?”
Ellen turned and pointed. John leaned across the bar so he could line up his sights with hers. The back corner booth was cloaked and isolated from the rest of the bar by heavy shadows, but settled at the table, with his head in his hands, was Bobby Singer, looking more morose than John had ever seen anyone look.
“He’s been there since I opened this morning.”
John’s teasing smile melted away and he blindly reached into his shirt pocket, pulling out a wad of cash and passing it Ellen’s direction. “On second thought, forget the sour. Just bring me the whiskey.”
“I already told you, John, not here and not tonight. I got a little girl waiting at home for me or have you forgotten?”
“Short little thing, blonde pigtails, runs around here scarpin’ quarters off all the customers for that Pac Man video game she likes so much. Yeah, kinda hard to forget the lil scoot.”
“Alright then, you understand. And with Bill out on a job -”
“Ellen.” John laid a hand over hers, stilling the flow of words. “Give me the bottle.
“Fine,” she gritted out. She grabbed a bottle of Johnny Walker off the shelf and cracked open the seal, spinning the lid off. She snatched three glasses from beneath the counter and poured a generous portion into one of the glasses. John frowned at her in confusion until she threw the drink back and then wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “Fine, but come 11 o’clock, I’m closing up shop and going home.”
“Yes ma’am.” He gave her a slow wink and then gathered up the glasses and bottle and headed for the back corner booth.
Sliding into the booth, John poured three fingers into each glass, floating one across the table into Bobby’s waiting hand. “Have you any idea how long a drive it is here from Sioux Falls?” he asked and took a drink.
“‘Bout four hours, give or take,” Bobby replied into his glass. He didn’t look up, or lift the glass to his lips, or even acknowledge that he was gripping it just a little too tightly. He just stared into the amber swirls as if they held all the answers to the universe. It was unsettling, and John leaned in, tilting his own drink up, clinking their glasses together to break the tension.
“What’re ya doin’ here, John?” Bobby asked weakly.
“I was about to ask you the same thing. What happened? Ellen says -”
“She called you?” Bobby loomed angrily over the table, his voice filled with betrayal. “Damn nosey woman!”
“Lower your voice,” John admonished. “She didn’t call me, alright? I came here on my own, working a job down in Lincoln, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out something’s wrong with you. You’ve taken up residence in a dark corner, you smell like a brewery, plus there’s that look on your face.”
“What look?” Bobby huffed, glowering across the table at John.
“The one that says, ‘it’s all my fault’.”
Bobby did drink then, throwing the whiskey back as if it alone could wash away the guilt that was so clearly choking him, and he didn’t stop drinking until it was gone. He smacked the empty glass down on the table and looked up at his friend, expectantly. John complied.
Bobby took back his glass, sloshing whiskey on the table as he did so, and slumped back into his seat. He let his head thump heavily against the back of the wooden bench with a sigh.
“Ya ever think ‘bout where you’d be right now,” he asked, pausing to take an unsteady drink, “if you hadn’t…fallen into this life? How things might’ve turned out different?”
“I try not to,” John answered somberly. He ran his fingers over the table, gathering a few stray droplets of whiskey that had splashed out of Bobby’s glass. Using it as finger paint, John traced out a capital M. They sat quietly for a moment; both of them watching the initial evaporate, and when it was barely recognizable, John wiped it away. “What good would it do me? Thinkin’ that way, dwelling on the past and all the things that could’ve been, it’s not gonna change anything.” Instinctively, he shrugged his shoulders up around his ears to ward off the imagined blast of cold and pain that swamped him whenever his mind drifted toward his past life. “It’d only make life that much harder for me to cope with.”
“Yeah,” Bobby affirmed. “You’re right. I know you’re right.” But all the while he was agreeing, Bobby’s head was shaking slowly back and forth. He sat up, placed his glass on the table and folded his hands over it in mock-prayer.
“Bobby, what’s going on?” John asked carefully, growing increasingly concerned.
“My wife…she wanted kids. I ever tell ya that?”
“Don’t think so.” John waited to see if Bobby would continue, and when he didn’t, John prodded him on, asking, “And you didn’t?”
Bobby shook his head.
“But you’re rethinking that decision now?”
“Naw. Just…wonderin’.” Bobby looked down into his hands, running his thumb along the base of his ring finger where a wedding band should have been. “Wonderin’ if things’d been different, if we’d had more time together, maybe I’d’ve…come around to her way of thinkin’.”
“Bobby Singer…Dad.” John chuckled softly. “It does have kind of a nice ring to it.”
“No it don’t. Don’t say stuff like that,” Bobby complained and wagged an angry finger in John’s face, looking at the man as though he’d suddenly sprouted a second head. “I’da been a terrible dad.”
“What’re you talking about? You’d have been a great father. Hell, look at my kids. You’re a natural with them.”
Bobby banged his palms against the table, shaking the glasses. “I can’t protect them!” He quickly snatched up his drink, threw back the remainder of it, and poured a third, drinking it down in rapid succession. “I try.” Bobby’s voice shook, growing quiet, and he turned away from John, looking out into the bar, searching for something to ground him. John followed his gaze, landing on Ellen as she worked her way around the room. “I tried. All my life I tried to protect the people around me. The people I love,” he continued, “and all my life I failed. I look at Ellen, with Bill and cute little Joanna, or you with Sam’n Dean, and think, ‘get away from them, you moron. Run away as fast as you can before you hurt them too.’”
“Bobby, you -”
“Don’t bring the boys around no more.”
“What?” John was stunned. It was as though Bobby had slammed a door in his face; unmovable and absolute, and his ears were ringing with the finality of it.
“I don’t want ‘em there. Don’t want you there neither. Best y’all just stay away from me,” he commanded, knocking into the table and making the bottle wobble dangerously.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” John reached out to steady the bottle, raising his hands in surrender to still Bobby’s fitful behavior. “Where’s this coming from? Hey, talk to me dammit,” he urged when Bobby didn’t answer. “What happened?”
Bobby swatted John’s hands down. “I told ya. I can’t protect any of ya.”
“Protect us from what?” John voice cracked as he felt fear zing through him like lightning. “You’re just goin’ round and round in circles, Bobby. You’re not making any sense.”
“Everyone I ever cared about’s gotten hurt and it’s been on me ever’time. D’ya know what that’s like? Rufus was right. Just stay away from me.” Bobby shuffled along the seat, escaping the booth, and moved towards the Roadhouse’s rear exit.
“Dammit, stop.” Snatching the bottle of whiskey and waving off Ellen’s worried look, John followed quickly and burst out the back door; the screen slapping loudly behind him. He jogged after Bobby, who lumbered on unsteady legs towards his pickup. “I said stop, Goddammit!” He caught ahold of Bobby’s arm and directed the man away from the cab of his truck and pinned him bodily to the boxside. “Okay, we’re gonna slow this down, take a damn breath and talk for a second. For one, you ain’t driving anywhere in your condition.”
“Fine. Get off me,” Bobby demanded, pushing at John.
John stepped back, giving Bobby some room to breathe, but not enough that he could escape a second time.
“And two,” he continued, ticking off his points on his fingers, “we haven’t finished this bottle yet.”
Bobby conceded and allowed John to guide him to the tailgate. He sank down onto it, bowed his head and held himself upright with his hands braced on the tailgate and breathed; slow and even, until John wondered whether or not he’d fallen asleep.
John sat down beside him and very carefully nudged Bobby’s shoulder. “What did Rufus say?”
Bobby glanced up at John, his brows drawn high in confusion. John took a long pull from the whiskey bottle and then offered it up to Bobby, pressing the bottle into his grasp, but instead of drinking, Bobby continued to stare in confusion.
