I Can't Remember (the sound that you found for me) (1/1)
Title: I Can't Remember (the sound that you found for me)
Author: Bella Temple
Category: SPN, gen, preseries
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Lots of cursing, unbetaed
Spoilers: General for all aired eps, but especially for "Something Wicked" and "Abandon All Hope"
Characters: Bobby, Dean, Sam, John
Disclaimer: The characters and basic premise within are property of their original creators and producers. No money is being made off this work of fiction.
Author's note: This sucker had been sitting unfinished in my word processor for far too long. Let's just say it's my answer for why Bobby and Dean's relationship is so damn tight. Title and cut tag from the Weakerthans
Summary: Bobby and his wife had talked about kids, but he was pretty sure having one show up one day in your junkyard was not the way that was supposed to work.
The kid must have snuck in while Bobby was on a hunt. Later, he'd even find the hole in the fence -- little bastard had actually had the forethought to bring along bolt cutters, or something of the like. This, well, this was when Bobby was still traveling, spending more time on the road than he did at home, watching his beautiful house, decorated by his beautiful Lizzie, fall slowly to ruin. Bobby had been gone a good long while, this time, working a case up near the Montana border, so the kid had at least a week or so to settle in, unharassed, 'cept for that damn old dog, who apparently couldn't guard a yard for shit.
Hell, kid even got an extra few days of squat time between Bobby getting home and Bobby noticing the unexpected smoke rising up from one of the heaps of old jalopies that lined the edge of his domain, about as far from the house itself as you could get without actually hopping the fence and ending up in the county-owned "wildflower meadow", which as far as Bobby was concerned was just a fancy term for "scrap of crap-ass land that we don't feel like getting around to mowing". Lord only knew what the kid had gotten up to in those few days, while Bobby lost his own ass at the bottom of a bottle or two and waited for his feet to stop hurting so much. Maybe the kid had gotten complacent, figured he wouldn't get drop kicked for trespassing, got too cold. Maybe the kid had been lighting fires the whole time and Bobby just hadn't gotten around to noticing.
Either way, the kid had definitely been there more'n a week by the time Bobby marched himself out to the edge of the yard with a fire extinguisher and a bucket of holy water to check things out.
At the time, see, Bobby hadn't known a goddamn thing about the kid. Or any kid, for that matter. Oh, he and Lizzie'd talked about family, of course, and he'd dreamed of teaching a son or daughter everything he knew, of watching them run around the yard, their feet turning green with grass stains, kicking up clover and fireflies instead of dust and . . . more dust. But that was Before, and even if he had the wherewithall to make himself a munchkin, he sure as hell wasn't about to introduce him or her to a world where a fire in the junkyard required blessing water. At the time, he was thinking that the sun had maybe zapped through a particularly warped windshield at a particularly warped angle, maybe fried what little grass managed to spring up in the yard around the old tires and junked out hulls. Maybe some idiot had thought it'd be fun to go off-roading through the "wildflower meadow" and pitched his cigarette in the wrong direction. Or maybe some kind of fire demon had taken up residence. He was hoping for that one. Seemed the only time he really felt like he was doing anything at all these days was when he was offing some black-eyed freak of super-nature.
Course, it was none of the above. No flash fires, no cigarettes, no demons. Just a freaked out, feral, tiny person, huddled in a mess of stained and raggedy old blankets in the back of a green and white VW T2, one of the real old pieces of shit with the split windshield and removable rear seats that had gone the way of the dodo long before the thing had ever made its home in Bobby's lot. Oh, and the kid was holding a gun on him. That shit was priceless.
"Don't point that thing if you ain't thinking of using it," Bobby told him. The kid's two handed grip was steady on the pistol, and his aim never wavered. "You'll put an eye out with that thing."
He half expected to get shot right there. More'n half expected some kind of smart-assed bullshit, maybe some posturing, a claim of "finder's, keepers," maybe even getting called "old man". At the very least, he was counting on a snarl. Instead the kid just stared at him, gun out, eyes wide in the relative darkness of his squated home.
Again, Bobby didn't know a goddamn thing about kids, those days, so looking at this one, he didn't have much of a clue how old he might be, except that he was sure as shit too big for diapers, but nowhere near the age to be let off the familial leash and loosed on the world on his lonesome. Bobby only spotted one bag, a battered old thing, almost completely swallowed up by the gallons of scratchy wool blankets that the kid waded in hip deep. Bobby was pretty sure it was an army duffel, but it was hard to tell, backlit as it and the kid were by the flicker of flames, several feet behind him, just beyond the reach of the open back hatch. Harder still to tell if the kid's eyes looked even remotely human in the gloom. Plenty of evil shit out there that didn't mind masquerading as a munchkin, these days.
"Christo," Bobby said. He coulda gone with throwing the holy water, but he really didn't want to get shot for startling the kid. The kid's face didn't change, but he jerked one leg beneath the blankets, and the next thing he knew, Bobby was getting a salt shower.
Fucker had booby trapped the van.
* * *
Only one thing to do when one had an infestation. Well, alright, there was a bunch of things a guy could do about an infestation of any sort, not the least of which was lay your own traps for the pests, or maybe try to smoke 'em out. But if a guy didn't have the first clue 'bout dealing with a particular type of pest, then there was only one thing a guy with any brains in his goddamn head would do, and that was call a professional.
Bobby called Ellen Harvelle.
"And you're sure the kid's a hunter?"
"I may not know shit 'bout what kids think is in these days," Bobby said, "but sure as hell it ain't carrying salt around in bulk."
And shit, if that woman didn't have the damn gall to laugh.
"I haven't heard anything yet, but you know how hunters are, Bobby. Half these guys probably have kids scattered all across the lower forty-eight, and some of 'em might even be nice enough to teach 'em a thing or two. But I'll keep an ear open."
"Thanks." It came out as little more than a grunt. Bobby only really knew Ellen through her husband, Bill, and he'd only met him a couple hunts back. Still, Bill had a mouth on him and enough civility left in him to invite a body back to his roadhouse for a drink after a nasty weekend chasing skinwalkers, and Ellen was the only person Bobby knew with a kid of her own who was likely to be anywhere near a phone. "What the hell am I supposed to do with this kid in the meantime?"
Ellen was quiet for a moment or two on the other end, and Bobby wondered if his pest problem hadn't actually stumped the woman with a good five years experience wrangling the things. When she spoke up again, her tone was the sort that Bobby could only think of as "bemused". "Have you tried talking to him?"
"Little shit pulled a gun on me, Ellen. He didn't seem much the talkin' type."
"He's probably scared, Bobby."
"He didn't look scared to me, Ellen. Looked wild."
"I don't know what to tell you, Bobby. Just keep trying."
