In Nomine Patris (Dean/Bobby, 12,724 words, NC-17)
In Nomine Patris
(Dean/Bobby, 12,724 words, NC-17, tiny warning for very mild dub-con)
Dean has issues and Bobby's caught smack-bang in the middle of them.
part I
It’d be a lie to say Bobby never thinks of Dean like that again. Sure he does. He gets that prickle in his belly sometimes when Dean’s bent over under the hood of a car, when Dean’s sprawled out on the couch after a hunt looking blissed-out and indolent. He has the occasional thought when he sees Dean in a certain light, moments of dusk and dawn, and he’s soft-lipped and shining. He still thinks Dean’s more temptation than anything most demons could come up with.
But it’s not so much an issue.
Sam’s a bigger worry. Bobby can’t see John and his boys together for more than half an hour without Sam picking a fight with his dad. Sam’s not cut out for obedience like Dean is. Sam wants hows and whys, knows he’s smart enough to have something valuable to contribute. He wants John to spread his thinking out for Sam and show him the path of each plan. And John’s not the kind of man who’ll do that, not even to satisfy the bitter inquisitiveness of his son.
The night Sam shows up on Bobby’s doorstep, unannounced and furious (and God, even taller than the last time Bobby saw him), Bobby’s first thought is that John’d reached that point where he either had to throw Sam out or murder him. Then he sees Dean stalking up behind his brother, looking just as pissed off. He holds the door wide without a word and Sam brushes past him. Dean shoots him a look that’s as pleading as it is angry as he goes into the house.
Bobby gazes at across the car yard, listening to the bangs and raised voices as the Winchester boys and their argument make themselves at home, stares at the pale yellow light of the fireflies at the edge of the light, then turns and follows them in.
“You know what?” Sam’s snarling. “I don’t even want to be in the same room as you!”
“Fine! Take your frickin’ hissy fit upstairs! Don’t let me hold you up!”
Bobby loiters at the edge of the room because it’s fairly clear the boys don’t need him. He scans the piles of books that are closest to Sam and Dean to make sure there aren’t any he’d really mind losing. He straightens up when he sees Sam take a step towards Dean, because Dean may be well-built but his kid brother’s got a few inches on him now. Last thing he had planned for tonight was breaking up a wrestling match between John’s boys.
“Boys,” he says by way of warning. “You wanna bring it down a notch?”
They ignore him. Sam doesn’t go for Dean, just wants to get in his face.
“What would Dad say, huh? What would Dad say if he knew? You think he’d let you-“
For some reason that gets Bobby a look from Dean and Bobby gets ready to intervene but Dean’s already taking a step towards Sam. He’s about as mad at Sam as Bobby’s ever seen him.
“Shut the fuck up about Dad! He’s not gonna find out unless you tell him! You gonna tell him, Sam?” When Sam doesn’t answer immediately Dean raises his eyebrows at him, a sharper note yet sinking into his tone. “Are you?”
“I should,” Sam says.
It seems to take some of the heat from the row. Dean lets out a breath and turns away, throwing his hands up in defeat. He doesn’t look at Bobby again, just crosses to the door. The keys to the Impala glint in his hand.
“I’m going for a drive. You stay here with Bobby.”
Sam looks as pleased to be a seventeen-year old with a babysitter as Bobby is to be babysitting a seventeen-year old. The sleek, haughty set to his face makes Bobby think of the bad-tempered Siamese his auntie had when he was a little boy.
Outside the Impala growls alive then races off.
Liquor is Bobby's first thought but Sam's different to his brother and his dad. He's picked up some strange sophistication along the way; he's much more likely to hang out in coffeehouses than bars if given the choice. Bobby falters on the way to the kitchen and throws him a glance over his shoulder.
"You want coffee? Or something stronger?"
"I don't want anything," says Sam, but he follows him into the kitchen anyway and sits down at the table.
Bobby goes through the motions of making coffee for want of any better strategy. He can feel Sam watching him but when he turns to ask if he's sure he can't get him something to drink, Sam's gaze drops abruptly to the tabletop. He picks at the tattered cuff of his hoodie, tugging on the loose cotton threads. When Bobby sets a steaming mug of coffee down in front of him, Sam switches to stirring it with the tarnished spoon Bobby left sticking out of it.
He takes a seat across from Sam and pushes his cap a little further back on his head so he can get a better look at him; Sam doesn't seem to be planning on giving up growing until he can look the Statue of Liberty in the eye.
"So… you wanna tell me what's got you and Dean at each other's throats?"
Sam peers at him through his shaggy fringe and gives a small, huffing sound. The spoon clanks against the side of the mug as his stirring takes on a fiercer edge and then is abandoned.