“Inside,” John clarified. “You said, ‘Rufus was right.’ What’s that supposed t’mean? Right about what?”
“Doesn’t mean nuthin’,” the older man grunted, sagging deeper into his hunched position, letting the bottle sag between his knees.
“Somethin’ happen between you two?” Next to him, Bobby snorted derisively. “Bad hunt?”
Bobby lifted the bottle to his lips, taking a quick drink, and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “You could say that.”
“Everybody okay?” John prodded. He hated having to do this; having to drag information out of the man this way. Neither one of them were much for talking things out, but it was more than obvious - at least to John - that this was one time when talking would be required. So it’d be nice, for all parties involved, if Bobby would make with the English.
After a long moment of silence, and almost to the point when John felt he needed to nudge his friend again, Bobby finally admitted that, no. Not everyone had come out of it ‘okay’.
-O-o-o-O-
John had met Rufus Turner a handful of times. Had even worked a job with him when, after a particularly rough hunt, Bobby had worn himself down and taken sick. Laid up in bed, Bobby had Nurse NightinDean fussing over him and plying him with tomato and rice soup, while Sam had taken up residence in Bobby’s room reading to him, first the newspaper at Bobby’s request, then his own storybooks, and lastly just making up stories until the poor man had finally begged him off.
When John had been satisfied that his boys had the situation well in hand, he’d left, joining Rufus on a road trip that had landed them in Gary, Indiana, neck deep in an unexplained zombie outbreak. And who didn’t enjoy a good zombie outbreak every once in a while? After all, they were zombies.
They had worked well together, even though Rufus had been a stubborn S.O.B., arguing proper methods and kill tactics most of the time, until John had found himself knocked to the ground, on his back, beneath what had been the local librarian.
“Just shoot the damned thing,” John had shouted, angry and desperate. “In the head.”
Rufus had shrugged and put a 22cal. into the head of the bitch who had been drooling and spitting all over John’s leather. She’d dropped dead-again-on top of him; blood and brains splattered across the side of his face and dripping grossly into his ear.
It was during that hunt, that John discovered that he and Rufus had a lot more in common than the job. After they had policed their brass and cleaned themselves up in the motel - poor housekeeper that had to deal with that mess in the morning - they’d gone out to the highway and found a truck stop that served 24hr breakfast. Over coffee, eggs and ham steak, Rufus had pulled a photo from his wallet and slid it across the table. Rufus was a father.
She had been a beautiful young woman, John remembered, attending school in upstate, New York and wanting nothing what-so-ever to do with her father. Bad blood, Rufus had explained, tipping the contents of a silver flask into his coffee. His daughter - John forgot her name, now - had disowned her old man, never forgiving him for her mother’s untimely and unnatural death.
“You got boys, right?” Rufus had asked, to which John had nodded. “Don’t ever give ‘em a reason to hate you, you understand? Do whatever ya gotta do to make ‘em happy. S’not easy, doin’ what we do, but this…” he’d reached across the table, plucking the photo from John’s fingers and slid it back into his wallet, patting it fondly. “This is what’ll happen if you mess it all up.”
That night had changed things for Rufus. John thought it was funny how that worked; half an hour of small talk over a cup of juiced-up coffee in some random truck stop had inspired the older hunter to reach out to his kid. He had found her, but not quite where he’d thought he’d find her. Turned out she hadn’t so much been attending school as she had been hunting werewolves. Upstate New York apparently had a very healthy population, or at least it did have until young Turner had set her sights on them. And damn, why couldn’t he remember her name?
-O-o-o-O-
“She’s dead, John,” Bobby said. “And what happened…it’s on me. Rufus ain’t never gonna forgive me.” Bobby snorted. “Hell, I ain’t never gonna forgive me.”
Bobby’s body language spoke volumes as to the whos and whats had happened. Rufus’s daughter was dead and the partnership between Bobby and Rufus had died with her.
John sighed unhappily. He turned and scooted up further into the bed of the pickup, leaning back until he was rested against the boxside with his arms wrapped tight around his knees. The cold of the metal quickly seeped through his multiple layers, chilling him to the point of shaking. He reached out his hand and without a word between them, Bobby passed John the bottle. A long slow pull of the bottle warmed his throat and belly; even if it was a false warmth.
“So you screwed up,” he said finally, after giving it several minutes’ consideration. “Tragic as hell, but it happens. This job, Bobby…hell this life…it ain’t easy. And there are no guarantees. I don’t need to tell you this. The fact is, people die. N’most the time, we can’t do shit-all about it, but I know you. You’d never let somethin’ bad like this happen if you could do anything to stop it.”
“You don’t know that. You don’t know what I did.”
“I know you didn’t endanger that girl. Not on purpose. You’re not that guy,” he argued when Bobby rolled his eyes. John rubbed his hand up roughly through his hair, leaving it standing up at wild angles.
“Don’t matter. Ain’t gonna happen again. I won’t let it.”
“So what? You’re just gonna cut yourself off from the world? Hack us out of your life like we don’t exist?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
“Bullshit. This ain’t about keeping anyone safe,” John accused. “It’s about makin’ sure you don’t havta watch it all when it does fall apart. That’s cheatin’ Bobby. And cowardly.”
“Then I’m a coward.”
“No. You’re not. You’re hurtin’. I’d be hurtin’ too, but this ‘don’t come around no more’ bull ain’t gonna fly with me.”
“I can’t be trusted, John,” Bobby argued. “Not around those boys.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
Bobby reached for the bottle, floundering unsteadily and catching himself before he fell, face first into the bed of the truck. John rolled his eyes and shook his head.
“I don’t know if it’s slipped your notice,” John said, handing the bottle off, “but we ain’t gotta lot of people in our lives. Mostly on account of me havin’ trust issues,” he admitted, “but I trust you, Bobby. I do. That ain’t easy for me to say. And my boys; they trust you too. Hell, they love you. You may not be blood, but you’re family. And the boys’d be hurt as hell if you tried to cut them outta your life.”
“Yeah,” Bobby conceded with a long, slow sigh. “I know.”
John took pity on the man. He slid back across the tailgate and draped an arm around Bobby’s shoulders. “Don’t know why you’d wanna get rid of me anyway. I’m a joy to be around.”
Bobby sputtered into the bottle and came away coughing, choking out, “Idjit.”
Bobby swung the door open wide and was surprised to find John leaning heavily against the door frame. He was painted liberally with dried blood and his hair was plastered like mud to the side of his face and neck.
“That yours?” Bobby asked; his heart racing despite his best efforts to remain calm.
John shook his head and looked up, his eyes weighted with pain and grief. It was all Bobby could do to reach out to him. He gripped the front of John’s denim jacket and pulled him indoors, holding him up as he leaned back outside to sweep his eagle-eyes over the property one time. “Were you followed?”
“No,” John breathed out. He sank onto the wooden bench Bobby had in the entryway and dropped his head into his hands.
To the common observer, the bench was a good place to sit and lace up your boots, but to Bobby, it was a place to stash all manner of deadly instruments, and Bobby had half a mind to remove his stricken friend from any place he might find an easy weapon.
Instead, he squatted down in front of John and put a steadying hand to John’s knee. He pushed John back and began a visual inspection. “Look at me,” Bobby demanded. “Are you hurt?”
John shook his head.
He looked up, meeting Bobby’s scrutinizing gaze with liquid eyes and swallowed hard on the anguish that threatened to choke him. It was an expression Bobby had never seen the man wear and it nearly set him on his ass in shock.
