Lie Back and Think of Heaven 7/12
Lie Back and Think of Heaven 7/12
Title: Lie Back and Think of Heaven, 7/12
Rating: R
Warnings: language, sex, sex without Castiel
Spoilers: none, slightly AU
Disclaimer: I have no control over Eric Kripke, else SPN would resemble a deliciously gay soap opera. Oh wait.
Summary: John dies in Dean's senior year, and Dean's left to raise Sammy on his own. Or he would be, if a mysterious stranger didn't keep popping up to help...
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Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6
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Chapter 7
“Uncle Bobby?” Dean asks incredulously.
The man’s forehead creases. “Uncle Bobby,” he repeats, sounding taken aback. He squints at Dean suspiciously. Then his mouth pops open into a small o, his eyes widening underneath the shadow of his trucker hat. “Dean? Winchester, boy, is that you?”
“In the flesh,” Dean laughs, holding out his arms. It was a “ta-dah!” more than anything, but Bobby takes it as an invitation and grabs him into a hug. After a moment Dean clutches him back, savoring the brief moment of warmth and strength - it’s been ages since arms have held him without lust or murderous intent. It felt… good.
“It’s good to see you again, Bobby,” Dean grins, gruffing up his voice a bit to hide the wobble in it. “Been too long.”
“You can say that again,” Bobby huffs, patting him solidly on the back before letting go. He folds his arms in front of his chest, looking every inch as righteously irritable as Dean remembers him to be. “It’s been… what? Seven years? Ever since that fool father of yours-”
Too late Dean tries to relax the muscles that tightened in his shoulders; Bobby pauses in favor of scrutinizing him with narrowed eyes.
“He’s why you’re here, isn’t he,” Bobby postulates shrewdly. “What’s John gotten into this time?”
“No, uh… no,” Dean mutters, averting his eyes. This wasn’t a conversation he could avoid, but he found himself trying to anyway. “I didn’t even know it was you here.”
Bobby frowns. “Okay, so then where the hell-”
Again he cuts himself off, and this time, though his face remains still, all the blood leeches out of his skin. His jaw twitches before he tightly bites out, “Tell me I’m wrong, boy.”
Dean doesn’t need to ask what he was talking about - he knew what every hunter wished but could hardly hope to be wrong about, as comrades fought against malicious beings with powers far beyond their own.
“You’re not, Bobby,” he answers lowly. “I found him all torn up last January. Burned and buried him myself.”
Bobby stares at him before his eyelids fall shut, and the weary, almost defeated expression on his face wipes the remnants of Dean’s brief elation. He looks away, giving what privacy he could for Bobby’s grief. He and Dean's father had been good friends and hunting parters once upon a time, after all, despite their frequent arguments.
Bobby’s voice calls back his attention. “That careless son of a bitch,” Bobby mutters, bringing up his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. His forehead creases deeply, as if he had a terrible headache, and abruptly he turns around and walks away. Unsure of what to do, Dean remains where he stands.
Ten feet away, Bobby glares at him over his shoulder. “Well?” he demands irritably. “I can’t hear this shit sober.”
So Dean follows him into his home - Bobby lived right beside his business, in a house that looked two generations out of his time. As Bobby goes into the kitchen, Dean sits on one of the couches in the living room and gazes about the room, noting the old furniture and the dark brown wooden flooring, as well as the various books and artifacts scattered about. Though he could only dredge up faint, foggy memories of their last visit, the place gave him a comfortable sense of familiarity.
What wasn’t as comfortable was the small ache in his chest. Had Dean acknowledged it, he’d admit it was nostalgia, for a family he’d once had and a life he’d once lived.
But he was never very honest with himself.
Bobby comes back with two beers in hand. “You at the drinking age yet?” he asks, obvious skepticism in his voice.
“That’s what my driver’s license says,” Dean answers with ease, giving him a faint grin. “Several of them do, in fact.”
“Still a glib little brat, aren’t you,” the older man mutters, but he hands him one anyway. Dean accepts the cold glass bottle gratefully, knocking it gently against Bobby’s before taking a large swig.
“So,” Bobby grunts, dropping into an armchair himself. “Tell me everything.”
After taking a few moments to dredge his thoughts up, Dean does. Well, he doesn’t tell Bobby everything - in fact, he skims over their financial problems very quickly and skips his attempted methods to solve them entirely - but he shucks at Bobby every detail he can about John’s death, and about Jimmy. Dean knew, after all, that with his resources and connections, Bobby was the man to go to for help to get to the bottom of things in the hunting business. Even Dean’s father, who reveled in working alone, had gone to him several times before catching Bobby’s ire with his… compelling disposition.
“Jimmy Novak, eh?” Bobby muses when Dean finishes speaking. “Never heard of him before. He says he’s not a hunter?”
“Yeah, but I’m pretty sure he’s in the know about the supernatural,” Dean answers, rubbing his face tiredly. “Dad mentioned him in his journal - told us to trust him.” He shrugs. “‘Course, I still looked him up anyway. Asked Jeeves and everything. I got nothing, but you can’t ask for much when you search random dudes’ names on library computers. Could you…?”
“I’ll dig a little,” Bobby agrees, nodding. His expression hardens. “Both on Jimmy and whatever son of a bitch that done in your old man. You can count on it.”
Dean nods in gratitude. “Thanks.”
A lull falls into their conversation. In an urge to fill the silence, Dean speaks impulsively. “I don’t like him, Bobby.”
Bobby snorts. “Who, that stupid butler? He’s not real, you know.”
“I meant Jimmy,” Dean grumbles. “The guy that never gets offended by me unless I piss on God. Did I tell you he thinks the big man upstairs full on told him to help us? Like ‘burning bush’ told him?”