"He's totally fucked-up. I mean, totally!" Sam's nostrils flare and he wraps his hands about his mug. The rage drains from his voice, leaving him sounding old and tired. "It's the people he picks up, Bobby."
It's hard to hide a smile but Bobby's an old hand at keeping his expression neutral. With all the demons and spirits and crazy shit going on in the world, it's reassuring to come head to head with something like teenage drama.
Still, teenage drama aside, Sam's proficient with firearms and hand-to-hand and Bobby's not gonna do something so stupid as piss him off further. Teenagers may be run of the mill but that doesn't mean they can't do just as much damage as a poltergeist if provoked.
"Sam, I know it's awkward for you but your brother's at that age where he should be picking up girls. And I'm sure he's got lousy taste but you've gotta-"
"I don't care about the girls," says Sam and Bobby stops. He looks Bobby square in the eye and says, "And I don't care that he's fucking guys either. It's not that. It's the ones he chooses."
Bobby plays for time. He takes a long sip of his coffee and lets it burn his mouth. He kind of wishes Sam would just go on because he's not sure he trusts his voice right now. But his daddy taught him never to be afraid of silence so he waits it out until he's got a grip on himself.
"What's the problem with 'em then, Sam?"
"It was a cop this time. I thought… thought he was hurting Dean. 'Course, he wasn't, was he?" Sam's voice is bitter and black. "Telling him what a good boy Dean was. Always with the frickin' authority figures. Cops, hunters. Military types."
Sam looks up and catches Bobby's eyes. There's such meaning in them and Bobby doesn't want to understand what Sam's telling him but he can't help it. His coffee tastes cold and colourless in his mouth. Sam huffs again and hunches over his mug.
"I fucking hate my dad sometimes," he says.
It's not the first time that Bobby's wished Sam wasn't quite so smart.
:::
It's after dawn when Bobby hears the Impala approaching. Sam's been in bed for a few hours. Bobby tried to doze on the couch a couple of times but gave up when he realised his brain didn't plan on shutting down. So he's been reading instead. Grimoires with their visions of hell and demonic evocations are more comforting than thinking about Dean's fucked-up craziness.
Dean's quiet about coming in and the look on his face when he sees Bobby waiting for him says he clearly didn't expect to have to deal with him.
"Sam asleep?" he says.
Bobby nods and stands up. He looks him over carefully and sees Dean adjust to the scrutiny, folding his arms over his chest and cocking his head at him. He's smiling but Bobby has it down as an immediate defence mechanism. It's not the kind of smile he recognises on Dean. Bobby wonders how many people have seen that smile just before Dean punches them out. He's guessing it's probably somewhere in triple figures by now.
"You gonna lecture me, Bobby? Because I don't know what the kid's told you but it's only fair I get to give you my side firs-"
"I reckon I've got it figured out."
"Really," says Dean. It's not a question.
He can feel the walls going up. Dean's backing away so fast, even as he stands right there in front of Bobby. It's his own fault. He fucked up. He fucked up years ago and he's got no right to be angry with Dean because he shoulda seen this problem before it ever got chance to register on Sam's radar.
"Look," he says, holding a hand up to shut down anything Dean might say that'll make this worse. He has to let his hand drop when he realises it's shaking. "Look, whatever you think you need, try to find it someplace that isn't gonna get you into trouble."
"You saying I should come to you, Bobby?"
It's as much a challenge as it is a direct question. There's a light in Dean's eyes that says he genuinely wants to know. He's calling Bobby out, yes, but this is an answer that's important. But what can Bobby tell him? Yes or no, Bobby's gonna hate himself.
Bobby never had himself figured for a coward but that's the only word for it when he goes back to his reading without a word.
:::
Dean never comes to Bobby like that. Bobby doesn't know whether he's relieved about it or disappointed. The amount of time he spends thinking on it, after sundown when sleep won't come or out in the car yard, doing some chore so basic that his hands don't need his brain's input, it seems for a while that Dean's issues are becoming Bobby's issues.
That feeling fades in time. When Sam goes off to Stanford and Dean doesn't turn up on Bobby's doorstep, Bobby starts to think that maybe this is when Dean's outgrown needing that kind of reassurance. He sure doesn't think twice about putting his body between Bobby's shotgun and his daddy when Bobby loses all patience with one of John's more suicidal plans.
And when it's all swapped-round, and Dean's hunting with Sam and not John, then Bobby looks at Dean and sees a man who's capable and confident. He sees a man who shouldn't need his father to be proud of him.
'Course, that doesn't mean that's what Dean sees.