“What happened? Where’s Bill?” he asked, afraid to hear the answer. When John didn’t answer immediately, Bobby pressed more urgently. “John…where’s Bill?”
“He’s dead,” John blurted out, his eyes wide with panic. “I killed him.”
“What?!” Bobby lost his balance and fell backwards onto the floor, the blow of the news knocking him literally off of his feet. “You couldn’t have done. You must be -”
“I did, Bobby! Oh my God, what’ve I done?” John rose up from the bench and began to pace, pulling manically at his shirt and hair as if he was trying to rid himself of the blood-caked evidence. “I killed him!”
Bobby clambered to his feet and caught John by the arm, steering him down the hallway and into the main room. “Sit,” he commanded, pushing the man down onto the couch. John sat as instructed, shaking his head in disbelief and spewing an angry word vomit to the room. Beneath the streaks of day-old blood, he was pale - pasty even - and if the amount of flop sweat that coated his exposed skin was anything to go by, Bobby figured he had less than a minute before the man either threw up or passed out.
“Fantastic morning,” Bobby grumbled, moving quickly to the kitchen. He pulled a plastic tumbler out of the sink, gave it a quick rinse and then filled it with water. “Here, drink this.”
Kneeling on the floor in front of the man, Bobby pressed the cup into John’s grasp, wrapping his own hands around John’s and guiding the cup to the man’s mouth. “Slowly,” he coached. “Not too much.”
John squeezed his eyes shut and took slow, shallow sips; his throat working overtime to keep the water from coming back up. When he’d taken a few ounces, Bobby pulled the cup away. “S’okay?” he asked. John nodded weakly, but then suddenly lurched forward. Bobby tossed the cup aside to catch John by the arms; John’s head falling heavily against Bobby’s shoulder as his stomach surged and emptied its contents on to the floor between them.
“Whoa there, easy bud,” Bobby comforted, thumping his palm against John’s back in a make-shift hug. “Come on, John. You’ve got to pull yourself together.”
Bobby had marched John’s boys up the stairs to the bath tub countless times in the years that he’d known the Winchesters. It had always been a difficult chore for Bobby, because it had meant pulling those two wild Indians away from their outdoor play. And if there was one thing Sam and Dean had loved, it had been playing outside in the salvage yard. Bobby had taken to luring the boys indoors with food, which had worked pretty well with Dean, and wherever Dean went, his baby brother followed. But a long day of fresh air and hard play, coupled with a full belly, often meant that little Sam was draggin’ ass by bath time, and on more than one occasion Bobby had to carry the lil tike up the stairs.
In this way, John was so very much like his youngest son. Bobby pulled the nearly limp man to his feet, groaning with disgust at the mix of stomach juices and tepid water that was splattered between them and pooled at their feet.
“Upsy Daisy.”
He ducked under John’s arm and slung an arm around John’s waist, grabbing ahold of the man’s belt to steady him. Then they walked, slow and cautious up the staircase and down the short hallway to the bathroom. Bobby directed John into the tub, clothes and all, instructing him to sit, and then turned on the shower. Warm water cascaded over John’s bowed head, sluicing through and loosening the blood and matter from his hair and skin, until the bottom of the tub was swirled pink.
Bobby rinsed his own hands beneath the spray and then excused himself from the room to change out of the vomit splattered clothes. He gathered up a change of clothes for John and returned to the bathroom, closing the lid and taking a seat on the toilet beside the tub.
“Why are you doing this?” John asked, barely a whisper. His hands moved slow, but deliberately; running a bar of Irish Spring over his head. He scratched at his scalp, working the soap into a weak lather beneath his fingers.
“I do have shampoo, you know,” Bobby responded without addressing John’s question. The answer, he reckoned, should be apparent after all these years. John himself had called Bobby family, and as near as Bobby could figure, this was just one of those things family did for each other. “Gimme your foot.”
He took John’s booted foot in his hand and tugged at the soaking wet laces. When he’d worked them loose, he pulled the boot free, dropping it with a heavy wet thud onto the bathroom floor, and then moved to the next foot.
“We’re gonna have to get you outta those clothes,” he said, studying the situation.
John looked up from the bottom of the porcelain tub, appearing beyond pitiful; soaking wet and heartbroken. He laid his hand on Bobby’s and squeezed. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Shut up…” Bobby frowned and shook off John’s hand. “Idjit. M’not doing anything that you wouldn’t do if the situation were reversed.”
John nodded and dropped his eyes into his lap. He let out a shaky breath and brought his hands up to hide his face. “What am I gonna do? Huh Bobby? What am I supposed to do?”
Bobby stood up and turned off the water which had grown cold. He took hold of John below the elbows and tugged. “Come on. We’re gonna get you cleaned up first, and then after, we can figure out the rest.”
John let himself be pulled up, but when Bobby tried to strip him of his over shirt, he held up his hands. “Whoa. Don’t think you’re getting my clothes off, Singer,” John warned. “I love you man, but…”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Bobby grumbled. He pulled a towel down out of the cupboard and draped it over the man’s shivering back. “You’re not even my type.”
John huffed out an aborted laugh, and then sagged visibly.
“Hey.” Bobby stepped into John’s line of sight. He pulled the towel up and used it to casually pat John’s hair dry. “One step at a time, alright? You finish cleaning up. Change of clothes is right there for ya.”
“What’re you gonna do?” John asked, his eyes betraying the panic he felt, as though he thought Bobby would walk out of that room and never come back. Bobby moved to reassure him, wrapping a warm hand around the back of John’s neck to comfort the man.
“I ain’t going anywhere ‘cept the kitchen. Okay? You get dressed and we’ll reconvene and hash this out. You understand what I’m saying.”
John nodded again and began fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. Satisfied that John now had things under control, Bobby left him to it. He made his way down the stairs, but instead of turning toward the kitchen, Bobby detoured out the front door and down the walk. As quietly as possible he opened the driver’s door of the black Chevy and took the keys from the ignition, and then rounded to the trunk. The key slid home easily, but Bobby hesitated, breathing rapidly and worrying his bottom lip before finally turning the key. The lid sprang open.
Bobby closed his eyes, squeezing them shut as if that might eradicate the image instantly burned into his memory. No such luck.
The body of Bill Harvelle lay across the false bottom of the Impala’s trunk, wrapped carefully in a motel blanket, and it was everything Bobby could do, not to turn his head and heave up his own breakfast.
Bill had been a good man and Bobby’s friend. He was also a father and a husband and a hunter. He didn’t deserve to die like this. What man did? Unfortunately, that was the cold reality of the job. People died. Good people.
-O-o-o-O-
When John had finished cleaning up and was dressed, he made his way downstairs and padded quietly through the house on socked feet. So quietly, in fact that Bobby jumped and grabbed at his chest when he turned and caught John standing silently in the kitchen doorway.
“You tryin’ to give me a heart attack?” he accused.
“Sorry,” John muttered, not looking up from the spot his eyes were locked on. Bobby followed his haunted gaze and saw the tell-tale splatter of blood on the kitchen linoleum. It wasn’t at all related to John’s problem - poor Bill - but rather a wayward droplet that Bobby had failed to clean up after he had opened up his hand for a bit of recreational spell work; if there was such a thing as recreational spell work.
“It’s not what you think. Here, come sit down. I fixed you a sandwich.” Bobby set a plate down on the table, and then took John by the arm, maneuvering him into the kitchen chair. “It’s not much,” Bobby explained, “but I didn’t figure you could handle too much.”
“I need a drink.”
“Normally, I’d be the first one to agree with that, but not this time. A drink isn’t gonna solve this problem, bud.”