“Only about three or so times,” Bobby says dryly. “Religious fanaticism ain’t exactly uncommon in our business, though. Like Regent. Remember him?”
“You’ve got a point,” Dean concedes, but it comes out with a tone of voice that sounded close to cynical.
He fiddles with his bottle, bothered; he hadn’t meant to complain, but it seemed like that was all he did lately. And now that he started, he couldn’t seem to stop. “But my gut just tells me that something’s off about him. He cooks and cleans and brings us stuff we forget without complaining, like our own personal Stepford wife. He’s freakishly smart too - its like he swallowed down encyclopedias or something. Sammy’s nuts for him.”
“My heart goes out to you,” Bobby remarks wryly.
“He’s too… perfect,” Dean finishes, gesturing irritably. “I just know one day I’ll wake up with a knife to my throat. And… I hate feeling like I owe him, or have to… I don’t know, prove I’m not baggage.”
He finishes with a mutter, feeling embarrassed; it sounded stupid when he said it out loud. The look Bobby gives him, bordering on pity, doesn’t help him feel better.
“Then why the hell are you staying at his place?” he asks gruffly.
Dean scowls. “Moment of weakness.” Then he shrugs. “Plus, we didn’t exactly have anywhere else go.”
When Bobby says nothing, Dean looks up and is surprised to find him glaring at him. “What?”
“What do you mean, what?” Bobby snaps. He leans forward with narrowed eyes, his chair creaking threateningly, and levels an accusing finger at Dean.
“Are you actually telling me,” he begins menacingly, “that in the entire four months you’ve been in South Dakota, including the last half hour I’ve spent sitting right in front of you, you never thought about asking me for help?”
He hadn’t. “...it might’ve slipped my mind,” Dean admits sheepishly.
Bobby stares at him, all but gaping. “Hell, son,” he says finally, sounding slightly wounded. “I may not’ve seen you for a while, but you kids are practically my godchildren. I thought you knew that.”
“I did - and I do,” Dean assures him hastily. He really did; he and Sam had always looked forward to visiting their Uncle Bobby as children, and lil’Sammy had adored him almost as much as he did his big brother. “It’s just… you forget a lot of things in seven years, you know? Not to mention the way dad taught us, independence and all…”
“Nnn.”
“It really did slip my mind, Bobby.” Dean grins. “And just for your information, cocking a shotgun isn’t the greatest way to say ‘come back any time.’”
Bobby cracks a smile. “Idjit,” he scoffs, but in a not-gruff and almost fond voice that tells Dean he’s accepted his quasi-apology. Bobby takes another gulp of beer, exhaling loudly as he swallows. “Got two rooms with your names on it.”
“Seriously?”
“Well I haven’t literally carved ‘Sam’ and ‘Dean’ into the doors, but yeah seriously,” Bobby replies dryly. “You can move in any time. Tonight, even.”
Dean looks away, conflicted. It didn’t really change anything if he was still relying on someone else’s graciousness. “I dunno, Bobby...”
“I need a new helper anyway,” Bobby mentions offhandedly. “You’ll have to work for your keep. I won’t tolerate laziness, either.”
Dean wavers, then he raises his bottle, grinning. “You have yourself a man, sir.”
Bobby clinks his glass against his. “Good to know.”
---
After Bobby shows him around his yard for a couple hours and explains the various tasks he’d have to do, Dean returns to the apartment around dusk. No one’s come immediately to greet him, so Dean assumes Jimmy isn’t back yet - most nights Dean would look up from his shucked shoes and find the prudishly dressed man standing inches away, greeting him with a little low “Hello, Dean,” or, “Welcome back, Dean.” Dean thinks it might be endearing if it weren’t so creepy.
He takes off his shoes, preparing a checklist of things he had to do: first, he’ll pack up, then he’ll have to sweep the apartment for the weapons he had hidden. After putting everything in the car, he’ll leave a note for Jimmy before picking Sammy up from Sara’s.
He feels a small twang of regret. It wasn’t that he’d miss their weird little host, of course. If anything, he’d be relieved to get away from his disconcerting presence. But Sammy might miss him - they were so nerdily fond of each other, after all. Leaving Jimmy could potentially further depress his little preteen heart. Though if Dean’s conspiracy theory is right and Jimmy has some ulterior motive, Jimmy might just try and drag them back anyway. Dean almost hopes he’s right, just so he have a reason to stop feeling guilty every time he felt ungracious towards the man.
It takes a few moments for Dean to notice the familiar clicking noise of Sam’s typewriter stomping through the air. When he does, the distant, muffled sounds of a conversation become apparent as well. Frowning, he straightens up and strides towards it, his feet barely whispering on the floor.
His ears take him to the office, where, with a start of surprise, he sees Sam hunched vengefully over the machine. Jimmy stands just behind him, his back curved gracefully over his little brother’s chair.
“…persecution, so they could not afford to speak openly. You know this, Sam,” Jimmy was saying carefully. His pupils slide sideways to watch Sam from the corners of his eyes as he continues to face the ink-dotted paper protruding from Sam’s typewriter.
“Yeah, well, they’re still cowards,” Sammy mutters, all but punching the keys.
“Sam,” Dean says sharply from the doorway. Jimmy looks up without surprise and murmurs a small greeting; Sammy doesn’t acknowledge his big brother at all. “What’re you doing?”
“Writing my part of the project, what else does it look like?” Sammy replies in an overly patronizing tone, still concentrating intensely on his paper.
Dean bristles; he hadn’t expected attitude. “You know that’s not what I meant. How did you get home?”
“I walked,” Sammy answers shortly.
“What?” Dean almost has a seizure right then; instead, he breathes deeply before stomping over to the table and yanking the typewriter from under Sam’s fingers.