It was the most unsatisfying conversation he'd ever had with a pest-professional, and that included the time he'd had to talk to a bat shit crazy old psychic about an infestation of gremlins. Bobby hung up without much more of a clue of how to handle the homeless rugrat on his property than he'd had before he called.
Then the world's worst junkyard dog scratched at the back door and whined, and Bobby got himself an idea.
* * *
See, Bobby Singer didn't have a goddamn clue how to handle a child, but he did know a thing or two about a wild animal. And the little shit living in the van at the edge of his property might be human, but Bobby figured that after however much time living on the ass-end of a junk yard in a beat up old hippie van that probably still smelled of patchouli and sex, with nothing but greasy blankets and a small fire to keep you warm, the kid was likely not far from a wild animal himself. And, sure, kid had himself a gun, and even probably knew how to use it. But damn if the feral cats that used to live under Bobby's porch hadn't had some mighty efficient weapons of their own that they definitely knew how to use, and Bobby had made it out of that one without more than a stitch or two and a series of rabies shots. So he went back out to the end of the yard that night with an old portable stove and a sack of groceries, sat down by the fence a few yards from where the kid's van stuck out from its pile of clunkers, and set about making himself a stack of s'mores.
Kid didn't show his face that first night, too smart or too scared to the take the bait, but Bobby could be a patient man when he wanted to be, especially when experience had taught him that patience made you less likely to get hissed and scratched at. He ate the whole stack of s'mores himself -- no point in setting up a con if you weren't willing to see it through -- went on back to his house, and proceeded to have a perfectly miserable night of indigestion in which to plan his next ploy.
He went with hot dogs, next. Those were more aromatic, anyway.
It took two more days of eating the worst of the camp out food classics before the kid showed his dingy face again, peering out through the space where the van's side door used to hang. Bobby did his best to track the kid's movements without looking head on, figuring eye contact was a sure fire way to spook the kid back into hiding, or worse, into firing that pistol of his. The kid slunk his way closer like a hungry cat, and Bobby congratulated himself on his solid reasoning.
When the kid reached about the halfway point between the van and Bobby's stove, the pistol hanging in a loose-knuckled grip, Bobby allowed himself to speak.
"Oh," he said, still not looking over. "You still here, then?"
The kid stopped advancing and tightened his grip on the gun, but he didn't fire and he didn't retreat, and Bobby counted it as a win. He tilted his head to the camp stove, where he had coffee brewing along side a couple of cheeseburgers. "I'm guessing you're probably hungry."
The kid held his position for a long moment, then set off back to the van, and Bobby reminded himself that this was a good step in the right direction and that he couldn't expect to succeed overnight. The cats, after all, had taken a week.
Then the kid surprised him by popping back out of the van and scurrying back over, this time holding an open tin can, the gun tucked carefully into the back of his filthy jeans. He sidled up to Bobby and offered the can. Bobby accepted it with a testing glance at the kid, who was focused anywhere but Bobby himself, but didn't look like he was seconds from taking off again, either. Bobby looked in the can.
Spaghettios. They were even warm, too.
Bobby let his surprised show on his face and glanced over. "How'd you manage that, then?"
The kid turned and looked back at him, matching the angle of Bobby's head, the sideways look of the eyes, and Bobby suddenly realized he was thinking of the kid the wrong way. Here he was dealing with a fellow hunter. An incredibly short hunter who didn't shave yet, but a hunter, nonetheless. The kid gave the barest of nods, then started back towards the van, this time with a proud walk. Bobby followed.
Behind the van, tucked in next to an early Beetle and in front of a rusted out thing that may or may not have been made by the Ford Motor Company, was the kid's fire pit. And over the fire pit, held up by widely spaced stacks of assorted rims, was the front end of a '58 Pontiac. The kid had built himself a grill out of a grill.
Bobby slipped his hat off and rubbed the back of his head. "Would you look at that."
The kid looked up at him and grinned.
* * *
It wasn't quite that easy, of course. The kid spent the rest of the week living in that old van, coming out to spend time with Bobby in the evenings only, when Bobby showed up with his camp stove. The kid had a knife to go along with the gun, Bobby learned, along with another full canister of salt, half a package of beef jerky, a single change of clothes, and an absolute monster of a first aid kit, and he carried most of it with him when he came out to visit. Some of it, like the jerky, he offered to Bobby. Some of it, like the knife, he just made sure to wear in a visible position, so Bobby would always be aware that it was there. Bobby returned the favor by leaning a shot gun up against his folding chair.
Through out the week, the kid never said more than three words, those being "yeah", "no", and "cool". Bobby didn't press him for more, filled the silence with car talk and the occasional stupid dog fact.
The stupid dog in question had trotted right up to the kid and sat down, tongue hanging out, until the kid tossed him a piece of jerky.
Worst junkyard dog ever.
At the end of seven days, Bobby decided it was time to stop being patient. He figured the kid had to be expecting it, but he still wanted to tread carefully. He'd only just started to build up any kind of trust with the kid, and if he was going to figure out where he belonged, then he was going to need every inch of that trust.
"You know I can't let you stay here," Bobby said. The kid, crouched down just outside of Bobby's arm's reach, stared at the camp stove, appearing entirely unconcerned, save for the sudden extra tension through his shoulders.
"I know you didn't pick up the trick with the salt on the streets."
The kid shrugged.
"Look, I can't speak for what you mighta come here from. Whatever it was, living in a crappy ass German piece of shit is apparently better. The state'll take that into consideration, too."
The kid suddenly went bolt upright at that, shaking his head wildly.
"Not CPS," he said. "You can't call them, I didn't do nothing wrong."
Hell, the kid was terrified. Bobby couldn't make heads or tails of it.
"Alright, alright, calm your ass down, kid. I'm just sayin', you can't keep living here."
"Why not?" The kid demanded. "I've got water and food and shelter. I got them all for myself and I'm not hurting anybody."
Bobby studied the way the kid's chest heaved, the way he suddenly tumbled into full sentences at the threat of having to leave the junkyard, and he nodded slowly.
"Okay. But if you're gonna live here, you gotta earn your keep."
The kid nodded, suddenly looking bright-eyed and eager. Like a real kid.
"You got a name, kid?"
"Jimmy," said the kid. "Jimmy Page."
Well, kid sure had some kinda balls on him, if nothing else.
* * *
"Got anything for me, Ellen?"
"Maybe. Seems there's a new guy on the circuit, only been around for maybe five years or so. Already got himself a bit of reputation, rough, hard, but never reckless. Always has to get back to his boys."
"One of those boys gone AWOL?"
"No idea. Guy's too new, Bobby. Doesn't have any real connections, yet. Seems he's struck up a relationship with a friend of Caleb's, though. Some local hero type, man of the cloth name of Jim Murphy."