“And a sandwich will?” The question had none of the usual bite that Bobby would naturally associate with a John Winchester debate. In fact, John’s argument seemed to deflate beneath Bobby’s scrutinizing eyes.
“Yeah.” Bobby took hold of the chair across from John, spun it around and straddled the seat. “You’re pale, John. The dark circles under your eyes say you haven’t slept in days and Lord knows the last time you ate. It’s real hard to be a barely-functioning alcoholic if you’re not actually functioning to begin with. Trust me. I should know. ”
“I don’t need a lecture.” John’s voice did rise at that; enough that Bobby sat back, holding his hands up in submission.
“And I’m not giving you one, alright? I’m giving you a sandwich. So just…cool your jets.”
“Sorry,” John mumbled, sagging back into his chair.
“And quit saying you’re sorry.”
John’s mouth quirked up into the faintest half-smile, but it was an improvement, so Bobby accepted it for the gift that it was, and watched John lift the sandwich to his mouth and take a small bite.
-O-o-o-O-
When John had eaten about a third of the sandwich and begged off of the rest, Bobby decided it was time to get down to business.
“So what’s your game plan?” he asked, setting John’s plate down by the sink. He turned and leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms.
John shook his head, looking oddly apprehensive. “I, uh, don’t -”
“You drove halfway across the country with a body in the trunk. You had to have some sort of plan.”
It came out a bit harsher than Bobby had intended and he did feel a bit sorry when John choked back an involuntary dry-heave, but there was no use pussy-footing around the subject any longer. Something had to be done about Bill before his corpse began to draw attention to itself. Charm or not, if the police were to catch wind - pun intended - of the contents of John’s trunk, there’d be no way in Hell John could talk himself out of the world of hurt that would follow.
“I didn’t have a plan,” John explained. “I just panicked. I mean, I couldn’t leave him there, now could I? I thought to burn his bones, but it just felt wrong; felt like he needed to come home for that.”
“So you’re planning to take him to Ellen?”
John paled instantly and he quickly covered his mouth, rubbing his hand over his unshaven jaw as though it might hide the fact that he was barely holding it together. He mumbled something under his hand. Something that to Bobby’s untrained ear sounded a lot like, ‘I can’t.’
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t think I can do it,” John admitted, shrugging his shoulders up around his ears protectively. “What am I gonna say to her? ‘Sorry. I know you trusted me, but I killed your husband. Oops.’ How’s that gonna sound?”
“You didn’t kill him.”
John sprang to his feet, knocking the chair over with a bang and was in Bobby’s face in the blink of an eye. “You’re not listening to me,” he gritted out between clenched teeth.
Bobby couldn’t stop the full-body recoil that zinged through him when John aggressively brought his hand up to Bobby’s head. “I put my gun to his head,” John fashioned his hand into a gun and pressed two fingers to Bobby’s temple, “and I pulled the trigger. What part of that sounds like me not killing Bill?”
Just as quickly as his anger flared, it faded, leaving John panting and near hyperventilation. He turned and sank to the floor, banging his head roughly against the front of Bobby’s cupboards.
Bobby backed away on impulse, wanting to put space between himself and the awful truth. And it was the truth. There was no denying it now, and he found himself needing to physically step back and reassess the situation, because John had managed to turn Bobby’s world completely upside down with that one statement.
“How?” Bobby stammered. “Why? How could -”
“He begged me, Bobby.” John put his head into his hands and squeezed, digging his nails into his scalp like he could pry the memory out of his skull and cast it aside or maybe salt and burn it along with Bill’s bones. “It was in him, don’t you see? That thing was in him and it was tearing him up from the inside out. He fought it with everything he had, but it was killing him, and Bill must’ve known what it was going to do, cuz one second he’s crying out for El-” John choked back on his own words. He ran the palm of his hand under his eyes, and then wiped the evidence down the thigh of his borrowed jeans and took a deep breath. “He was screaming. Wanting Ellen and Jo - oh God, poor little Jo - and in the next breath he’s asking me to end it.”
“Was it him? Are you sure it was Bill?”
The look Bobby received was one of despair and uncertainty, followed immediately by conviction. “It was him, Bobby. Without a doubt. I know it was him.”
“How do you know? You just said that thing…that hellspawn was in him. So how can you be sure?”
“Jesus! What are you tryin’ to do? I said I know. It had this…other voice, okay? It was like nothing I’ve ever heard before, in a language I’ve never heard, but Bill was there too. It was like they were fighting for control, but I know that it was Bill in the end. He grabbed my hand and made me promise to protect his family. He put his gun in my hand and begged me to do it. Over and over. ‘John shoot me. Shoot me, John!’ And I did.”
“Sonuvabitch,” Bobby breathed. Somewhere in the middle of John’s retelling, Bobby had found a chair, and it was a good thing too, because he sincerely doubted that his legs would have held up through the end. He sagged back, removed his cap and ran a hand over his forehead, wiping away the sweat that had beaded up.
“Yeah,” John echoed from the floor.
The room went quiet for several minutes as the finality of it all set in. Bill Harvelle was dead. John had killed him. And no one had told Ellen.
“You’ve got to tell her,” Bobby said, barely above a whisper. “You’ve got to take him home.”
“I know.”
Bobby gave him a skeptical look and he repeated it with a bit more conviction. “I will. I just…I don’t know if I can face her. I mean, it’s my responsibility. I know it is and I promised Bill, but…she’ll never forgive me.”
“She may not, but that’s not for you to decide. This is Ellen. She’s not a woman to be told what she can and can’t do.”
John nodded in agreement, his head bobbing left and right as though he were considering his options, until finally, he looked up at Bobby with the most earnest face he could conjure and asked, “Go with me?”
Bobby was taken aback; John Winchester asking for help? What alternate dimension was this and how did he find his way home? But of course the answer was yes. After all, the damned fool had driven nearly 2,000 miles across the country without more than four hours’ sleep. Bobby would be hard-pressed to let him drive another mile for fear of John crashing that beautiful car, killing himself in the process.
“Fine, but I’m driving.”
-O-o-o-O-
Bobby sat behind the wheel, watching John trek slowly across the gravel lot. It was a lot like watching Molasses creep up hill, he thought. As if on cue, Ellen Harvelle stepped out the door of the Road House, wiping her hands on a bar towel and greeting John with an open smile, and Bobby could hardly stand to watch as a moment later, her face fell. John gestured with his whole body, turning to look over his shoulder at the car, and then reaching his hand out to her; her head shaking slowly back and forth in denial, building steam until she brought her hand up and slapped him. Bobby cringed, feeling the sting as if he’d been the one to receive the hit. The slap and the anguished cry that followed echoed across the bare lot, filling Bobby’s ears. He saw Ellen crumple and John with her; his arms wrapped around her, pulling her small body into his chest, and there in the dirt, they sat; crying for their loss.
Previous - Master - Next
He took a seat at the bar and watched her as she moved fluidly from the kitchen to the bar and from the tap to the sink, always busy, always with at least three tasks at hand. She scraped a dinner plate into the garbage before dropping it into the sink where it sank beneath the warm suds, and then she reached into them herself, pulling out a dish rag. She wrung the water from the cloth and ran it down the length of the bar until she was standing directly in front of him, and without looking up, asked, “What can I get for ya?”
“Whiskey sour,” he answered without hesitation, a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth when her hand froze mid-swipe. She looked up sharply; a mix of surprise and something else he couldn’t quite name.
“Oh no,” she said, pointing an accusing finger at his chest. “Not today.”
“Hello Ellen.” He tilted his head down into his hand and rubbed along his bristled jawline, looking up at her from beneath long dark eyelashes and smiling.
