Shotgun Friendship - Part Three
The next couple of years passed in a blur. Between hunts, John came and went, and with him, his boys, who were growing in leaps and bounds.
Sam was in the 3rd grade and loving it. He flourished in reading and math, just as Bobby knew he would and it had been suggested by several of the schools that he had attended that John might consider moving him up to the next grade level. John balked at the idea and grumbled out of earshot of the boys that Sam was drawing unwanted attention to himself and their family, even if deep down he was extremely proud of his youngest.
Twelve year old Dean, who had been ‘in the know’ for years, was becoming more and more invested in his father’s way of life. He was well-trained in most of John’s weapons and had walked into Bobby’s house one late-October afternoon, beaming with pride and beyond excited to show off his newly crafted sawed-off.
Like the boys, Bobby too had changed. As it turned out, having a couple snot-nosed little brats around on a semi-regular basis had sparked the long dormant part of him that had sort of maybe wanted kids. The part that valued family. The part that turned twelve sorts of damn-fool gooey when the boys insisted on calling him ‘Uncle Bobby’. It seemed only natural that ‘Uncle Bobby’ would make a place for those boys in his life and in his home, that he would replace the full-sized bed in the spare bedroom with a pair of twins. He’d purchased a set of drawers from an auction so that the boys could get comfy during their occasional extended visits, and soon after that, his house began to feel rather like a home instead of the empty shell it had been. A book left behind, crayon art taped to the fridge, a stray sock in his laundry; Bobby could try and pretend it was unwanted clutter, but really, these were little reminders of the boys and they made him happy. The way he looked at it, he was making the best out of a tough situation. A single daddy with two little boys, who needed a place to unwind after weeks on the road; a place where they could stretch out a bit and just be. Bobby’s place was ready-made for that. John had been quick to point out that Bobby’s efforts were wasted, although that didn’t stop John, himself, from leaving a few things behind as well.
“You haven’t, by chance, seen a six inch silver blade lying around, have you?” John asked one morning.
“Onyx handle? Yep, top drawer, left of the sink.”
“Thanks. I’ve been looking for that for three weeks. Thought I was losing my mind.”
Like Rufus, John had become Bobby’s unwitting partner. There were early morning phone calls to strategize on hunts and late night research sessions involving lots of coffee and stimulants - the legal kind, of course. In truth, Bobby had become an integral resource to John, and John had come to trust and rely on the older man.
That being said, John still could not find it in himself to let down all the barriers he had built up over the years. They talked, as friends often do, confiding in each other and accepting the brunt of each other’s hardships when the need arose, but there always remained an unexplained distance between them; a distance that was oftentimes widened by their varied views on the upbringing of John’s boys.
-O-o-o-O-
Bobby knew of course that he had no say in how John chose to raise his kids and for the most part, he had no qualms, except on the rare occasion when one of the boys would come to him rather than turn to their own father. Like now, when he had Sam standing before him, digging the toe of his tennis shoe into the faded floral rug.
“You know, I don’t go in much for this game you’re playin’, young man,” he scolded. “If your Daddy said no, then the answer’s no. Don’t come to me, hoping you can con me into giving in.”
“Yessir.” Sam lowered his eyes to the floor, looking properly chastised. He twisted his foot nervously, burning a hole in the carpet. Bobby reached up from where he sat on the sofa and pushed lightly against the boy’s shoulder, drawing his attention back up from the floor.
“Besides, money is hard to come by these days, and your Dad…he’s working hard just to give you boys clothes that fit and food that fills. At the end of the day, he doesn’t have two cents to rub together, let alone two more to give to you.”
Bobby watched as Sam thought hard about that for a moment, his features visibly darkening as a thousand thoughts raced through that little head and he tried to devise a plan C. Bobby pulled Sam gently onto his lap.
“Can I ask what you want the money for?” he inquired.
“I wanted to get a Christmas present…for my Dad.”
“Oh.” Bobby tossed a couple options around in his head before giving Sam a small squeeze. “I think we can handle that. I bet I have just the thing around here.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely.”
Glancing up from the papers and maps he had strewn across the dinette table, John found Dean standing just inside the room looking pale and wary. He heard the sharp intake of breath when their eyes met and caught the fidgeting movement of Dean’s hands at the hem of his over shirt.
“What’s the matter with you,” John asked gruffly and turned back towards his research.
“I - um…that is, we need to talk,” the young man stammered.
“Not now, Dean.”
Dean stepped forward, crossing to the table, and set John’s hunting journal down over top of the paperwork covering the surface. He pressed an accusing finger into the soft brown leather, earning John’s full attention.
“It can’t wait,” he stated, and as an afterthought, added, “sir.”
John sat back, pushing his chair away from the table. He folded his arms over his chest and brushed a hand across his unshaven chin. “Okay?”
“Sammy knows.”
Perplexed, John leaned forward and lifted his journal from the table. Leafing through it as though he’d never seen it before, he finally turned an eye up to his son and asked, “Sammy knows what?”