Bobby sighed, drumming his fingers on his desk as he watched the kid through the window. He was supposed to be hunting up a catalytic converter for an '82 Oldsmobile. Looked to Bobby like he was chasing the dog around in circles. "Right. I'll give Caleb a call, then. Thanks, Ellen."
"Don't mention it. Bring little Jimmy on down, sometime, Bobby. Jo could use a friend who knows a thing or two about hunting."
Bobby snorted. "I'll be sure to mention that to the kid's daddy when I find him."
Ellen laughed. "You do that."
* * *
The way Bobby saw it, he had a couple of options. He could call Caleb up right off, talk around why he wanted the information, and end up with a small handful of tightly knit hunters wondering why the hell Bobby Singer was suddenly interested in one of them, inviting a heap of questions and trouble down on his head. He could call Caleb up, tell him immediately why he wanted the information, and end up inviting a small handful of tightly knit hunters down on his head, ones who the kid quite possibly had a damned good reason to run away from. He could talk to the kid right away, tell him he had a lead on his daddy, and watch the kid vanish off to some other hidey-hole, one that was a whole lot less likely to have a smart, too-nice-for-his-own good hunter around to look after him. Or he could talk to the kid right away, keep it nice and gentle, and try once again to get the kid to tell him something true about who he was and where he came from.
That last one, at least, was more likely to lead to the kid moving back out to the van, which Bobby could handle. Mind you, it'd taken a lot of time, patience, and no small amount of lying about different jobs around the house to get the kid to at least take to passing out on the couch instead of heading all the way back to the van when Bobby ran out of "chores" for him to do for the day, and the weather sure as hell wasn't getting warmer every day. Maybe he was turning into a soft hearted fool, but the house had protection, and Bobby would much rather wake up one morning to discover the kid had gotten into something he shouldn't have inside the house than wake up one morning to discover that the kid had gotten his ass possessed or killed in the junkyard. Still, back to the van was a whole lot safer than back into the wild blue yonder -- or into the hard arms of a bad parent.
Which meant Bobby had to talk to the kid and somehow get him to open the hell up. All because the little runt had for some strange reason chosen Singer Self-Service Auto Salvage for his new home. And wouldn't Lizzie just be laughing her ass off if she could see him now.
Strangely, that thought actually made Bobby feel a little better as he stepped into the library, where he had the runt organizing stacks of texts.
"Hey, Kid," he said -- he couldn't quite bring himself to try calling the kid "Jimmy". "Let's talk a second."
The kid tensed right up, but did his damnedest not to show it. When Bobby lowered himself into a careful crouch, having heard, or maybe read somewhere, that kids responded better when you were down on their level, the kid's eyes went wide and started flicking around the room, like he was looking for an escape, fingers still wrapped tight around the volume on woodland spirits of East Bohemia, which, Bobby noted, the kid was about to stick in between a book of Icelandic sagas and one on Micronesian cargo cults. Bobby rubbed his jaw, then pointed to the books. "Not sure you wanna put that there."
The kid relaxed and looked at the book in his hands. "It starts with G," he said. Bobby nodded, seeing as that much was true. The kid pointed to the Micronesian book. "That one starts with H." Bobby nodded again, then tapped the Icelandic Sagas.
"And this one's I."
The kid looked blankly at it for a moment, then flushed bright red and cursed. Bobby was pretty sure a kid his size wasn't supposed to be using that sort of language, but it wasn't like Bobby was his daddy, so he didn't say a thing about it, just waited for the kid to rearrange the books into the right order, then cleared his throat to get his attention again.
"That ain't what I wanted to talk about."
The kid nodded solemnly. "You're kicking me out," he said, and it wasn't even close to a question. "You're just making up stuff for me to do, anyway. I'm not an idiot."
Now Bobby wasn't too sure about that last bit, but he had to admit he might've underestimated the kid's ability to spot a con. Which was just going to make this whole conversation that much more difficult.
"Look," he said. "Kid -- I can't keep calling you 'Kid'. And you sure as hell ain't no Yardbird."
The kid blinked once, but kept quiet. Bobby sighed.
"Now I think I got a lead on your family," he said, and the kid tensed up again so fast Bobby imagined he could hear his spine crackle. He put up his hand in what he hoped the kid realized was supposed to be a reassuring gesture. "I ain't gonna contact 'em unless you tell me to, alright?"
The kid was shaking. "Not CPS," he said. "You promised. You said you wouldn't --" He cut off as Bobby lifted his hand again.
"Kid, I ain't handing you over to the state, neither. Seems to me it wouldn't do no one any good, least of all you. Ain't like they'd understand the things you and I know, anyway."
The kid nodded slowly. He didn't relax much, but Bobby was proud to note that he did stop shaking. He nodded back, then continued.
"But if you're gonna stay here long term, kid, I need to know who you are, what happened to you and your family." When the kid opened his mouth, looking like he was going to object, Bobby hurried on. "Only fair to both of us, you know," he said. "If something or someone's gonna come after you here, we'll both need to be on the lookout."
Bobby could see the battle going on on the kid's face as he thought through Bobby's logic. In the end, Bobby figured it was the idea of something coming to get them here that did the trick. The kid opened his mouth, then closed it again, looked down at his shoe, kicked at the edge of Lizzie's favorite rug. Bobby decided to give him a minute. He was pretty sure the kid wouldn't bolt the moment his back was turned -- and either way, Bobby'd locked the door. He figured the extra seconds that bought him would be enough to catch him before he went to ground.
"Lemme get you something to drink, and we'll sit down and talk, okay?"
The kid nodded, probably relieved to get the chance to get his head in order -- or his story together -- before Bobby made him spill his guts. He gave Bobby a wry, hopeful smile that in a good ten years was likely to wet the panties of girls across the country. "Coffee?"
"Sure. You like bein' that short, right?"
The kid flicked him off.
* * *
It was like releasing the flood gates on the Hoover Dam, if the Hoover Dam had flood gates, which Bobby wasn't too sure of. Either way, once the kid got started talking, the kid got started talking, spouting what sounded like his entire life story all mixed up and out of order. Was a hell of a story, too, by anyone's reckoning, filled with far more harrowing adventure than any kid his size -- Bobby still wasn't sure about his age -- should be familiar with outside of storybooks.
First thing first, his father was John Fucking Winchester -- no shit, to listen to the kid talk, that might as well be the man's middle name -- and he was a superhero. He saved people, and not just the kid -- Dean, it seemed -- and his little brother. Other people. People he didn't even know. He was strong and stalwart and brave as a only a kid's personal superhero could be. He sure as hell didn't sound like any child-beating monster, and Bobby had trouble working out why the kid was here instead of curled up in bed listening to stories of his father's conquests on the hunt.