“Stop that. You do not get to come at me with that voice of yours -”
“My voice?”
“- and those…those bedroom eyes and expect to get whatever you want. I’m not a fool for your charms, John Winchester.”
“You’re makin’ me blush.” He flashed a full-scale grin, exposing the dimples that lay hidden beneath his three-day-old beard growth.
“Forget it,” she continued to argue. “No way, no how. Not today, no thank you.”
John raised a perplexed eyebrow. “Seriously, Ellen? Things are so good you can afford to turn away paying customers?”
“I’ve had about all I can handle today. I don’t know what’s going on, and I know it’s not good, but I’ll be damned if I’m gonna have the both of you wallowin’ and cryin’ and drownin’ your sorrows; keepin’ me here all blasted night, just because you haven’t got a natural born coping mechanism between you.”
“What? Who’s crying? When have you ever seen me cry? Wait…whadaya mean, ‘both’?”
Ellen turned and pointed. John leaned across the bar so he could line up his sights with hers. The back corner booth was cloaked and isolated from the rest of the bar by heavy shadows, but settled at the table, with his head in his hands, was Bobby Singer, looking more morose than John had ever seen anyone look.
“He’s been there since I opened this morning.”
John’s teasing smile melted away and he blindly reached into his shirt pocket, pulling out a wad of cash and passing it Ellen’s direction. “On second thought, forget the sour. Just bring me the whiskey.”
“I already told you, John, not here and not tonight. I got a little girl waiting at home for me or have you forgotten?”
“Short little thing, blonde pigtails, runs around here scarpin’ quarters off all the customers for that Pac Man video game she likes so much. Yeah, kinda hard to forget the lil scoot.”
“Alright then, you understand. And with Bill out on a job -”
“Ellen.” John laid a hand over hers, stilling the flow of words. “Give me the bottle.
“Fine,” she gritted out. She grabbed a bottle of Johnny Walker off the shelf and cracked open the seal, spinning the lid off. She snatched three glasses from beneath the counter and poured a generous portion into one of the glasses. John frowned at her in confusion until she threw the drink back and then wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “Fine, but come 11 o’clock, I’m closing up shop and going home.”
“Yes ma’am.” He gave her a slow wink and then gathered up the glasses and bottle and headed for the back corner booth.
Sliding into the booth, John poured three fingers into each glass, floating one across the table into Bobby’s waiting hand. “Have you any idea how long a drive it is here from Sioux Falls?” he asked and took a drink.
“‘Bout four hours, give or take,” Bobby replied into his glass. He didn’t look up, or lift the glass to his lips, or even acknowledge that he was gripping it just a little too tightly. He just stared into the amber swirls as if they held all the answers to the universe. It was unsettling, and John leaned in, tilting his own drink up, clinking their glasses together to break the tension.
“What’re ya doin’ here, John?” Bobby asked weakly.
“I was about to ask you the same thing. What happened? Ellen says -”
“She called you?” Bobby loomed angrily over the table, his voice filled with betrayal. “Damn nosey woman!”
“Lower your voice,” John admonished. “She didn’t call me, alright? I came here on my own, working a job down in Lincoln, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out something’s wrong with you. You’ve taken up residence in a dark corner, you smell like a brewery, plus there’s that look on your face.”
“What look?” Bobby huffed, glowering across the table at John.
“The one that says, ‘it’s all my fault’.”
Bobby did drink then, throwing the whiskey back as if it alone could wash away the guilt that was so clearly choking him, and he didn’t stop drinking until it was gone. He smacked the empty glass down on the table and looked up at his friend, expectantly. John complied.
Bobby took back his glass, sloshing whiskey on the table as he did so, and slumped back into his seat. He let his head thump heavily against the back of the wooden bench with a sigh.
“Ya ever think ‘bout where you’d be right now,” he asked, pausing to take an unsteady drink, “if you hadn’t…fallen into this life? How things might’ve turned out different?”
“I try not to,” John answered somberly. He ran his fingers over the table, gathering a few stray droplets of whiskey that had splashed out of Bobby’s glass. Using it as finger paint, John traced out a capital M. They sat quietly for a moment; both of them watching the initial evaporate, and when it was barely recognizable, John wiped it away. “What good would it do me? Thinkin’ that way, dwelling on the past and all the things that could’ve been, it’s not gonna change anything.” Instinctively, he shrugged his shoulders up around his ears to ward off the imagined blast of cold and pain that swamped him whenever his mind drifted toward his past life. “It’d only make life that much harder for me to cope with.”
“Yeah,” Bobby affirmed. “You’re right. I know you’re right.” But all the while he was agreeing, Bobby’s head was shaking slowly back and forth. He sat up, placed his glass on the table and folded his hands over it in mock-prayer.
“Bobby, what’s going on?” John asked carefully, growing increasingly concerned.
“My wife…she wanted kids. I ever tell ya that?”
“Don’t think so.” John waited to see if Bobby would continue, and when he didn’t, John prodded him on, asking, “And you didn’t?”
Bobby shook his head.
“But you’re rethinking that decision now?”
“Naw. Just…wonderin’.” Bobby looked down into his hands, running his thumb along the base of his ring finger where a wedding band should have been. “Wonderin’ if things’d been different, if we’d had more time together, maybe I’d’ve…come around to her way of thinkin’.”
“Bobby Singer…Dad.” John chuckled softly. “It does have kind of a nice ring to it.”
“No it don’t. Don’t say stuff like that,” Bobby complained and wagged an angry finger in John’s face, looking at the man as though he’d suddenly sprouted a second head. “I’da been a terrible dad.”
“What’re you talking about? You’d have been a great father. Hell, look at my kids. You’re a natural with them.”
Bobby banged his palms against the table, shaking the glasses. “I can’t protect them!” He quickly snatched up his drink, threw back the remainder of it, and poured a third, drinking it down in rapid succession. “I try.” Bobby’s voice shook, growing quiet, and he turned away from John, looking out into the bar, searching for something to ground him. John followed his gaze, landing on Ellen as she worked her way around the room. “I tried. All my life I tried to protect the people around me. The people I love,” he continued, “and all my life I failed. I look at Ellen, with Bill and cute little Joanna, or you with Sam’n Dean, and think, ‘get away from them, you moron. Run away as fast as you can before you hurt them too.’”
“Bobby, you -”
“Don’t bring the boys around no more.”
“What?” John was stunned. It was as though Bobby had slammed a door in his face; unmovable and absolute, and his ears were ringing with the finality of it.
“I don’t want ‘em there. Don’t want you there neither. Best y’all just stay away from me,” he commanded, knocking into the table and making the bottle wobble dangerously.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” John reached out to steady the bottle, raising his hands in surrender to still Bobby’s fitful behavior. “Where’s this coming from? Hey, talk to me dammit,” he urged when Bobby didn’t answer. “What happened?”
Bobby swatted John’s hands down. “I told ya. I can’t protect any of ya.”
“Protect us from what?” John voice cracked as he felt fear zing through him like lightning. “You’re just goin’ round and round in circles, Bobby. You’re not making any sense.”
“Everyone I ever cared about’s gotten hurt and it’s been on me ever’time. D’ya know what that’s like? Rufus was right. Just stay away from me.” Bobby shuffled along the seat, escaping the booth, and moved towards the Roadhouse’s rear exit.
“Dammit, stop.” Snatching the bottle of whiskey and waving off Ellen’s worried look, John followed quickly and burst out the back door; the screen slapping loudly behind him. He jogged after Bobby, who lumbered on unsteady legs towards his pickup. “I said stop, Goddammit!” He caught ahold of Bobby’s arm and directed the man away from the cab of his truck and pinned him bodily to the boxside. “Okay, we’re gonna slow this down, take a damn breath and talk for a second. For one, you ain’t driving anywhere in your condition.”