“Everything,” Dean said slowly, stretching the word out meaningfully. “I shoulda told you sooner. I’ve been -”
“Sooner than what?” John barked, and his twelve year old shrank somewhat beneath his angry tone.
“Christmas,” he answered. “Sammy dug your journal out in Nebraska and he read it. I didn’t know, Dad. I swear.”
“You were supposed to be watching him.”
The slew of apologetic words from Dean went largely unnoticed because at that moment, John’s attention was caught by a page in his journal. Not the page, specifically, but what was sketched out on the page; a pair of gold eyes.
It was a child’s drawing; something he’d discovered quite by accident while investigating a death similar to Mary’s. A little girl, who couldn’t have been more than five or six at the time, had tugged on his arm and given him the drawing - an image that her aunt explained had haunted the child since the death of her mother. He had accepted it graciously, tucking it into his notes and later had been unable to throw it away.
Remembering the haunted look in that child’s eyes and knowing how it got there, John struggled with his own need to protect his children. Protect them if he could, prepare them if he must.
“Dad?”
“Wha?” John shook himself, coming back to his senses and found Dean standing in front of him, looking worried. “Sorry, what’d you say?”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing.” John quickly closed the journal and tossed it back on the table. “I don’t want your brother involved in this. Do you understand me?”
“Yessir.”
Nodding his approval, John rose from the chair and moved towards the bedroom where he had left a half-empty bottle of Scotch, but didn’t even make it through the doorway before Dean was reversing his answer. "I mean, no sir. Sammy’s not gonna let this go…sir.” Dean tucked his hands behind his back and stood tall, lifting his chin and doing his best to demonstrate the level of maturity and confidence that his dad would find admirable.
And it worked.
John lifted a hand in offering, ushering Dean into the bedroom. “Okay, lemme hear your thoughts.”
It wasn’t every day that John relinquished his tight hold on control, but looking after Sammy was pretty much Dean’s full time job. And although it was a heavy load to put on the boy’s slim shoulders, John knew that Dean handled it pretty well…at least most of the time. There’d been slip ups over the years - the incident with the Shtriga immediately sprang to mind - but Dean was growing up and he had long since proved that he took this responsibility - his duty to his brother - seriously.
Dean frowned, tugging a bit of his lower lip into his mouth and chewing on it as he considered his words. And after a long moment, he let out a deep breath and looked John in the eye.
“I don’t think we can keep this from him anymore. I think we have to bring him on board.”
John prepared to dispute this idea, but Dean wasn’t finished. He went on, saying, “Sammy’s a little kid, Dad, but he’s smart and if he doesn’t understand something, he’ll go out of his way to figure it out.”
“Of course he will,” John sighed, casting his eyes skyward. “He gets that from your mother, you know.”
Most days, the yearning John felt for Mary was like a gaping hole in chest. It was painful and left him struggling to breathe. But then there were days when he would look at his children and see Mary looking back through them. It made him want to try that much harder to avenge her death.
John had long ago started a mental list of all the boys’ little quirks and attributes that were specifically passed down by her: Dean’s eyes, nose and his ready-made instinct to care for his family; Sam’s soft heart, quick temper, his love of books and insatiable curiosity.
“Guess I’ll have to start carryin’ my journal with me,” John decided, as if that would solve all his problems.
“It won’t matter, Dad,” Dean said, shaking his head. “He saw enough.”
“Alright. What do you suggest?”
“I don’t know. Train him? I mean, I started training when I was his age, right?”
“Actually, you were younger.”
“Right. So, if I can do it. Sammy can do it. And…I can help. Like you always say, he is my responsibility. I could train him; start him off with something easy like target practice or knives and stuff. I could teach him the right way to clean your guns. I mean, if that’s what you want.”
“I never wanted either one of you involved in this, but I didn’t really have a choice. You’re too young to remember, but after your mom…you know…” John snatched the bottle of whiskey from his bedside table and sat down heavily on the bed. Spinning the cap free, he took a long, deep pull from the bottle. “A lot of folks - friends of ours mostly - thought maybe, I should let you boys be put into foster care. Just until I could get my head on straight.”
“But you didn’t, right? I’d remember that.” Dean frowned as he cast around in the memories of a confused four year old for a time when he’d been cared for by someone other than Dad. He came up with nothing.
“No, I didn’t. How could I? You boys were all I had left of your mom and I was -” John closed his eyes, gulped down another big drink, and then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “If I let you outta my sight, how was I ever gonna protect you from whatever hurt your mom?”
“Dad.”
John felt the bed dip beside him and the warmth of Dean’s hand envelope his as he the bottle pulled free of John’s tight grip. Only when Dean called to him again, did John open his eyes. “Dad, it’s okay. Nothin’s gonna happen to me or Sammy. Nothin’s gonna happen, cuz you’re always gonna be there to stop it. That’s what you do.”
“You make me sound like…” John huffed out a laugh. “Like some kind of superhero.”
Dean shrugged. “You kind of are.”
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