Then Dean started in on his little brother. Fucking genius angel from heaven, to hear him talk. Apple of his daddy's -- and his big brother's -- eye. Didn't know the first goddamn thing about hunting because if John Fucking Winchester was the knight in shining armor, Sammy was the coddled, protected prince. Bobby couldn't quite work out where Dean fit into the fairytale web he was spinning, but figured it was probably close to a squire, a knight in training. Personal protector and best friend to the prince. Horatio to Sammy's Hamlet.
And, to hear Dean talk, a complete and utter failure at it.
Seemed the goodly knight had left the kingdom to hunt a dangerous beast and put his squire in charge of his royal smallness, and for more than a couple of hours, too. Days. Dean, the kid who had spent more of his time chasing the dog around the yard and climbing jalopies and inventing garden furniture out of old car parts than he did staying still, was told to stay in a motel room with his little brother, and went stir-crazy. Hell, Bobby was feeling a bit twitchy just thinking about it, didn't think a damn soul could blame a kid for wanting to get out for a bit. But, well, world being the fucked up, kick you in the ass and laugh in your face kinda place it was, that bit turned out to be just when a goddamn striga decided to snack on the little prince, and now John Fucking Winchester, superhero hunter extraordinaire, couldn't trust his oldest to watch out for his youngest. Bobby pretty well figured that meant John Fucking Winchester had finally gotten a fucking clue, but to Dean it was the end of the fucking world. Uselessness in the face of his father's heroism. John could take care of Sammy better than Dean could, and that meant Dean was only in the way.
So Dean had cleared the fuck out, hitched a ride from Minnesota to South Dakota in the back of a pick up, and holed up in the first defensible spot he could find, which just happened to be Bobby Singer's Self-Service Auto Salvage.
The world was just fucking nuts, wasn't it.
When the flood waters finally slowed, leaving the kid shiny-eyed, heaving for breath, and scowling, Bobby let the silence hang for a long moment, then ran his hand down his beard.
He nodded slowly. "So I gotta wonder," he said finally, dropping his chin to get a good look at the kid's face, "just what your daddy thought you were gonna do to stop a striga from showing up."
Dean stared at him.
"From what I heard, it ain't like the suckers are too worried about being spotted by other kids when they feed. It'd've shown up if you were there or not."
"I coulda shot it. You can kill it while it feeds. Consecrated iron."
Bobby hadn't heard that one. He filed it away to check out, later. "Ain't that what your daddy did when he barreled in, anyway?"
Dean looked away, mouth clamped shut.
"Kid, that witch woulda sucked your life out as soon as looked at you."
"I'm s'posed to protect Sammy."
"And how're you gonna do that from my junk yard?"
Dean's eyes snapped back up. "I told you. I screwed up. I can't do it, any more."
"You always hit the target dead on when you shoot?"
Dean nodded. "Yeah." Figured the kid would be a fucking gun prodigy.
"How 'bout Latin? Always get your pronunciation right?"
Dean frowned. "I don't know any Latin."
A hunter's kid, training up to be one himself, and he didn't know any Latin? "Well, now, that's just a damn shame and we're gonna have to work on that. But not my point." Bobby wracked his brain. "What happened the first time you tried to build a fire?"
". . . It went out."
"And the time after that?"
Dean's mouth snapped shut.
"You get where I'm going with this?"
"Dad doesn't look at me the same." There was desperation in the kid's voice, now, and Bobby felt his heart damn near break.
"Shit, kid, that's just part of growing up."
If Dean bought that line -- which Bobby wasn't sure even he bought -- he didn't show it. He looked away again. "What do you want from me?"
"I want you to call your father. He and I ain't exactly in the same circles, so I can't say for sure, but you were my kid? I'd be going apeshit looking for you."
Dean's eyes snapped back to Bobby's again and he swallowed. Bobby nodded.
"You don't gotta leave," he said. "I ain't gonna kick you out, not now, not ever." And he wasn't sure where that came from, except that Lizzie and he had talked about kids and this wasn't the life Bobby'd thought he'd have when he put that ring on her finger or when they tumbled into bed together, but looking after this kid felt more like honoring Lizzie than all the hunts he'd been on and all the research he'd done in the last several years put together. "But you gotta let your daddy know you're alright."
Dean seemed to shrink into the cushions, filled up with shame or fear or some mix of the two. "Tomorrow?" he asked, his voice smaller than Bobby'd ever heard it.
"Yeah, boy. Tomorrow's fine."
* * *
Bobby half expected the kid to bolt back out to the van for the night. Instead, Dean stayed up on the couch, flipping through molding books full of tiny print, as though if he just kept his eyes open and focused long enough, he could make the night last forever.
Bobby knew just how he felt.
* * *
Two days later, John Fucking Winchester blew in on the edge of a front that promised snow and lots of it, driving a big black boat of a Chevy, dusted up and caked in salt, but for all that looking damn out of place among the lost and uncared for heaps in Bobby's yard. He was a burly looking bear of a man with a round puppy of a kid kneeling on the back seat, but when he rolled himself out of the car, he did so with more grace than Bobby'd've given him credit for. Swung the shotgun in his hand up with the same easy confidence and pointed it right at Bobby's head.
"Where's my son?"
Bobby stared him down. "Hello to you, too."
"Cut the crap, Singer." John strode right up the steps to Bobby's door, aim never wavering. "I want to see my kid."
"And you will," Bobby said. "Might want to calm your ass down a bit, first."
John lowered the gun, then laid a hell of a haymaker across Bobby's jaw, which didn't do a damn thing to endear him to Bobby. But then Dean burst from the house, hands out, shouting "No, Dad, no, Bobby's cool," and John's expression crumpled into something half-agonized, half-awed, and the fist and the shotgun were both forgotten in favor of scooping the kid right up off the ground, patting him down for injuries and just drinking in the very sight of him, and Bobby knew Dean would be okay.
Didn't make it all that much easier to say goodbye, though.
* * *
In the end, all Bobby could do was make it clear to Dean and his family that they were welcome by whenever they needed or wanted it. Once he'd calmed down, John had had grace enough to thank Bobby for watching out for Dean, and Bobby's library of all things weird and evil -- especially demons -- was too useful a commodity to pass up. Sammy didn't take his time worming his way into Bobby's heart right next to the spot Dean had managed to carve out for himself, either, dubbing him "Uncle Bobby" less than a day after meeting him and curling up next to him on the couch with picture books he swore up and down were way better than whatever Bobby might be reading at the time. Lizzie would have had a fucking field day with the Winchesters, especially Sam, though even the thought of her cheerfully firing right back at John whenever he got too surly couldn't always keep Bobby's temper in check with the stubborn ass of a man. Bobby figured he'd known even then that the Winchesters were setting him up for a heart break, and twenty years later, trapped in a chair trying to hold Dean together with nothing more than his voice and a tenuous CB radio connection, he still couldn't help but thank whatever it was that had lead the small, freaked out kid to bunker down in his junkyard that the driver of that pick-up hadn't been headed some other way.