“Fine. Get off me,” Bobby demanded, pushing at John.
John stepped back, giving Bobby some room to breathe, but not enough that he could escape a second time.
“And two,” he continued, ticking off his points on his fingers, “we haven’t finished this bottle yet.”
Bobby conceded and allowed John to guide him to the tailgate. He sank down onto it, bowed his head and held himself upright with his hands braced on the tailgate and breathed; slow and even, until John wondered whether or not he’d fallen asleep.
John sat down beside him and very carefully nudged Bobby’s shoulder. “What did Rufus say?”
Bobby glanced up at John, his brows drawn high in confusion. John took a long pull from the whiskey bottle and then offered it up to Bobby, pressing the bottle into his grasp, but instead of drinking, Bobby continued to stare in confusion.
“Inside,” John clarified. “You said, ‘Rufus was right.’ What’s that supposed t’mean? Right about what?”
“Doesn’t mean nuthin’,” the older man grunted, sagging deeper into his hunched position, letting the bottle sag between his knees.
“Somethin’ happen between you two?” Next to him, Bobby snorted derisively. “Bad hunt?”
Bobby lifted the bottle to his lips, taking a quick drink, and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “You could say that.”
“Everybody okay?” John prodded. He hated having to do this; having to drag information out of the man this way. Neither one of them were much for talking things out, but it was more than obvious - at least to John - that this was one time when talking would be required. So it’d be nice, for all parties involved, if Bobby would make with the English.
After a long moment of silence, and almost to the point when John felt he needed to nudge his friend again, Bobby finally admitted that, no. Not everyone had come out of it ‘okay’.
-O-o-o-O-
John had met Rufus Turner a handful of times. Had even worked a job with him when, after a particularly rough hunt, Bobby had worn himself down and taken sick. Laid up in bed, Bobby had Nurse NightinDean fussing over him and plying him with tomato and rice soup, while Sam had taken up residence in Bobby’s room reading to him, first the newspaper at Bobby’s request, then his own storybooks, and lastly just making up stories until the poor man had finally begged him off.
When John had been satisfied that his boys had the situation well in hand, he’d left, joining Rufus on a road trip that had landed them in Gary, Indiana, neck deep in an unexplained zombie outbreak. And who didn’t enjoy a good zombie outbreak every once in a while? After all, they were zombies.
They had worked well together, even though Rufus had been a stubborn S.O.B., arguing proper methods and kill tactics most of the time, until John had found himself knocked to the ground, on his back, beneath what had been the local librarian.
“Just shoot the damned thing,” John had shouted, angry and desperate. “In the head.”
Rufus had shrugged and put a 22cal. into the head of the bitch who had been drooling and spitting all over John’s leather. She’d dropped dead-again-on top of him; blood and brains splattered across the side of his face and dripping grossly into his ear.
It was during that hunt, that John discovered that he and Rufus had a lot more in common than the job. After they had policed their brass and cleaned themselves up in the motel - poor housekeeper that had to deal with that mess in the morning - they’d gone out to the highway and found a truck stop that served 24hr breakfast. Over coffee, eggs and ham steak, Rufus had pulled a photo from his wallet and slid it across the table. Rufus was a father.
She had been a beautiful young woman, John remembered, attending school in upstate, New York and wanting nothing what-so-ever to do with her father. Bad blood, Rufus had explained, tipping the contents of a silver flask into his coffee. His daughter - John forgot her name, now - had disowned her old man, never forgiving him for her mother’s untimely and unnatural death.
“You got boys, right?” Rufus had asked, to which John had nodded. “Don’t ever give ‘em a reason to hate you, you understand? Do whatever ya gotta do to make ‘em happy. S’not easy, doin’ what we do, but this…” he’d reached across the table, plucking the photo from John’s fingers and slid it back into his wallet, patting it fondly. “This is what’ll happen if you mess it all up.”
That night had changed things for Rufus. John thought it was funny how that worked; half an hour of small talk over a cup of juiced-up coffee in some random truck stop had inspired the older hunter to reach out to his kid. He had found her, but not quite where he’d thought he’d find her. Turned out she hadn’t so much been attending school as she had been hunting werewolves. Upstate New York apparently had a very healthy population, or at least it did have until young Turner had set her sights on them. And damn, why couldn’t he remember her name?
-O-o-o-O-
“She’s dead, John,” Bobby said. “And what happened…it’s on me. Rufus ain’t never gonna forgive me.” Bobby snorted. “Hell, I ain’t never gonna forgive me.”
Bobby’s body language spoke volumes as to the whos and whats had happened. Rufus’s daughter was dead and the partnership between Bobby and Rufus had died with her.
John sighed unhappily. He turned and scooted up further into the bed of the pickup, leaning back until he was rested against the boxside with his arms wrapped tight around his knees. The cold of the metal quickly seeped through his multiple layers, chilling him to the point of shaking. He reached out his hand and without a word between them, Bobby passed John the bottle. A long slow pull of the bottle warmed his throat and belly; even if it was a false warmth.
“So you screwed up,” he said finally, after giving it several minutes’ consideration. “Tragic as hell, but it happens. This job, Bobby…hell this life…it ain’t easy. And there are no guarantees. I don’t need to tell you this. The fact is, people die. N’most the time, we can’t do shit-all about it, but I know you. You’d never let somethin’ bad like this happen if you could do anything to stop it.”
“You don’t know that. You don’t know what I did.”
“I know you didn’t endanger that girl. Not on purpose. You’re not that guy,” he argued when Bobby rolled his eyes. John rubbed his hand up roughly through his hair, leaving it standing up at wild angles.
“Don’t matter. Ain’t gonna happen again. I won’t let it.”
“So what? You’re just gonna cut yourself off from the world? Hack us out of your life like we don’t exist?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
“Bullshit. This ain’t about keeping anyone safe,” John accused. “It’s about makin’ sure you don’t havta watch it all when it does fall apart. That’s cheatin’ Bobby. And cowardly.”
“Then I’m a coward.”
“No. You’re not. You’re hurtin’. I’d be hurtin’ too, but this ‘don’t come around no more’ bull ain’t gonna fly with me.”
“I can’t be trusted, John,” Bobby argued. “Not around those boys.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
Bobby reached for the bottle, floundering unsteadily and catching himself before he fell, face first into the bed of the truck. John rolled his eyes and shook his head.
“I don’t know if it’s slipped your notice,” John said, handing the bottle off, “but we ain’t gotta lot of people in our lives. Mostly on account of me havin’ trust issues,” he admitted, “but I trust you, Bobby. I do. That ain’t easy for me to say. And my boys; they trust you too. Hell, they love you. You may not be blood, but you’re family. And the boys’d be hurt as hell if you tried to cut them outta your life.”
“Yeah,” Bobby conceded with a long, slow sigh. “I know.”
John took pity on the man. He slid back across the tailgate and draped an arm around Bobby’s shoulders. “Don’t know why you’d wanna get rid of me anyway. I’m a joy to be around.”
Bobby sputtered into the bottle and came away coughing, choking out, “Idjit.”
Bobby swung the door open wide and was surprised to find John leaning heavily against the door frame. He was painted liberally with dried blood and his hair was plastered like mud to the side of his face and neck.
“That yours?” Bobby asked; his heart racing despite his best efforts to remain calm.
John shook his head and looked up, his eyes weighted with pain and grief. It was all Bobby could do to reach out to him. He gripped the front of John’s denim jacket and pulled him indoors, holding him up as he leaned back outside to sweep his eagle-eyes over the property one time. “Were you followed?”