“Hey!” Sammy squawks indignantly, making a grab for it, but Dean holds the machine out of his reach. His attempt a failure, Sammy resigns himself to glaring at him resentfully. Shoving his hurt down, Dean glares right back.
“Dammit, Sam, I know Dad and I taught you to be smarter than this!” Dean demands angrily. “What the hell were you thinking?”
Sam shoots out of his chair. “I don’t know,” he retorts, his hands banging loudly onto the table. “What the hell were you thinking when you shoved condoms in my bag?”
“What?” It takes him a few bewildered moments to understand what the hell Sammy was talking about, and Dean remembers that he had slipped some condoms in Sammy’s bag a couple days back. “What does that have to do with anything?” he exclaims. “I just wanted you and Sara to be safe.”
“Yeah, well, putting aside from the fact that Sara and I are not having sex, her mom feels the same way,” Sam snaps. “Except her feelings go more along the lines of abstinence. So you can see how she wouldn’t react well if little square packets fell out of her daughter’s very male friend’s backpack.”
Oh.
“...that’s a bit of an overreaction,” Dean manages to say guiltily.
“Oh my God, Dean, it is not an overreaction,” Sammy exclaims, throwing up his hands in exasperation. “Normal people don’t like boys who seem like they want to bang their daughters! Not every parent’s okay with their kid being a total slut!”
Dean tenses up. Sammy, who seemed to realize the implications of what he said, closes his mouth abruptly and turns his head away, glaring at the floor and breathing heavily.
Looking for anything to salvage the disastrous conversation, Dean decides to save the walking issue and change the subject. “I found Uncle Bobby today.”
Sammy’s eyebrows rise with surprise, but an instant later they return to their angry creases. “Cool,” he says with Dean’s same forced neutrality, still refusing to look at him.
“Yeah,” Dean confirms awkwardly. Pushing on, he continues. “I’ll be working for him now.”
“Oh really.”
“And we’re going to live with him.”
Sammy turns sharply to him. “What?”
“I know, right?” Dean exclaims, relieved to get his attention. “He says we can move in tonight.”
“You’ve found new lodgings?”
“What?” At the sound Jimmy’s question behind him, Dean starts; he had forgotten Jimmy was in the room. He whirls around and finds the man standing on the opposite side of the table. He had moved sometime during their exchange, and was giving them both a tiny look of concern.
“You’ve found another place to stay?” Jimmy repeats, frowning.
Dean straightens up defensively. “That’s right, is there a problem?” he challenges.
To his shock, it’s Sam who snaps back at him. “Don’t talk to him like that! And of course there’s a fucking problem!”
In his hurt bewilderment, Dean can only think to bark, “Watch your language, young man!” Sammy only ignores that, turning to Jimmy instead.
“You don’t want us to leave, right?” Sammy appealed desperately. “You promised to help us!”
Jimmy seemed conflicted, his eyes flicking from Sam’s earnest gaze to Dean’s look of stunned betrayal. After a moment he exhales softly and kneels to Sam’s level and holds his shoulders firmly, peering intently into his eyes. Through his distress, Dean has to resist the urge to pull Sammy away and into his own arms.
“Sam, I will always be there for you and Dean,” Jimmy says seriously. “But you should respect your older brother’s wishes.”
Dean starts in a different kind of surprise; now it’s Sam’s face that twists with betrayal. “But - but you still need to help me with my project!”
“I can always come to assist-”
“That’s not the point!” Sam yells, angrily shrugging off Jimmy’s grip.
“Then what is the point?!” Dean shouts with the same frustration as he moves forward, unable to endure his spectator status in his own brother’s conversation.
Sam shakes his head, backing away from both men. “We’ve moved twice since we’ve gotten into town, Dean. You keep promising me that we'll live normally, but all the while you're driving us to a new place or stuffing knives in my jacket. You tell me to make friends, but you make me dump holy water on them. And Jimmy doesn't care!”
His voice becomes higher, more hysterical. “We’re freaks! I just want to be like everyone else, but I’m surrounded by freaks! Like Jimmy and- and you, Dean, with your stupid moving and stupid rules and stupid guns and condoms and- fuck- I hate this!”
As Sam turns and runs out of the room, Dean recovers from his shock. “Sammy, come back here!” he yells. “SAM!”
Sammy answers with a door slam that reverberates through the whole flat makes the walls shudder. Dean swears, sitting back wearily on the desk and holding his face in his hands.
“Dean.”
The soft voice that breaks the brittle silence triggers a rush of violence in Dean, and before he could form a thought he punches the table surface with a yell of frustration, hitting it so hard that he hears the wood crack. A moment later pain bursts furiously in his hand, and he realizes that the sound came from his knuckles.
“Nnngh,” he groans, cradling his wounded appendage and curling a little in on himself. Tears prick his eyes, and he squeezes his eyelids tightly shut. “Fuck.”
“Dean. Let me see that.”
Jimmy doesn’t wait for Dean’s reply before he’s up in Dean’s personal space and closing his thin but surprisingly strong fingers around Dean’s wrist. Gently but insistently he pulls Dean’s hand away from his body and examines it, carefully poking and prodding the skin to feel the bones underneath. Dean hisses as the swelling knuckles grate against each other.
“Nothing is broken,” Jimmy pronounces eventually. “But for the next few days you should take care, especially in lifting heavy objects.”
“Good to know,” Dean mutters. He tries to pull his hand away, but it remains stuck in Jimmy’s grip. He frowns. “You can let go now.”
Jimmy continues to scrutinize his hand; to Dean’s horror, he leans closer, as if to kiss it. Dean yanks his hand away just as chapped, rough lips skim the skin of his knuckle. His hand throbs painfully, protesting the abuse.
Jimmy meets Dean’s disconcerted stare, concern and just a hint of exasperation belying his usual impassive expression. “I told you not to aggravate it.”