Author: Bella Temple
Category: SPN, gen, preseries
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Lots of cursing, unbetaed
Spoilers: General for all aired eps, but especially for "Something Wicked" and "Abandon All Hope"
Characters: Bobby, Dean, Sam, John
Disclaimer: The characters and basic premise within are property of their original creators and producers. No money is being made off this work of fiction.
Author's note: This sucker had been sitting unfinished in my word processor for far too long. Let's just say it's my answer for why Bobby and Dean's relationship is so damn tight. Title and cut tag from the Weakerthans
Summary: Bobby and his wife had talked about kids, but he was pretty sure having one show up one day in your junkyard was not the way that was supposed to work.
The kid must have snuck in while Bobby was on a hunt. Later, he'd even find the hole in the fence -- little bastard had actually had the forethought to bring along bolt cutters, or something of the like. This, well, this was when Bobby was still traveling, spending more time on the road than he did at home, watching his beautiful house, decorated by his beautiful Lizzie, fall slowly to ruin. Bobby had been gone a good long while, this time, working a case up near the Montana border, so the kid had at least a week or so to settle in, unharassed, 'cept for that damn old dog, who apparently couldn't guard a yard for shit.
Hell, kid even got an extra few days of squat time between Bobby getting home and Bobby noticing the unexpected smoke rising up from one of the heaps of old jalopies that lined the edge of his domain, about as far from the house itself as you could get without actually hopping the fence and ending up in the county-owned "wildflower meadow", which as far as Bobby was concerned was just a fancy term for "scrap of crap-ass land that we don't feel like getting around to mowing". Lord only knew what the kid had gotten up to in those few days, while Bobby lost his own ass at the bottom of a bottle or two and waited for his feet to stop hurting so much. Maybe the kid had gotten complacent, figured he wouldn't get drop kicked for trespassing, got too cold. Maybe the kid had been lighting fires the whole time and Bobby just hadn't gotten around to noticing.
Either way, the kid had definitely been there more'n a week by the time Bobby marched himself out to the edge of the yard with a fire extinguisher and a bucket of holy water to check things out.
At the time, see, Bobby hadn't known a goddamn thing about the kid. Or any kid, for that matter. Oh, he and Lizzie'd talked about family, of course, and he'd dreamed of teaching a son or daughter everything he knew, of watching them run around the yard, their feet turning green with grass stains, kicking up clover and fireflies instead of dust and . . . more dust. But that was Before, and even if he had the wherewithall to make himself a munchkin, he sure as hell wasn't about to introduce him or her to a world where a fire in the junkyard required blessing water. At the time, he was thinking that the sun had maybe zapped through a particularly warped windshield at a particularly warped angle, maybe fried what little grass managed to spring up in the yard around the old tires and junked out hulls. Maybe some idiot had thought it'd be fun to go off-roading through the "wildflower meadow" and pitched his cigarette in the wrong direction. Or maybe some kind of fire demon had taken up residence. He was hoping for that one. Seemed the only time he really felt like he was doing anything at all these days was when he was offing some black-eyed freak of super-nature.
Course, it was none of the above. No flash fires, no cigarettes, no demons. Just a freaked out, feral, tiny person, huddled in a mess of stained and raggedy old blankets in the back of a green and white VW T2, one of the real old pieces of shit with the split windshield and removable rear seats that had gone the way of the dodo long before the thing had ever made its home in Bobby's lot. Oh, and the kid was holding a gun on him. That shit was priceless.
"Don't point that thing if you ain't thinking of using it," Bobby told him. The kid's two handed grip was steady on the pistol, and his aim never wavered. "You'll put an eye out with that thing."
He half expected to get shot right there. More'n half expected some kind of smart-assed bullshit, maybe some posturing, a claim of "finder's, keepers," maybe even getting called "old man". At the very least, he was counting on a snarl. Instead the kid just stared at him, gun out, eyes wide in the relative darkness of his squated home.
Again, Bobby didn't know a goddamn thing about kids, those days, so looking at this one, he didn't have much of a clue how old he might be, except that he was sure as shit too big for diapers, but nowhere near the age to be let off the familial leash and loosed on the world on his lonesome. Bobby only spotted one bag, a battered old thing, almost completely swallowed up by the gallons of scratchy wool blankets that the kid waded in hip deep. Bobby was pretty sure it was an army duffel, but it was hard to tell, backlit as it and the kid were by the flicker of flames, several feet behind him, just beyond the reach of the open back hatch. Harder still to tell if the kid's eyes looked even remotely human in the gloom. Plenty of evil shit out there that didn't mind masquerading as a munchkin, these days.
"Christo," Bobby said. He coulda gone with throwing the holy water, but he really didn't want to get shot for startling the kid. The kid's face didn't change, but he jerked one leg beneath the blankets, and the next thing he knew, Bobby was getting a salt shower.
Fucker had booby trapped the van.
* * *
Only one thing to do when one had an infestation. Well, alright, there was a bunch of things a guy could do about an infestation of any sort, not the least of which was lay your own traps for the pests, or maybe try to smoke 'em out. But if a guy didn't have the first clue 'bout dealing with a particular type of pest, then there was only one thing a guy with any brains in his goddamn head would do, and that was call a professional.
Bobby called Ellen Harvelle.
"And you're sure the kid's a hunter?"
"I may not know shit 'bout what kids think is in these days," Bobby said, "but sure as hell it ain't carrying salt around in bulk."
And shit, if that woman didn't have the damn gall to laugh.
"I haven't heard anything yet, but you know how hunters are, Bobby. Half these guys probably have kids scattered all across the lower forty-eight, and some of 'em might even be nice enough to teach 'em a thing or two. But I'll keep an ear open."
"Thanks." It came out as little more than a grunt. Bobby only really knew Ellen through her husband, Bill, and he'd only met him a couple hunts back. Still, Bill had a mouth on him and enough civility left in him to invite a body back to his roadhouse for a drink after a nasty weekend chasing skinwalkers, and Ellen was the only person Bobby knew with a kid of her own who was likely to be anywhere near a phone. "What the hell am I supposed to do with this kid in the meantime?"
Ellen was quiet for a moment or two on the other end, and Bobby wondered if his pest problem hadn't actually stumped the woman with a good five years experience wrangling the things. When she spoke up again, her tone was the sort that Bobby could only think of as "bemused". "Have you tried talking to him?"
"Little shit pulled a gun on me, Ellen. He didn't seem much the talkin' type."
"He's probably scared, Bobby."
"He didn't look scared to me, Ellen. Looked wild."
"I don't know what to tell you, Bobby. Just keep trying."
It was the most unsatisfying conversation he'd ever had with a pest-professional, and that included the time he'd had to talk to a bat shit crazy old psychic about an infestation of gremlins. Bobby hung up without much more of a clue of how to handle the homeless rugrat on his property than he'd had before he called.