:::
The most Bobby ever tells John about his son's misguided search for his approval is after John's been possessed by the Demon and in a near-fatal car accident. After all, his mom always told him that bad things come in threes.
He goes to the hospital because staring at the Impala, crumpled like an old soda can, makes him jittery and useless. He can't fix the car. It's a hunk of junk and Sam won't let him do the decent thing and put it to rest. The cracked black paint is dull in the daylight. The windows are smashed to hell, the shards of glass tipped with blood. The backseat's got a big black stain on it.
It needs salting and burning. And Bobby's not allowed to do that, so he goes to the hospital instead.
He doesn't stop in at Dean's room. He can hear Sam in there with him, can hear the hiss and click of a ventilator. That's enough for Bobby. He spent enough time in hospitals when Gloria was dying and it may be selfish but he's not planning on sitting by anyone's bedside and watching them die, not ever again.
John's up and dressed. Bobby taps lightly on the door and raises an eyebrow at him when John turns round.
"Good to see you up and around," he says. "Little sooner than I was expecting."
John hesitates a moment before smiling at him and sitting down on the end of the bed. He waves Bobby towards a chair. He looks like hell. Still, that's what possession and playing bumper cars with a semi will do to you. Not to mention all the rest.
"Only so long I could take being stuck in a blue bathrobe," says John.
Bobby sits down and looks at John while John looks back at him. Last time he saw this man he wanted to kill him. Not many things that can get to Bobby like that but John's one of them. He's surprised John's not torn him a new one for letting Sam in on what kind of shopping list John had given him. Sam's not the type to hold something like that in.
"Hear you've been helping my boys out," John says at last.
"They're good boys," says Bobby.
"Yes, they are." John wets his lips and rubs his stubbled jaw.
They sit in silence until Bobby realises that John's not gonna break and that Bobby can't let it go. He can't pretend that it's okay to just wait and see. Because John's not the kind of man to simply sit still and let things come to pass but that's exactly what he looks to be doing.
"Hear Dean's not doing so good," he says.
It's a good opening gambit but John doesn't take it. He looks at Bobby with narrowed eyes. He's polite but cold. Bobby remembers why he wanted to shoot him.
"It's great to see you again, Bobby. Been too long. We'll have to get a beer sometime, catch up. But right now I got some business I-"
"When did you last tell Dean you were proud of him, John?"
John's got one arm in a sling but it doesn't stop his hands from curling into fists. He straightens up a little on the bed and Bobby refuses to give an inch. He's faced scarier things than John Winchester. He can't for the life of him think of one right now but he knows he has.
"Excuse me?" says John.
"When did you last tell Dean you were proud of him? When did you- Fuck, John, just listen to me. That boy's got issues. And it's about time you knew."
"Knew what? Dean's got his hang-ups, sure, but-"
"He's crazy for your approval. Gets off on approval from people he can pretend are you. That's not a 'hang-up', John, that's a disaster waiting to happen."
There's that silence again and then John smiles at Bobby and Bobby sees where Dean learnt that smile.
"It's probably the drugs they've got me on, Bobby, but it sounded to me like you just said Dean's got a daddy-kink."
This isn't a conversation Bobby wants to be having. But damn, they're having it so Bobby's gonna see to it that John understands, that he understands like Bobby should have done right from the get-go. So he shakes his head and tries to sound calm and not at all like he wants to throttle John.
"No, you daft old sonofabitch. I'm saying he wants your approval. Just that. But he doesn't know what it looks like, so he's taking anything he can kid himself into believing is close enough."
Dean's never gonna forgive Bobby for telling John this. But it's gonna be worth it. It's gonna be worth it because then John'll finally understand and Dean won't have to go looking in all the wrong places, and Bobby won't have to worry about the kid.
He just has to survive the brutal and bloody light in John's eyes as he looks at him.
"And what's it look like, Bobby? This approval that Dean's finding, what's it look like to you?"
Bobby doesn't tell him. He doesn't think he has to. And he never gets what he knows he deserves from John because the next time he hears anything of him, it's that he's dead.
:::
The week that Dean and Sam spend with Bobby after John's death is like walking on broken glass, lying on a bed of nails and any other analogy of pain and discomfort you'd like to pick. The boys are welcome, of course they are, but the house is full of misery. It's like mould on the books, it's thick and musty in the air.
Dean's quiet and withdrawn for the first day and then he seems to snap back to normal, or what passes for it. Sam trails around after him, offering him coffee and a shoulder to cry on, but Dean's having none of it. It hurts Sam, Bobby can see it even if Dean can't. It's not fair that Sam's left to grieve on his own. Still, Dean's not gonna get pushed into mourning.