“No,” John breathed out. He sank onto the wooden bench Bobby had in the entryway and dropped his head into his hands.
To the common observer, the bench was a good place to sit and lace up your boots, but to Bobby, it was a place to stash all manner of deadly instruments, and Bobby had half a mind to remove his stricken friend from any place he might find an easy weapon.
Instead, he squatted down in front of John and put a steadying hand to John’s knee. He pushed John back and began a visual inspection. “Look at me,” Bobby demanded. “Are you hurt?”
John shook his head.
He looked up, meeting Bobby’s scrutinizing gaze with liquid eyes and swallowed hard on the anguish that threatened to choke him. It was an expression Bobby had never seen the man wear and it nearly set him on his ass in shock.
“What happened? Where’s Bill?” he asked, afraid to hear the answer. When John didn’t answer immediately, Bobby pressed more urgently. “John…where’s Bill?”
“He’s dead,” John blurted out, his eyes wide with panic. “I killed him.”
“What?!” Bobby lost his balance and fell backwards onto the floor, the blow of the news knocking him literally off of his feet. “You couldn’t have done. You must be -”
“I did, Bobby! Oh my God, what’ve I done?” John rose up from the bench and began to pace, pulling manically at his shirt and hair as if he was trying to rid himself of the blood-caked evidence. “I killed him!”
Bobby clambered to his feet and caught John by the arm, steering him down the hallway and into the main room. “Sit,” he commanded, pushing the man down onto the couch. John sat as instructed, shaking his head in disbelief and spewing an angry word vomit to the room. Beneath the streaks of day-old blood, he was pale - pasty even - and if the amount of flop sweat that coated his exposed skin was anything to go by, Bobby figured he had less than a minute before the man either threw up or passed out.
“Fantastic morning,” Bobby grumbled, moving quickly to the kitchen. He pulled a plastic tumbler out of the sink, gave it a quick rinse and then filled it with water. “Here, drink this.”
Kneeling on the floor in front of the man, Bobby pressed the cup into John’s grasp, wrapping his own hands around John’s and guiding the cup to the man’s mouth. “Slowly,” he coached. “Not too much.”
John squeezed his eyes shut and took slow, shallow sips; his throat working overtime to keep the water from coming back up. When he’d taken a few ounces, Bobby pulled the cup away. “S’okay?” he asked. John nodded weakly, but then suddenly lurched forward. Bobby tossed the cup aside to catch John by the arms; John’s head falling heavily against Bobby’s shoulder as his stomach surged and emptied its contents on to the floor between them.
“Whoa there, easy bud,” Bobby comforted, thumping his palm against John’s back in a make-shift hug. “Come on, John. You’ve got to pull yourself together.”
Bobby had marched John’s boys up the stairs to the bath tub countless times in the years that he’d known the Winchesters. It had always been a difficult chore for Bobby, because it had meant pulling those two wild Indians away from their outdoor play. And if there was one thing Sam and Dean had loved, it had been playing outside in the salvage yard. Bobby had taken to luring the boys indoors with food, which had worked pretty well with Dean, and wherever Dean went, his baby brother followed. But a long day of fresh air and hard play, coupled with a full belly, often meant that little Sam was draggin’ ass by bath time, and on more than one occasion Bobby had to carry the lil tike up the stairs.
In this way, John was so very much like his youngest son. Bobby pulled the nearly limp man to his feet, groaning with disgust at the mix of stomach juices and tepid water that was splattered between them and pooled at their feet.
“Upsy Daisy.”
He ducked under John’s arm and slung an arm around John’s waist, grabbing ahold of the man’s belt to steady him. Then they walked, slow and cautious up the staircase and down the short hallway to the bathroom. Bobby directed John into the tub, clothes and all, instructing him to sit, and then turned on the shower. Warm water cascaded over John’s bowed head, sluicing through and loosening the blood and matter from his hair and skin, until the bottom of the tub was swirled pink.
Bobby rinsed his own hands beneath the spray and then excused himself from the room to change out of the vomit splattered clothes. He gathered up a change of clothes for John and returned to the bathroom, closing the lid and taking a seat on the toilet beside the tub.
“Why are you doing this?” John asked, barely a whisper. His hands moved slow, but deliberately; running a bar of Irish Spring over his head. He scratched at his scalp, working the soap into a weak lather beneath his fingers.
“I do have shampoo, you know,” Bobby responded without addressing John’s question. The answer, he reckoned, should be apparent after all these years. John himself had called Bobby family, and as near as Bobby could figure, this was just one of those things family did for each other. “Gimme your foot.”
He took John’s booted foot in his hand and tugged at the soaking wet laces. When he’d worked them loose, he pulled the boot free, dropping it with a heavy wet thud onto the bathroom floor, and then moved to the next foot.
“We’re gonna have to get you outta those clothes,” he said, studying the situation.
John looked up from the bottom of the porcelain tub, appearing beyond pitiful; soaking wet and heartbroken. He laid his hand on Bobby’s and squeezed. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Shut up…” Bobby frowned and shook off John’s hand. “Idjit. M’not doing anything that you wouldn’t do if the situation were reversed.”
John nodded and dropped his eyes into his lap. He let out a shaky breath and brought his hands up to hide his face. “What am I gonna do? Huh Bobby? What am I supposed to do?”
Bobby stood up and turned off the water which had grown cold. He took hold of John below the elbows and tugged. “Come on. We’re gonna get you cleaned up first, and then after, we can figure out the rest.”
John let himself be pulled up, but when Bobby tried to strip him of his over shirt, he held up his hands. “Whoa. Don’t think you’re getting my clothes off, Singer,” John warned. “I love you man, but…”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Bobby grumbled. He pulled a towel down out of the cupboard and draped it over the man’s shivering back. “You’re not even my type.”
John huffed out an aborted laugh, and then sagged visibly.
“Hey.” Bobby stepped into John’s line of sight. He pulled the towel up and used it to casually pat John’s hair dry. “One step at a time, alright? You finish cleaning up. Change of clothes is right there for ya.”
“What’re you gonna do?” John asked, his eyes betraying the panic he felt, as though he thought Bobby would walk out of that room and never come back. Bobby moved to reassure him, wrapping a warm hand around the back of John’s neck to comfort the man.
“I ain’t going anywhere ‘cept the kitchen. Okay? You get dressed and we’ll reconvene and hash this out. You understand what I’m saying.”
John nodded again and began fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. Satisfied that John now had things under control, Bobby left him to it. He made his way down the stairs, but instead of turning toward the kitchen, Bobby detoured out the front door and down the walk. As quietly as possible he opened the driver’s door of the black Chevy and took the keys from the ignition, and then rounded to the trunk. The key slid home easily, but Bobby hesitated, breathing rapidly and worrying his bottom lip before finally turning the key. The lid sprang open.
Bobby closed his eyes, squeezing them shut as if that might eradicate the image instantly burned into his memory. No such luck.
The body of Bill Harvelle lay across the false bottom of the Impala’s trunk, wrapped carefully in a motel blanket, and it was everything Bobby could do, not to turn his head and heave up his own breakfast.
Bill had been a good man and Bobby’s friend. He was also a father and a husband and a hunter. He didn’t deserve to die like this. What man did? Unfortunately, that was the cold reality of the job. People died. Good people.
-O-o-o-O-
When John had finished cleaning up and was dressed, he made his way downstairs and padded quietly through the house on socked feet. So quietly, in fact that Bobby jumped and grabbed at his chest when he turned and caught John standing silently in the kitchen doorway.