Then the world's worst junkyard dog scratched at the back door and whined, and Bobby got himself an idea.
* * *
See, Bobby Singer didn't have a goddamn clue how to handle a child, but he did know a thing or two about a wild animal. And the little shit living in the van at the edge of his property might be human, but Bobby figured that after however much time living on the ass-end of a junk yard in a beat up old hippie van that probably still smelled of patchouli and sex, with nothing but greasy blankets and a small fire to keep you warm, the kid was likely not far from a wild animal himself. And, sure, kid had himself a gun, and even probably knew how to use it. But damn if the feral cats that used to live under Bobby's porch hadn't had some mighty efficient weapons of their own that they definitely knew how to use, and Bobby had made it out of that one without more than a stitch or two and a series of rabies shots. So he went back out to the end of the yard that night with an old portable stove and a sack of groceries, sat down by the fence a few yards from where the kid's van stuck out from its pile of clunkers, and set about making himself a stack of s'mores.
Kid didn't show his face that first night, too smart or too scared to the take the bait, but Bobby could be a patient man when he wanted to be, especially when experience had taught him that patience made you less likely to get hissed and scratched at. He ate the whole stack of s'mores himself -- no point in setting up a con if you weren't willing to see it through -- went on back to his house, and proceeded to have a perfectly miserable night of indigestion in which to plan his next ploy.
He went with hot dogs, next. Those were more aromatic, anyway.
It took two more days of eating the worst of the camp out food classics before the kid showed his dingy face again, peering out through the space where the van's side door used to hang. Bobby did his best to track the kid's movements without looking head on, figuring eye contact was a sure fire way to spook the kid back into hiding, or worse, into firing that pistol of his. The kid slunk his way closer like a hungry cat, and Bobby congratulated himself on his solid reasoning.
When the kid reached about the halfway point between the van and Bobby's stove, the pistol hanging in a loose-knuckled grip, Bobby allowed himself to speak.
"Oh," he said, still not looking over. "You still here, then?"
The kid stopped advancing and tightened his grip on the gun, but he didn't fire and he didn't retreat, and Bobby counted it as a win. He tilted his head to the camp stove, where he had coffee brewing along side a couple of cheeseburgers. "I'm guessing you're probably hungry."
The kid held his position for a long moment, then set off back to the van, and Bobby reminded himself that this was a good step in the right direction and that he couldn't expect to succeed overnight. The cats, after all, had taken a week.
Then the kid surprised him by popping back out of the van and scurrying back over, this time holding an open tin can, the gun tucked carefully into the back of his filthy jeans. He sidled up to Bobby and offered the can. Bobby accepted it with a testing glance at the kid, who was focused anywhere but Bobby himself, but didn't look like he was seconds from taking off again, either. Bobby looked in the can.
Spaghettios. They were even warm, too.
Bobby let his surprised show on his face and glanced over. "How'd you manage that, then?"
The kid turned and looked back at him, matching the angle of Bobby's head, the sideways look of the eyes, and Bobby suddenly realized he was thinking of the kid the wrong way. Here he was dealing with a fellow hunter. An incredibly short hunter who didn't shave yet, but a hunter, nonetheless. The kid gave the barest of nods, then started back towards the van, this time with a proud walk. Bobby followed.
Behind the van, tucked in next to an early Beetle and in front of a rusted out thing that may or may not have been made by the Ford Motor Company, was the kid's fire pit. And over the fire pit, held up by widely spaced stacks of assorted rims, was the front end of a '58 Pontiac. The kid had built himself a grill out of a grill.
Bobby slipped his hat off and rubbed the back of his head. "Would you look at that."
The kid looked up at him and grinned.
* * *
It wasn't quite that easy, of course. The kid spent the rest of the week living in that old van, coming out to spend time with Bobby in the evenings only, when Bobby showed up with his camp stove. The kid had a knife to go along with the gun, Bobby learned, along with another full canister of salt, half a package of beef jerky, a single change of clothes, and an absolute monster of a first aid kit, and he carried most of it with him when he came out to visit. Some of it, like the jerky, he offered to Bobby. Some of it, like the knife, he just made sure to wear in a visible position, so Bobby would always be aware that it was there. Bobby returned the favor by leaning a shot gun up against his folding chair.
Through out the week, the kid never said more than three words, those being "yeah", "no", and "cool". Bobby didn't press him for more, filled the silence with car talk and the occasional stupid dog fact.
The stupid dog in question had trotted right up to the kid and sat down, tongue hanging out, until the kid tossed him a piece of jerky.
Worst junkyard dog ever.
At the end of seven days, Bobby decided it was time to stop being patient. He figured the kid had to be expecting it, but he still wanted to tread carefully. He'd only just started to build up any kind of trust with the kid, and if he was going to figure out where he belonged, then he was going to need every inch of that trust.
"You know I can't let you stay here," Bobby said. The kid, crouched down just outside of Bobby's arm's reach, stared at the camp stove, appearing entirely unconcerned, save for the sudden extra tension through his shoulders.
"I know you didn't pick up the trick with the salt on the streets."
The kid shrugged.
"Look, I can't speak for what you mighta come here from. Whatever it was, living in a crappy ass German piece of shit is apparently better. The state'll take that into consideration, too."
The kid suddenly went bolt upright at that, shaking his head wildly.
"Not CPS," he said. "You can't call them, I didn't do nothing wrong."
Hell, the kid was terrified. Bobby couldn't make heads or tails of it.
"Alright, alright, calm your ass down, kid. I'm just sayin', you can't keep living here."
"Why not?" The kid demanded. "I've got water and food and shelter. I got them all for myself and I'm not hurting anybody."
Bobby studied the way the kid's chest heaved, the way he suddenly tumbled into full sentences at the threat of having to leave the junkyard, and he nodded slowly.
"Okay. But if you're gonna live here, you gotta earn your keep."
The kid nodded, suddenly looking bright-eyed and eager. Like a real kid.
"You got a name, kid?"
"Jimmy," said the kid. "Jimmy Page."
Well, kid sure had some kinda balls on him, if nothing else.
* * *
"Got anything for me, Ellen?"
"Maybe. Seems there's a new guy on the circuit, only been around for maybe five years or so. Already got himself a bit of reputation, rough, hard, but never reckless. Always has to get back to his boys."
"One of those boys gone AWOL?"
"No idea. Guy's too new, Bobby. Doesn't have any real connections, yet. Seems he's struck up a relationship with a friend of Caleb's, though. Some local hero type, man of the cloth name of Jim Murphy."
Bobby sighed, drumming his fingers on his desk as he watched the kid through the window. He was supposed to be hunting up a catalytic converter for an '82 Oldsmobile. Looked to Bobby like he was chasing the dog around in circles. "Right. I'll give Caleb a call, then. Thanks, Ellen."