"I can't get through to him," Sam says one day, cornering Bobby amongst his books. "What do I do?"
"You just gotta give him time. It'll get better for him in time."
That's what everyone said after Gloria died. It's a load of bull. Time doesn't make the hurting stop. You just get so used to the ache that you learn to function with it. There's no stop clock on missing someone. There's nothing Sam can do if Dean's not gonna let him.
"You could talk to him. I've tried. He just keeps blowing me off. But you could try."
No. That's the last thing Bobby wants to try. He sidesteps Sam, carrying a pile of books to the over laden desk on the far side of the room. Clouds of dust shoot up into a shaft of colorless sunlight as he sets the books down.
"Aww, Sam, I don't think that'll help."
He crosses to the window and peers through the blinds down to the car yard. He can't see Dean among all the glinting metal and faded paintwork but he can hear the clatter of him working and the faint tinny sound of old rock on the radio. Sam keeps at his elbow, lanky and determined as an Irish Setter.
"Please, Bobby. I'm worried about him. He won't talk to me. He might talk to you. You and Dad go way back."
It's not that Bobby doesn't want to help. He wants to fix Dean and give Sam his brother back. He wants to be there for Dean, to work on that car of his with him, to be a support and a comfort. But he doesn't think Dean'll accept the comfort Bobby's offering and Bobby hasn't got it in him to deal with what he thinks Dean will push for. He can't take the temptation, can't take the guilt.
So he resists Sam's prodding and pleading until it becomes clear that he's the next step in Sam's battleplan. It's the devil and the deep blue sea. He's got a Winchester pushing him in one direction and a damn pushy Winchester waiting. Bobby doesn't stand a chance.
He gives in, follows the sound of the radio and finds Dean among the towers of car-shells. Days like this, when the sunshine's bright and bouncing off the fenders, used to dazzle Bobby. In summer, the air would shiver like a mirage while he worked. He wonders if it's still like that for Dean, if it ever was at all.
Dean throws the wrench down when he sees Bobby approaching. He looks good for a man who was all ready to be measured up for a coffin less than two weeks ago. There's still an ugly red line across his forehead where his skull was cracked open but that's the only sign of the disaster he's left behind.
It's only when Bobby gets closer he can see all the things that are wrong with John's boy. He doesn't think John would approve of the deadness in Dean's eyes, not now Bobby's putting together the switch that went on at the hospital. Bobby definitely doesn't approve of the way Dean tilts his head to watch him, wiping his hands on a rag like he's gonna need them for this conversation.
"Didn't mean to interrupt," says Bobby. "You go on with your girl. Just thought you'd want to know Donny rang, he's got the part in you were asking after. He's gonna bring it round on his way home tonight."
Dean nods and leans up against an old Ford, crossing his legs at the ankle and keeping that dirty red rag twisting through his hands. Bobby gives it a moment. If he goes back in too quick then Sam'll know he didn’t try, but he's not gonna push Dean either because he knows where that could go.
A breeze passes through the yard and metalwork creaks gently. Something drips in the Impala's engine and Bobby makes a mental note that Dean should check that out.
Then he nods back at Dean and turns to leave.
"Seems like you've been avoiding me," says Dean, the very moment Bobby tries to make his escape.
Bobby's stomach sinks. He can't help the rough sigh of breath that escapes him.
"No, Dean," he says, turning around. "I haven't been-"
Dean's right up close to him in seconds. There's the first spark in his eyes that Bobby's seen in a long time. His skin shines with sweat and car-grease as he looms over Bobby.
"Don't you lie to me, Bobby. Don't. You have. I walk into the room and you bolt. Are you mad at me?"
Bobby blinks. This isn't what he was expecting. He's not on the same page as Dean and trying to get some clarification is only going to open up discussions he doesn't want to have. He's trying to pick his words when Dean speaks again. His voice drops to an urgent whisper.
"Are you disappointed with me, Bobby? Did I- have I let you down?"
The tremble in Dean's voice breaks him. Bobby reaches out and claps him on the shoulder. It's a light touch but Dean sags under it, like his legs are buckling. He lets out a choked noise and Bobby wonders how long he's been holding it in.
"No, Dean, I'm not disappointed. You haven't let anyone down."
If it ended right this second, Bobby would be happy. He'd done good. It just has to end right now.
It doesn't end. Dean presses against him, ducking his head to hide his face in Bobby's neck. He grips Bobby's shoulders so tight it almost hurts. Bobby doesn't move. Dean's breath is warm on his throat, even in the unseasonable heat. He can feel the sweat-damp spikes of Dean's hair rubbing his chin.