“Yeah, and I told you to look up personal space,” Dean shoots back belligerently, his heart beating fast with pain and disorientation. “Add bad touch to the list while you’re at it.”
Jimmy says nothing, and in seconds the pain ebbs down to a point where Dean begins to feel bad.
“You took my side,” he mutters at last. “Didn’t think you would.”
“I will always aid you, Dean,” Jimmy replies. “But free will is God’s precious gift to humankind. I will never endeavor to take it from you.”
As always, there is a solemn conviction in Jimmy’s voice that provokes a tightening in Dean’s throat, and he clears it self-consciously before speaking.
“Your support is touching,” he snarks, hiding his discomfort. “Really.”
Either not noticing or ignoring Dean’s sarcasm, Jimmy nods. “I’m glad it’s had an effect.”
Dean chuckles wryly. “Yeah, an effect. It’s about as great as my effect on Sammy.”
The small smile that had been growing on his face falls, and thoughts of Sammy that had been blown away by the explosion of pain in his hand return with a vengeance. He stares hard at the wood floor and his black rubber shoes, the memory of Sam’s harsh words reverberating through his ears in ringing clarity. He had thought Samm would welcome the idea of living with Bobby with open arms. Dean had worked so hard to provide for Sammy, tried so hard to raise him right. Was he in over his head? Was he really so fucked?
Unthinkingly, he asks aloud, “Where did I go wrong?”
“Nowhere, Dean,” Jimmy responds immediately, laying a hand on his shoulder. Then he pauses, looking speculatively at the point of connection between them.
“Dude, quick arm-shoulder touching’s fine,” Dean says exasperatedly when he interprets Jimmy’s hesitance. “I didn’t mean to make a big deal about it. It’s just, you know, guys don’t kiss other guys out of the blue.”
Jimmy’s cheek twitches ever so slightly. “And, of course, you mean men such as yourself.”
“Yeah, like me. I haven’t-”
Except, he suddenly recalls, that he has. With Jimmy, no less, and right when they first met, in possibly the most inappropriate way. Dean feels his face heat up.
“Oh good, so you do actually understand sarcasm,” he notes wryly through his embarrassment.
“I know every rhetorical device in the English language, Dean,” Jimmy says, a look of amusement flashing quickly across his face. “Just as I know that Sam is blessed to have you as his older brother. Blessed, Dean,” he insists as Dean looks away. “You’ve done as best as you could for Samuel, and have done so better than many fathers and caretakers. Sam’s belligerence is more likely due to the influx of testosterone and hormones into his body, rather than any major fault of yours.”
“Ugh, the emo stage,” Dean groans with realization.
“Yes. Given time, I’m sure Sam will see reason.”
Dean shakes his head. Intellectually, he’d known that the shitstorm of doubt and wild emotions had to be brewing in Sam’s horizons, but he had spent so much time trying to forget his intensely embarrassing experiences during his own phase that he hadn’t properly prepared for it. Now, though Sam’s words still hurt, the pain eases a little as he recalls similar thoughts towards their father his early high school years. They had ebbed as his emotional tide had receded; surely so would Sam’s.
“Dean? Are you alright?”
“Yeah, I’m okay,” Dean answers automatically, blinking out of his reverie. Then he realizes in surprise that yes, he really does feel okay.
And it was all because of Jimmy. Whether by distracting him with bizarre deeds or comforting him with heartening words, he had made Dean’s inner aggression and turmoil fly away. Jimmy’s unwitting manipulation of Dean’s emotions was, like everything he’d done, disconcerting.
In this particular instance, though, Dean couldn’t bring himself to resent it.
“You know,” he remarks, straightening up and gingerly patting his jeans, “You’re not bad for a schizophrenic.”
“Contrary to your beliefs, Dean, the voice of God is not a product of hallucinations,” Jimmy says as he watches Dean walk to the door. “Where are you going?”
“Sammy’s room.” Dean pauses, his back to Jimmy and his palm resting against the door’s wooden frame, over inky fingerprints sure to be Sam’s. “You mind if we stay here a while longer?”
“I don’t,” Jimmy confirms.
Dean suppresses a smile. “Alright.” He twists around on his torso and points a finger at the other man. “But if we’re staying here and I’m working for Bobby, I’m paying you rent.”
“Dean, you have other bills to pay, and I have no need for money-”
“Hey man, I don’t care if Bubba owns the shrimp restaurant and lets you eat for free, I’m paying you,” Dean says firmly. “It won’t be much, but I can’t stand charity or whatever you like to call this. Just promise to take my rent and I promise to try liking you.”
Dean thinks he’s getting better at reading Jimmy’s bland expression - the skepticism written on his face couldn’t be just his imagination. Nevertheless, Jimmy shrugs in acquiescence.
“So be it,” he says. “Just know that you are not obligated.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” Dean agrees flippantly. Again he pauses, trying to dredge up the proper amount of gratitude for the situation. It wasn’t as hard as it once was, and in a low, awkward voice he says, “Thank you. Really.”
Jimmy keeps his gaze. “You’re welcome.”
With nothing left to say, Dean nods and leaves the room.
---
Part 8
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A/N: So I downloaded this antivirus program named AVG And Firewall, and right after installation it promptly tells me that four of my Word documents, all of them the latest copies of this fanfic, are infected and leave me with no choice but to delete them. Luckily it happened early in the development in this chapter and I was able to rewrite it fairly quickly, but I'm terrified it'll happen again. Anyone have a similar experience and can explain to me how the hell Word files can get infected and how to recover them?
A/N2: Sam strikes me as the sort of person who's okay with quick relationships because of Dean's influence. I mean, it takes Dean a whole episode to convince him to move on from Jessica and make out with Sara before riding off into the distance.