“You tryin’ to give me a heart attack?” he accused.
“Sorry,” John muttered, not looking up from the spot his eyes were locked on. Bobby followed his haunted gaze and saw the tell-tale splatter of blood on the kitchen linoleum. It wasn’t at all related to John’s problem - poor Bill - but rather a wayward droplet that Bobby had failed to clean up after he had opened up his hand for a bit of recreational spell work; if there was such a thing as recreational spell work.
“It’s not what you think. Here, come sit down. I fixed you a sandwich.” Bobby set a plate down on the table, and then took John by the arm, maneuvering him into the kitchen chair. “It’s not much,” Bobby explained, “but I didn’t figure you could handle too much.”
“I need a drink.”
“Normally, I’d be the first one to agree with that, but not this time. A drink isn’t gonna solve this problem, bud.”
“And a sandwich will?” The question had none of the usual bite that Bobby would naturally associate with a John Winchester debate. In fact, John’s argument seemed to deflate beneath Bobby’s scrutinizing eyes.
“Yeah.” Bobby took hold of the chair across from John, spun it around and straddled the seat. “You’re pale, John. The dark circles under your eyes say you haven’t slept in days and Lord knows the last time you ate. It’s real hard to be a barely-functioning alcoholic if you’re not actually functioning to begin with. Trust me. I should know. ”
“I don’t need a lecture.” John’s voice did rise at that; enough that Bobby sat back, holding his hands up in submission.
“And I’m not giving you one, alright? I’m giving you a sandwich. So just…cool your jets.”
“Sorry,” John mumbled, sagging back into his chair.
“And quit saying you’re sorry.”
John’s mouth quirked up into the faintest half-smile, but it was an improvement, so Bobby accepted it for the gift that it was, and watched John lift the sandwich to his mouth and take a small bite.
-O-o-o-O-
When John had eaten about a third of the sandwich and begged off of the rest, Bobby decided it was time to get down to business.
“So what’s your game plan?” he asked, setting John’s plate down by the sink. He turned and leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms.
John shook his head, looking oddly apprehensive. “I, uh, don’t -”
“You drove halfway across the country with a body in the trunk. You had to have some sort of plan.”
It came out a bit harsher than Bobby had intended and he did feel a bit sorry when John choked back an involuntary dry-heave, but there was no use pussy-footing around the subject any longer. Something had to be done about Bill before his corpse began to draw attention to itself. Charm or not, if the police were to catch wind - pun intended - of the contents of John’s trunk, there’d be no way in Hell John could talk himself out of the world of hurt that would follow.
“I didn’t have a plan,” John explained. “I just panicked. I mean, I couldn’t leave him there, now could I? I thought to burn his bones, but it just felt wrong; felt like he needed to come home for that.”
“So you’re planning to take him to Ellen?”
John paled instantly and he quickly covered his mouth, rubbing his hand over his unshaven jaw as though it might hide the fact that he was barely holding it together. He mumbled something under his hand. Something that to Bobby’s untrained ear sounded a lot like, ‘I can’t.’
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t think I can do it,” John admitted, shrugging his shoulders up around his ears protectively. “What am I gonna say to her? ‘Sorry. I know you trusted me, but I killed your husband. Oops.’ How’s that gonna sound?”
“You didn’t kill him.”
John sprang to his feet, knocking the chair over with a bang and was in Bobby’s face in the blink of an eye. “You’re not listening to me,” he gritted out between clenched teeth.
Bobby couldn’t stop the full-body recoil that zinged through him when John aggressively brought his hand up to Bobby’s head. “I put my gun to his head,” John fashioned his hand into a gun and pressed two fingers to Bobby’s temple, “and I pulled the trigger. What part of that sounds like me not killing Bill?”
Just as quickly as his anger flared, it faded, leaving John panting and near hyperventilation. He turned and sank to the floor, banging his head roughly against the front of Bobby’s cupboards.
Bobby backed away on impulse, wanting to put space between himself and the awful truth. And it was the truth. There was no denying it now, and he found himself needing to physically step back and reassess the situation, because John had managed to turn Bobby’s world completely upside down with that one statement.
“How?” Bobby stammered. “Why? How could -”
“He begged me, Bobby.” John put his head into his hands and squeezed, digging his nails into his scalp like he could pry the memory out of his skull and cast it aside or maybe salt and burn it along with Bill’s bones. “It was in him, don’t you see? That thing was in him and it was tearing him up from the inside out. He fought it with everything he had, but it was killing him, and Bill must’ve known what it was going to do, cuz one second he’s crying out for El-” John choked back on his own words. He ran the palm of his hand under his eyes, and then wiped the evidence down the thigh of his borrowed jeans and took a deep breath. “He was screaming. Wanting Ellen and Jo - oh God, poor little Jo - and in the next breath he’s asking me to end it.”
“Was it him? Are you sure it was Bill?”
The look Bobby received was one of despair and uncertainty, followed immediately by conviction. “It was him, Bobby. Without a doubt. I know it was him.”
“How do you know? You just said that thing…that hellspawn was in him. So how can you be sure?”
“Jesus! What are you tryin’ to do? I said I know. It had this…other voice, okay? It was like nothing I’ve ever heard before, in a language I’ve never heard, but Bill was there too. It was like they were fighting for control, but I know that it was Bill in the end. He grabbed my hand and made me promise to protect his family. He put his gun in my hand and begged me to do it. Over and over. ‘John shoot me. Shoot me, John!’ And I did.”
“Sonuvabitch,” Bobby breathed. Somewhere in the middle of John’s retelling, Bobby had found a chair, and it was a good thing too, because he sincerely doubted that his legs would have held up through the end. He sagged back, removed his cap and ran a hand over his forehead, wiping away the sweat that had beaded up.
“Yeah,” John echoed from the floor.
The room went quiet for several minutes as the finality of it all set in. Bill Harvelle was dead. John had killed him. And no one had told Ellen.
“You’ve got to tell her,” Bobby said, barely above a whisper. “You’ve got to take him home.”
“I know.”
Bobby gave him a skeptical look and he repeated it with a bit more conviction. “I will. I just…I don’t know if I can face her. I mean, it’s my responsibility. I know it is and I promised Bill, but…she’ll never forgive me.”
“She may not, but that’s not for you to decide. This is Ellen. She’s not a woman to be told what she can and can’t do.”
John nodded in agreement, his head bobbing left and right as though he were considering his options, until finally, he looked up at Bobby with the most earnest face he could conjure and asked, “Go with me?”
Bobby was taken aback; John Winchester asking for help? What alternate dimension was this and how did he find his way home? But of course the answer was yes. After all, the damned fool had driven nearly 2,000 miles across the country without more than four hours’ sleep. Bobby would be hard-pressed to let him drive another mile for fear of John crashing that beautiful car, killing himself in the process.
“Fine, but I’m driving.”
-O-o-o-O-
Bobby sat behind the wheel, watching John trek slowly across the gravel lot. It was a lot like watching Molasses creep up hill, he thought. As if on cue, Ellen Harvelle stepped out the door of the Road House, wiping her hands on a bar towel and greeting John with an open smile, and Bobby could hardly stand to watch as a moment later, her face fell. John gestured with his whole body, turning to look over his shoulder at the car, and then reaching his hand out to her; her head shaking slowly back and forth in denial, building steam until she brought her hand up and slapped him. Bobby cringed, feeling the sting as if he’d been the one to receive the hit. The slap and the anguished cry that followed echoed across the bare lot, filling Bobby’s ears. He saw Ellen crumple and John with her; his arms wrapped around her, pulling her small body into his chest, and there in the dirt, they sat; crying for their loss.
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