"Don't mention it. Bring little Jimmy on down, sometime, Bobby. Jo could use a friend who knows a thing or two about hunting."
Bobby snorted. "I'll be sure to mention that to the kid's daddy when I find him."
Ellen laughed. "You do that."
* * *
The way Bobby saw it, he had a couple of options. He could call Caleb up right off, talk around why he wanted the information, and end up with a small handful of tightly knit hunters wondering why the hell Bobby Singer was suddenly interested in one of them, inviting a heap of questions and trouble down on his head. He could call Caleb up, tell him immediately why he wanted the information, and end up inviting a small handful of tightly knit hunters down on his head, ones who the kid quite possibly had a damned good reason to run away from. He could talk to the kid right away, tell him he had a lead on his daddy, and watch the kid vanish off to some other hidey-hole, one that was a whole lot less likely to have a smart, too-nice-for-his-own good hunter around to look after him. Or he could talk to the kid right away, keep it nice and gentle, and try once again to get the kid to tell him something true about who he was and where he came from.
That last one, at least, was more likely to lead to the kid moving back out to the van, which Bobby could handle. Mind you, it'd taken a lot of time, patience, and no small amount of lying about different jobs around the house to get the kid to at least take to passing out on the couch instead of heading all the way back to the van when Bobby ran out of "chores" for him to do for the day, and the weather sure as hell wasn't getting warmer every day. Maybe he was turning into a soft hearted fool, but the house had protection, and Bobby would much rather wake up one morning to discover the kid had gotten into something he shouldn't have inside the house than wake up one morning to discover that the kid had gotten his ass possessed or killed in the junkyard. Still, back to the van was a whole lot safer than back into the wild blue yonder -- or into the hard arms of a bad parent.
Which meant Bobby had to talk to the kid and somehow get him to open the hell up. All because the little runt had for some strange reason chosen Singer Self-Service Auto Salvage for his new home. And wouldn't Lizzie just be laughing her ass off if she could see him now.
Strangely, that thought actually made Bobby feel a little better as he stepped into the library, where he had the runt organizing stacks of texts.
"Hey, Kid," he said -- he couldn't quite bring himself to try calling the kid "Jimmy". "Let's talk a second."
The kid tensed right up, but did his damnedest not to show it. When Bobby lowered himself into a careful crouch, having heard, or maybe read somewhere, that kids responded better when you were down on their level, the kid's eyes went wide and started flicking around the room, like he was looking for an escape, fingers still wrapped tight around the volume on woodland spirits of East Bohemia, which, Bobby noted, the kid was about to stick in between a book of Icelandic sagas and one on Micronesian cargo cults. Bobby rubbed his jaw, then pointed to the books. "Not sure you wanna put that there."
The kid relaxed and looked at the book in his hands. "It starts with G," he said. Bobby nodded, seeing as that much was true. The kid pointed to the Micronesian book. "That one starts with H." Bobby nodded again, then tapped the Icelandic Sagas.
"And this one's I."
The kid looked blankly at it for a moment, then flushed bright red and cursed. Bobby was pretty sure a kid his size wasn't supposed to be using that sort of language, but it wasn't like Bobby was his daddy, so he didn't say a thing about it, just waited for the kid to rearrange the books into the right order, then cleared his throat to get his attention again.
"That ain't what I wanted to talk about."
The kid nodded solemnly. "You're kicking me out," he said, and it wasn't even close to a question. "You're just making up stuff for me to do, anyway. I'm not an idiot."
Now Bobby wasn't too sure about that last bit, but he had to admit he might've underestimated the kid's ability to spot a con. Which was just going to make this whole conversation that much more difficult.
"Look," he said. "Kid -- I can't keep calling you 'Kid'. And you sure as hell ain't no Yardbird."
The kid blinked once, but kept quiet. Bobby sighed.
"Now I think I got a lead on your family," he said, and the kid tensed up again so fast Bobby imagined he could hear his spine crackle. He put up his hand in what he hoped the kid realized was supposed to be a reassuring gesture. "I ain't gonna contact 'em unless you tell me to, alright?"
The kid was shaking. "Not CPS," he said. "You promised. You said you wouldn't --" He cut off as Bobby lifted his hand again.
"Kid, I ain't handing you over to the state, neither. Seems to me it wouldn't do no one any good, least of all you. Ain't like they'd understand the things you and I know, anyway."
The kid nodded slowly. He didn't relax much, but Bobby was proud to note that he did stop shaking. He nodded back, then continued.
"But if you're gonna stay here long term, kid, I need to know who you are, what happened to you and your family." When the kid opened his mouth, looking like he was going to object, Bobby hurried on. "Only fair to both of us, you know," he said. "If something or someone's gonna come after you here, we'll both need to be on the lookout."
Bobby could see the battle going on on the kid's face as he thought through Bobby's logic. In the end, Bobby figured it was the idea of something coming to get them here that did the trick. The kid opened his mouth, then closed it again, looked down at his shoe, kicked at the edge of Lizzie's favorite rug. Bobby decided to give him a minute. He was pretty sure the kid wouldn't bolt the moment his back was turned -- and either way, Bobby'd locked the door. He figured the extra seconds that bought him would be enough to catch him before he went to ground.
"Lemme get you something to drink, and we'll sit down and talk, okay?"
The kid nodded, probably relieved to get the chance to get his head in order -- or his story together -- before Bobby made him spill his guts. He gave Bobby a wry, hopeful smile that in a good ten years was likely to wet the panties of girls across the country. "Coffee?"
"Sure. You like bein' that short, right?"
The kid flicked him off.
* * *
It was like releasing the flood gates on the Hoover Dam, if the Hoover Dam had flood gates, which Bobby wasn't too sure of. Either way, once the kid got started talking, the kid got started talking, spouting what sounded like his entire life story all mixed up and out of order. Was a hell of a story, too, by anyone's reckoning, filled with far more harrowing adventure than any kid his size -- Bobby still wasn't sure about his age -- should be familiar with outside of storybooks.
First thing first, his father was John Fucking Winchester -- no shit, to listen to the kid talk, that might as well be the man's middle name -- and he was a superhero. He saved people, and not just the kid -- Dean, it seemed -- and his little brother. Other people. People he didn't even know. He was strong and stalwart and brave as a only a kid's personal superhero could be. He sure as hell didn't sound like any child-beating monster, and Bobby had trouble working out why the kid was here instead of curled up in bed listening to stories of his father's conquests on the hunt.