Title: Lie Back and Think of Heaven, 7/12
Rating: R
Warnings: language, sex, sex without Castiel
Spoilers: none, slightly AU
Disclaimer: I have no control over Eric Kripke, else SPN would resemble a deliciously gay soap opera. Oh wait.
Summary: John dies in Dean's senior year, and Dean's left to raise Sammy on his own. Or he would be, if a mysterious stranger didn't keep popping up to help...
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Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6
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Chapter 7
“Uncle Bobby?” Dean asks incredulously.
The man’s forehead creases. “Uncle Bobby,” he repeats, sounding taken aback. He squints at Dean suspiciously. Then his mouth pops open into a small o, his eyes widening underneath the shadow of his trucker hat. “Dean? Winchester, boy, is that you?”
“In the flesh,” Dean laughs, holding out his arms. It was a “ta-dah!” more than anything, but Bobby takes it as an invitation and grabs him into a hug. After a moment Dean clutches him back, savoring the brief moment of warmth and strength - it’s been ages since arms have held him without lust or murderous intent. It felt… good.
“It’s good to see you again, Bobby,” Dean grins, gruffing up his voice a bit to hide the wobble in it. “Been too long.”
“You can say that again,” Bobby huffs, patting him solidly on the back before letting go. He folds his arms in front of his chest, looking every inch as righteously irritable as Dean remembers him to be. “It’s been… what? Seven years? Ever since that fool father of yours-”
Too late Dean tries to relax the muscles that tightened in his shoulders; Bobby pauses in favor of scrutinizing him with narrowed eyes.
“He’s why you’re here, isn’t he,” Bobby postulates shrewdly. “What’s John gotten into this time?”
“No, uh… no,” Dean mutters, averting his eyes. This wasn’t a conversation he could avoid, but he found himself trying to anyway. “I didn’t even know it was you here.”
Bobby frowns. “Okay, so then where the hell-”
Again he cuts himself off, and this time, though his face remains still, all the blood leeches out of his skin. His jaw twitches before he tightly bites out, “Tell me I’m wrong, boy.”
Dean doesn’t need to ask what he was talking about - he knew what every hunter wished but could hardly hope to be wrong about, as comrades fought against malicious beings with powers far beyond their own.
“You’re not, Bobby,” he answers lowly. “I found him all torn up last January. Burned and buried him myself.”
Bobby stares at him before his eyelids fall shut, and the weary, almost defeated expression on his face wipes the remnants of Dean’s brief elation. He looks away, giving what privacy he could for Bobby’s grief. He and Dean's father had been good friends and hunting parters once upon a time, after all, despite their frequent arguments.
Bobby’s voice calls back his attention. “That careless son of a bitch,” Bobby mutters, bringing up his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. His forehead creases deeply, as if he had a terrible headache, and abruptly he turns around and walks away. Unsure of what to do, Dean remains where he stands.
Ten feet away, Bobby glares at him over his shoulder. “Well?” he demands irritably. “I can’t hear this shit sober.”
So Dean follows him into his home - Bobby lived right beside his business, in a house that looked two generations out of his time. As Bobby goes into the kitchen, Dean sits on one of the couches in the living room and gazes about the room, noting the old furniture and the dark brown wooden flooring, as well as the various books and artifacts scattered about. Though he could only dredge up faint, foggy memories of their last visit, the place gave him a comfortable sense of familiarity.
What wasn’t as comfortable was the small ache in his chest. Had Dean acknowledged it, he’d admit it was nostalgia, for a family he’d once had and a life he’d once lived.
But he was never very honest with himself.
Bobby comes back with two beers in hand. “You at the drinking age yet?” he asks, obvious skepticism in his voice.
“That’s what my driver’s license says,” Dean answers with ease, giving him a faint grin. “Several of them do, in fact.”
“Still a glib little brat, aren’t you,” the older man mutters, but he hands him one anyway. Dean accepts the cold glass bottle gratefully, knocking it gently against Bobby’s before taking a large swig.
“So,” Bobby grunts, dropping into an armchair himself. “Tell me everything.”
After taking a few moments to dredge his thoughts up, Dean does. Well, he doesn’t tell Bobby everything - in fact, he skims over their financial problems very quickly and skips his attempted methods to solve them entirely - but he shucks at Bobby every detail he can about John’s death, and about Jimmy. Dean knew, after all, that with his resources and connections, Bobby was the man to go to for help to get to the bottom of things in the hunting business. Even Dean’s father, who reveled in working alone, had gone to him several times before catching Bobby’s ire with his… compelling disposition.
“Jimmy Novak, eh?” Bobby muses when Dean finishes speaking. “Never heard of him before. He says he’s not a hunter?”
“Yeah, but I’m pretty sure he’s in the know about the supernatural,” Dean answers, rubbing his face tiredly. “Dad mentioned him in his journal - told us to trust him.” He shrugs. “‘Course, I still looked him up anyway. Asked Jeeves and everything. I got nothing, but you can’t ask for much when you search random dudes’ names on library computers. Could you…?”
“I’ll dig a little,” Bobby agrees, nodding. His expression hardens. “Both on Jimmy and whatever son of a bitch that done in your old man. You can count on it.”
Dean nods in gratitude. “Thanks.”
A lull falls into their conversation. In an urge to fill the silence, Dean speaks impulsively. “I don’t like him, Bobby.”
Bobby snorts. “Who, that stupid butler? He’s not real, you know.”
“I meant Jimmy,” Dean grumbles. “The guy that never gets offended by me unless I piss on God. Did I tell you he thinks the big man upstairs full on told him to help us? Like ‘burning bush’ told him?”
“Only about three or so times,” Bobby says dryly. “Religious fanaticism ain’t exactly uncommon in our business, though. Like Regent. Remember him?”
“You’ve got a point,” Dean concedes, but it comes out with a tone of voice that sounded close to cynical.
He fiddles with his bottle, bothered; he hadn’t meant to complain, but it seemed like that was all he did lately. And now that he started, he couldn’t seem to stop. “But my gut just tells me that something’s off about him. He cooks and cleans and brings us stuff we forget without complaining, like our own personal Stepford wife. He’s freakishly smart too - its like he swallowed down encyclopedias or something. Sammy’s nuts for him.”
“My heart goes out to you,” Bobby remarks wryly.
“He’s too… perfect,” Dean finishes, gesturing irritably. “I just know one day I’ll wake up with a knife to my throat. And… I hate feeling like I owe him, or have to… I don’t know, prove I’m not baggage.”
He finishes with a mutter, feeling embarrassed; it sounded stupid when he said it out loud. The look Bobby gives him, bordering on pity, doesn’t help him feel better.
“Then why the hell are you staying at his place?” he asks gruffly.
Dean scowls. “Moment of weakness.” Then he shrugs. “Plus, we didn’t exactly have anywhere else go.”
When Bobby says nothing, Dean looks up and is surprised to find him glaring at him. “What?”
“What do you mean, what?” Bobby snaps. He leans forward with narrowed eyes, his chair creaking threateningly, and levels an accusing finger at Dean.
“Are you actually telling me,” he begins menacingly, “that in the entire four months you’ve been in South Dakota, including the last half hour I’ve spent sitting right in front of you, you never thought about asking me for help?”
He hadn’t. “...it might’ve slipped my mind,” Dean admits sheepishly.
Bobby stares at him, all but gaping. “Hell, son,” he says finally, sounding slightly wounded. “I may not’ve seen you for a while, but you kids are practically my godchildren. I thought you knew that.”
“I did - and I do,” Dean assures him hastily. He really did; he and Sam had always looked forward to visiting their Uncle Bobby as children, and lil’Sammy had adored him almost as much as he did his big brother. “It’s just… you forget a lot of things in seven years, you know? Not to mention the way dad taught us, independence and all…”
“Nnn.”
“It really did slip my mind, Bobby.” Dean grins. “And just for your information, cocking a shotgun isn’t the greatest way to say ‘come back any time.’”
Bobby cracks a smile. “Idjit,” he scoffs, but in a not-gruff and almost fond voice that tells Dean he’s accepted his quasi-apology. Bobby takes another gulp of beer, exhaling loudly as he swallows. “Got two rooms with your names on it.”
“Seriously?”
“Well I haven’t literally carved ‘Sam’ and ‘Dean’ into the doors, but yeah seriously,” Bobby replies dryly. “You can move in any time. Tonight, even.”
Dean looks away, conflicted. It didn’t really change anything if he was still relying on someone else’s graciousness. “I dunno, Bobby...”
“I need a new helper anyway,” Bobby mentions offhandedly. “You’ll have to work for your keep. I won’t tolerate laziness, either.”
Dean wavers, then he raises his bottle, grinning. “You have yourself a man, sir.”
Bobby clinks his glass against his. “Good to know.”
---
After Bobby shows him around his yard for a couple hours and explains the various tasks he’d have to do, Dean returns to the apartment around dusk. No one’s come immediately to greet him, so Dean assumes Jimmy isn’t back yet - most nights Dean would look up from his shucked shoes and find the prudishly dressed man standing inches away, greeting him with a little low “Hello, Dean,” or, “Welcome back, Dean.” Dean thinks it might be endearing if it weren’t so creepy.
He takes off his shoes, preparing a checklist of things he had to do: first, he’ll pack up, then he’ll have to sweep the apartment for the weapons he had hidden. After putting everything in the car, he’ll leave a note for Jimmy before picking Sammy up from Sara’s.
He feels a small twang of regret. It wasn’t that he’d miss their weird little host, of course. If anything, he’d be relieved to get away from his disconcerting presence. But Sammy might miss him - they were so nerdily fond of each other, after all. Leaving Jimmy could potentially further depress his little preteen heart. Though if Dean’s conspiracy theory is right and Jimmy has some ulterior motive, Jimmy might just try and drag them back anyway. Dean almost hopes he’s right, just so he have a reason to stop feeling guilty every time he felt ungracious towards the man.
It takes a few moments for Dean to notice the familiar clicking noise of Sam’s typewriter stomping through the air. When he does, the distant, muffled sounds of a conversation become apparent as well. Frowning, he straightens up and strides towards it, his feet barely whispering on the floor.
His ears take him to the office, where, with a start of surprise, he sees Sam hunched vengefully over the machine. Jimmy stands just behind him, his back curved gracefully over his little brother’s chair.
“…persecution, so they could not afford to speak openly. You know this, Sam,” Jimmy was saying carefully. His pupils slide sideways to watch Sam from the corners of his eyes as he continues to face the ink-dotted paper protruding from Sam’s typewriter.
“Yeah, well, they’re still cowards,” Sammy mutters, all but punching the keys.
“Sam,” Dean says sharply from the doorway. Jimmy looks up without surprise and murmurs a small greeting; Sammy doesn’t acknowledge his big brother at all. “What’re you doing?”
“Writing my part of the project, what else does it look like?” Sammy replies in an overly patronizing tone, still concentrating intensely on his paper.
Dean bristles; he hadn’t expected attitude. “You know that’s not what I meant. How did you get home?”
“I walked,” Sammy answers shortly.
“What?” Dean almost has a seizure right then; instead, he breathes deeply before stomping over to the table and yanking the typewriter from under Sam’s fingers.