Then Dean started in on his little brother. Fucking genius angel from heaven, to hear him talk. Apple of his daddy's -- and his big brother's -- eye. Didn't know the first goddamn thing about hunting because if John Fucking Winchester was the knight in shining armor, Sammy was the coddled, protected prince. Bobby couldn't quite work out where Dean fit into the fairytale web he was spinning, but figured it was probably close to a squire, a knight in training. Personal protector and best friend to the prince. Horatio to Sammy's Hamlet.
And, to hear Dean talk, a complete and utter failure at it.
Seemed the goodly knight had left the kingdom to hunt a dangerous beast and put his squire in charge of his royal smallness, and for more than a couple of hours, too. Days. Dean, the kid who had spent more of his time chasing the dog around the yard and climbing jalopies and inventing garden furniture out of old car parts than he did staying still, was told to stay in a motel room with his little brother, and went stir-crazy. Hell, Bobby was feeling a bit twitchy just thinking about it, didn't think a damn soul could blame a kid for wanting to get out for a bit. But, well, world being the fucked up, kick you in the ass and laugh in your face kinda place it was, that bit turned out to be just when a goddamn striga decided to snack on the little prince, and now John Fucking Winchester, superhero hunter extraordinaire, couldn't trust his oldest to watch out for his youngest. Bobby pretty well figured that meant John Fucking Winchester had finally gotten a fucking clue, but to Dean it was the end of the fucking world. Uselessness in the face of his father's heroism. John could take care of Sammy better than Dean could, and that meant Dean was only in the way.
So Dean had cleared the fuck out, hitched a ride from Minnesota to South Dakota in the back of a pick up, and holed up in the first defensible spot he could find, which just happened to be Bobby Singer's Self-Service Auto Salvage.
The world was just fucking nuts, wasn't it.
When the flood waters finally slowed, leaving the kid shiny-eyed, heaving for breath, and scowling, Bobby let the silence hang for a long moment, then ran his hand down his beard.
He nodded slowly. "So I gotta wonder," he said finally, dropping his chin to get a good look at the kid's face, "just what your daddy thought you were gonna do to stop a striga from showing up."
Dean stared at him.
"From what I heard, it ain't like the suckers are too worried about being spotted by other kids when they feed. It'd've shown up if you were there or not."
"I coulda shot it. You can kill it while it feeds. Consecrated iron."
Bobby hadn't heard that one. He filed it away to check out, later. "Ain't that what your daddy did when he barreled in, anyway?"
Dean looked away, mouth clamped shut.
"Kid, that witch woulda sucked your life out as soon as looked at you."
"I'm s'posed to protect Sammy."
"And how're you gonna do that from my junk yard?"
Dean's eyes snapped back up. "I told you. I screwed up. I can't do it, any more."
"You always hit the target dead on when you shoot?"
Dean nodded. "Yeah." Figured the kid would be a fucking gun prodigy.
"How 'bout Latin? Always get your pronunciation right?"
Dean frowned. "I don't know any Latin."
A hunter's kid, training up to be one himself, and he didn't know any Latin? "Well, now, that's just a damn shame and we're gonna have to work on that. But not my point." Bobby wracked his brain. "What happened the first time you tried to build a fire?"
". . . It went out."
"And the time after that?"
Dean's mouth snapped shut.
"You get where I'm going with this?"
"Dad doesn't look at me the same." There was desperation in the kid's voice, now, and Bobby felt his heart damn near break.
"Shit, kid, that's just part of growing up."
If Dean bought that line -- which Bobby wasn't sure even he bought -- he didn't show it. He looked away again. "What do you want from me?"
"I want you to call your father. He and I ain't exactly in the same circles, so I can't say for sure, but you were my kid? I'd be going apeshit looking for you."
Dean's eyes snapped back to Bobby's again and he swallowed. Bobby nodded.
"You don't gotta leave," he said. "I ain't gonna kick you out, not now, not ever." And he wasn't sure where that came from, except that Lizzie and he had talked about kids and this wasn't the life Bobby'd thought he'd have when he put that ring on her finger or when they tumbled into bed together, but looking after this kid felt more like honoring Lizzie than all the hunts he'd been on and all the research he'd done in the last several years put together. "But you gotta let your daddy know you're alright."
Dean seemed to shrink into the cushions, filled up with shame or fear or some mix of the two. "Tomorrow?" he asked, his voice smaller than Bobby'd ever heard it.
"Yeah, boy. Tomorrow's fine."
* * *
Bobby half expected the kid to bolt back out to the van for the night. Instead, Dean stayed up on the couch, flipping through molding books full of tiny print, as though if he just kept his eyes open and focused long enough, he could make the night last forever.
Bobby knew just how he felt.
* * *
Two days later, John Fucking Winchester blew in on the edge of a front that promised snow and lots of it, driving a big black boat of a Chevy, dusted up and caked in salt, but for all that looking damn out of place among the lost and uncared for heaps in Bobby's yard. He was a burly looking bear of a man with a round puppy of a kid kneeling on the back seat, but when he rolled himself out of the car, he did so with more grace than Bobby'd've given him credit for. Swung the shotgun in his hand up with the same easy confidence and pointed it right at Bobby's head.
"Where's my son?"
Bobby stared him down. "Hello to you, too."
"Cut the crap, Singer." John strode right up the steps to Bobby's door, aim never wavering. "I want to see my kid."
"And you will," Bobby said. "Might want to calm your ass down a bit, first."
John lowered the gun, then laid a hell of a haymaker across Bobby's jaw, which didn't do a damn thing to endear him to Bobby. But then Dean burst from the house, hands out, shouting "No, Dad, no, Bobby's cool," and John's expression crumpled into something half-agonized, half-awed, and the fist and the shotgun were both forgotten in favor of scooping the kid right up off the ground, patting him down for injuries and just drinking in the very sight of him, and Bobby knew Dean would be okay.
Didn't make it all that much easier to say goodbye, though.
* * *
In the end, all Bobby could do was make it clear to Dean and his family that they were welcome by whenever they needed or wanted it. Once he'd calmed down, John had had grace enough to thank Bobby for watching out for Dean, and Bobby's library of all things weird and evil -- especially demons -- was too useful a commodity to pass up. Sammy didn't take his time worming his way into Bobby's heart right next to the spot Dean had managed to carve out for himself, either, dubbing him "Uncle Bobby" less than a day after meeting him and curling up next to him on the couch with picture books he swore up and down were way better than whatever Bobby might be reading at the time. Lizzie would have had a fucking field day with the Winchesters, especially Sam, though even the thought of her cheerfully firing right back at John whenever he got too surly couldn't always keep Bobby's temper in check with the stubborn ass of a man. Bobby figured he'd known even then that the Winchesters were setting him up for a heart break, and twenty years later, trapped in a chair trying to hold Dean together with nothing more than his voice and a tenuous CB radio connection, he still couldn't help but thank whatever it was that had lead the small, freaked out kid to bunker down in his junkyard that the driver of that pick-up hadn't been headed some other way.