“Hey!” Sammy squawks indignantly, making a grab for it, but Dean holds the machine out of his reach. His attempt a failure, Sammy resigns himself to glaring at him resentfully. Shoving his hurt down, Dean glares right back.
“Dammit, Sam, I know Dad and I taught you to be smarter than this!” Dean demands angrily. “What the hell were you thinking?”
Sam shoots out of his chair. “I don’t know,” he retorts, his hands banging loudly onto the table. “What the hell were you thinking when you shoved condoms in my bag?”
“What?” It takes him a few bewildered moments to understand what the hell Sammy was talking about, and Dean remembers that he had slipped some condoms in Sammy’s bag a couple days back. “What does that have to do with anything?” he exclaims. “I just wanted you and Sara to be safe.”
“Yeah, well, putting aside from the fact that Sara and I are not having sex, her mom feels the same way,” Sam snaps. “Except her feelings go more along the lines of abstinence. So you can see how she wouldn’t react well if little square packets fell out of her daughter’s very male friend’s backpack.”
Oh.
“...that’s a bit of an overreaction,” Dean manages to say guiltily.
“Oh my God, Dean, it is not an overreaction,” Sammy exclaims, throwing up his hands in exasperation. “Normal people don’t like boys who seem like they want to bang their daughters! Not every parent’s okay with their kid being a total slut!”
Dean tenses up. Sammy, who seemed to realize the implications of what he said, closes his mouth abruptly and turns his head away, glaring at the floor and breathing heavily.
Looking for anything to salvage the disastrous conversation, Dean decides to save the walking issue and change the subject. “I found Uncle Bobby today.”
Sammy’s eyebrows rise with surprise, but an instant later they return to their angry creases. “Cool,” he says with Dean’s same forced neutrality, still refusing to look at him.
“Yeah,” Dean confirms awkwardly. Pushing on, he continues. “I’ll be working for him now.”
“Oh really.”
“And we’re going to live with him.”
Sammy turns sharply to him. “What?”
“I know, right?” Dean exclaims, relieved to get his attention. “He says we can move in tonight.”
“You’ve found new lodgings?”
“What?” At the sound Jimmy’s question behind him, Dean starts; he had forgotten Jimmy was in the room. He whirls around and finds the man standing on the opposite side of the table. He had moved sometime during their exchange, and was giving them both a tiny look of concern.
“You’ve found another place to stay?” Jimmy repeats, frowning.
Dean straightens up defensively. “That’s right, is there a problem?” he challenges.
To his shock, it’s Sam who snaps back at him. “Don’t talk to him like that! And of course there’s a fucking problem!”
In his hurt bewilderment, Dean can only think to bark, “Watch your language, young man!” Sammy only ignores that, turning to Jimmy instead.
“You don’t want us to leave, right?” Sammy appealed desperately. “You promised to help us!”
Jimmy seemed conflicted, his eyes flicking from Sam’s earnest gaze to Dean’s look of stunned betrayal. After a moment he exhales softly and kneels to Sam’s level and holds his shoulders firmly, peering intently into his eyes. Through his distress, Dean has to resist the urge to pull Sammy away and into his own arms.
“Sam, I will always be there for you and Dean,” Jimmy says seriously. “But you should respect your older brother’s wishes.”
Dean starts in a different kind of surprise; now it’s Sam’s face that twists with betrayal. “But - but you still need to help me with my project!”
“I can always come to assist-”
“That’s not the point!” Sam yells, angrily shrugging off Jimmy’s grip.
“Then what is the point?!” Dean shouts with the same frustration as he moves forward, unable to endure his spectator status in his own brother’s conversation.
Sam shakes his head, backing away from both men. “We’ve moved twice since we’ve gotten into town, Dean. You keep promising me that we'll live normally, but all the while you're driving us to a new place or stuffing knives in my jacket. You tell me to make friends, but you make me dump holy water on them. And Jimmy doesn't care!”
His voice becomes higher, more hysterical. “We’re freaks! I just want to be like everyone else, but I’m surrounded by freaks! Like Jimmy and- and you, Dean, with your stupid moving and stupid rules and stupid guns and condoms and- fuck- I hate this!”
As Sam turns and runs out of the room, Dean recovers from his shock. “Sammy, come back here!” he yells. “SAM!”
Sammy answers with a door slam that reverberates through the whole flat makes the walls shudder. Dean swears, sitting back wearily on the desk and holding his face in his hands.
“Dean.”
The soft voice that breaks the brittle silence triggers a rush of violence in Dean, and before he could form a thought he punches the table surface with a yell of frustration, hitting it so hard that he hears the wood crack. A moment later pain bursts furiously in his hand, and he realizes that the sound came from his knuckles.
“Nnngh,” he groans, cradling his wounded appendage and curling a little in on himself. Tears prick his eyes, and he squeezes his eyelids tightly shut. “Fuck.”
“Dean. Let me see that.”
Jimmy doesn’t wait for Dean’s reply before he’s up in Dean’s personal space and closing his thin but surprisingly strong fingers around Dean’s wrist. Gently but insistently he pulls Dean’s hand away from his body and examines it, carefully poking and prodding the skin to feel the bones underneath. Dean hisses as the swelling knuckles grate against each other.
“Nothing is broken,” Jimmy pronounces eventually. “But for the next few days you should take care, especially in lifting heavy objects.”
“Good to know,” Dean mutters. He tries to pull his hand away, but it remains stuck in Jimmy’s grip. He frowns. “You can let go now.”
Jimmy continues to scrutinize his hand; to Dean’s horror, he leans closer, as if to kiss it. Dean yanks his hand away just as chapped, rough lips skim the skin of his knuckle. His hand throbs painfully, protesting the abuse.
Jimmy meets Dean’s disconcerted stare, concern and just a hint of exasperation belying his usual impassive expression. “I told you not to aggravate it.”
“Yeah, and I told you to look up personal space,” Dean shoots back belligerently, his heart beating fast with pain and disorientation. “Add bad touch to the list while you’re at it.”
Jimmy says nothing, and in seconds the pain ebbs down to a point where Dean begins to feel bad.
“You took my side,” he mutters at last. “Didn’t think you would.”
“I will always aid you, Dean,” Jimmy replies. “But free will is God’s precious gift to humankind. I will never endeavor to take it from you.”
As always, there is a solemn conviction in Jimmy’s voice that provokes a tightening in Dean’s throat, and he clears it self-consciously before speaking.
“Your support is touching,” he snarks, hiding his discomfort. “Really.”
Either not noticing or ignoring Dean’s sarcasm, Jimmy nods. “I’m glad it’s had an effect.”
Dean chuckles wryly. “Yeah, an effect. It’s about as great as my effect on Sammy.”
The small smile that had been growing on his face falls, and thoughts of Sammy that had been blown away by the explosion of pain in his hand return with a vengeance. He stares hard at the wood floor and his black rubber shoes, the memory of Sam’s harsh words reverberating through his ears in ringing clarity. He had thought Samm would welcome the idea of living with Bobby with open arms. Dean had worked so hard to provide for Sammy, tried so hard to raise him right. Was he in over his head? Was he really so fucked?
Unthinkingly, he asks aloud, “Where did I go wrong?”
“Nowhere, Dean,” Jimmy responds immediately, laying a hand on his shoulder. Then he pauses, looking speculatively at the point of connection between them.
“Dude, quick arm-shoulder touching’s fine,” Dean says exasperatedly when he interprets Jimmy’s hesitance. “I didn’t mean to make a big deal about it. It’s just, you know, guys don’t kiss other guys out of the blue.”
Jimmy’s cheek twitches ever so slightly. “And, of course, you mean men such as yourself.”
“Yeah, like me. I haven’t-”
Except, he suddenly recalls, that he has. With Jimmy, no less, and right when they first met, in possibly the most inappropriate way. Dean feels his face heat up.
“Oh good, so you do actually understand sarcasm,” he notes wryly through his embarrassment.
“I know every rhetorical device in the English language, Dean,” Jimmy says, a look of amusement flashing quickly across his face. “Just as I know that Sam is blessed to have you as his older brother. Blessed, Dean,” he insists as Dean looks away. “You’ve done as best as you could for Samuel, and have done so better than many fathers and caretakers. Sam’s belligerence is more likely due to the influx of testosterone and hormones into his body, rather than any major fault of yours.”
“Ugh, the emo stage,” Dean groans with realization.
“Yes. Given time, I’m sure Sam will see reason.”
Dean shakes his head. Intellectually, he’d known that the shitstorm of doubt and wild emotions had to be brewing in Sam’s horizons, but he had spent so much time trying to forget his intensely embarrassing experiences during his own phase that he hadn’t properly prepared for it. Now, though Sam’s words still hurt, the pain eases a little as he recalls similar thoughts towards their father his early high school years. They had ebbed as his emotional tide had receded; surely so would Sam’s.
“Dean? Are you alright?”
“Yeah, I’m okay,” Dean answers automatically, blinking out of his reverie. Then he realizes in surprise that yes, he really does feel okay.
And it was all because of Jimmy. Whether by distracting him with bizarre deeds or comforting him with heartening words, he had made Dean’s inner aggression and turmoil fly away. Jimmy’s unwitting manipulation of Dean’s emotions was, like everything he’d done, disconcerting.
In this particular instance, though, Dean couldn’t bring himself to resent it.
“You know,” he remarks, straightening up and gingerly patting his jeans, “You’re not bad for a schizophrenic.”
“Contrary to your beliefs, Dean, the voice of God is not a product of hallucinations,” Jimmy says as he watches Dean walk to the door. “Where are you going?”
“Sammy’s room.” Dean pauses, his back to Jimmy and his palm resting against the door’s wooden frame, over inky fingerprints sure to be Sam’s. “You mind if we stay here a while longer?”
“I don’t,” Jimmy confirms.
Dean suppresses a smile. “Alright.” He twists around on his torso and points a finger at the other man. “But if we’re staying here and I’m working for Bobby, I’m paying you rent.”
“Dean, you have other bills to pay, and I have no need for money-”
“Hey man, I don’t care if Bubba owns the shrimp restaurant and lets you eat for free, I’m paying you,” Dean says firmly. “It won’t be much, but I can’t stand charity or whatever you like to call this. Just promise to take my rent and I promise to try liking you.”
Dean thinks he’s getting better at reading Jimmy’s bland expression - the skepticism written on his face couldn’t be just his imagination. Nevertheless, Jimmy shrugs in acquiescence.
“So be it,” he says. “Just know that you are not obligated.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” Dean agrees flippantly. Again he pauses, trying to dredge up the proper amount of gratitude for the situation. It wasn’t as hard as it once was, and in a low, awkward voice he says, “Thank you. Really.”
Jimmy keeps his gaze. “You’re welcome.”
With nothing left to say, Dean nods and leaves the room.
---
Part 8
---
A/N: So I downloaded this antivirus program named AVG And Firewall, and right after installation it promptly tells me that four of my Word documents, all of them the latest copies of this fanfic, are infected and leave me with no choice but to delete them. Luckily it happened early in the development in this chapter and I was able to rewrite it fairly quickly, but I'm terrified it'll happen again. Anyone have a similar experience and can explain to me how the hell Word files can get infected and how to recover them?
A/N2: Sam strikes me as the sort of person who's okay with quick relationships because of Dean's influence. I mean, it takes Dean a whole episode to convince him to move on from Jessica and make out with Sara before riding off into the distance.