He doesn't trust himself to breathe, let alone speak. In the tremble of taut muscle, Bobby can feel Dean struggling with something. And when he's just pressing up against Bobby, not really moving or speaking, then Bobby can tell himself he's not doing anything wrong. That this isn't dangerous. They're not holding each other, it's not an embrace. Bobby's just temporarily taking some of the strain off Dean.
It's when Dean shifts just so, his thigh dragging over Bobby's groin, that this perfect little moment goes to hell. Bobby gets hard, starts to get conscious of things like the moist softness of Dean's lips against his neck, the lean power of Dean's body against his chest and legs. Dean's only got a t-shirt and jeans on. It's too little, not enough in between him and Bobby. It's too easy to imagine what he must look like naked.
Dean's hips give a slow roll then, when Bobby makes a low noise in the back of his throat, settle into a fierce grind.
"Dean, don't."
He starts to try to pull free but Dean's hold on him tightens. The boy's strong, in his prime. Bobby could break his grip on him, probably, but not without breaking a few bones with it.
"Don't leave me."
It's barely even a whisper. The very same note of desperation in Dean's voice that should make Bobby end this makes it impossible for him to do so. Bobby screws his eyes shut against the blinding gleam of old metal in the sunlight. He grips the tight, high curve of Dean's ass and hauls him impossibly closer.
He brings him off as quick as he can, needing this to be over before he can remember too much of it. There's a sinuous grace to Dean's movements, even as he's frantic and shuddering right next to Bobby. Dean clings hold of him and, half-straddling Bobby's thigh, rocks against him.
If Dean would just let Bobby, screw that, if Dean would just let Sam get this close without it having to be sex, then the boys would both have someone in their grieving. But Dean doesn't know how to be close, tries to drop his emotional barriers and ends up dropping the sexual ones. And this is what happens. Dean suffers, Sam suffers, John'd be turning in his grave if the boys hadn't cremated him.
Bobby suffers.
No, that's a goddamn lie.
Bobby doesn't suffer now, not when he's dry-fucking Dean and Dean's so greedy for him, such a slut for being touched and held. He'll suffer later when he drags himself over the hot coals for letting this happen again. But this is all Dean wants from him and Bobby would want to give it to him, even if Dean didn't have this effect on him, even if he wasn't the only person Bobby had ever wanted since Gloria died.
He's never seen Dean come before. He realises it when Dean's grip on him tightens and his head rolls back. There are beads of sweat glistening on Dean's sun-gold skin and Bobby's struck with the urge to kiss Dean. It's a fleeting impulse, he's too quickly distracted by the blissful expression on Dean's face and his own approaching climax to follow through.
He comes, hard and desperate, in his pants like he hasn't done since he was fifteen. Dean's still shivering against him and Bobby holds onto him until he's sure they're both gonna stay on their feet when he lets go. He hears the wet sound of Dean swallowing and then they step apart.
Dean's flushed and he doesn't look at Bobby, just turns back to his car. There's a frown on his face though. Bobby feels sweaty and dirty, can't figure out, even knowing what he does about Dean's craziness, why Dean'd be happy to go at it with an old bastard like Bobby. His come feels sticky as it dribbles down his leg, scratching against his jeans.
"Damn it, Dean," Bobby says when he's caught his breath. He says it like he'd not been part of it, not at all, no sir.
Dean doesn't answer, or even look at him. And it's right then that Bobby knows this can't keep happening. Not with him. Because Dean's not the only one in danger of breaking.
:::
There’s no surprise on Dean’s face when the demon in Sam taunts him about John. No denial either. Bobby’s not surprised either, even though this is the first he’s hearing of it. Of course John’d leap headfirst into Hell if it’d get one of his boys put back together. The only surprise is that he didn’t figure out what John’d done sooner. The Colt and his soul for Dean’s life: that would’ve made good business sense to John. He doesn’t like admitting it but it makes a cruel kind of sense to Bobby too: if you’ve got two Winchesters, you need one of ‘em to be Dean or you’ve got a fight on your hands.
Dean won’t see it like that though.
The sweet and sour smell of burnt flesh hangs in the air for a long time after the boys leave. Bobby’s done what he can for them to protect them from possession, and from Steve Wandell’s buddies who are looking to have a lynching, but that doesn’t mean Sam and Dean won’t find some new trouble. They’re bound to. It’s what they do. For Christ’s sake, Dean’s on the FBI’s Most Wanted list; there’ll be more trouble yet.
He restacks the piles of books that have been knocked over and mops up Dean’s blood from the floor in the corner. Then he considers the crack going across his ceiling and rubs his chin, wondering how the hell he’s gonna get that put right. S’not like he can call someone to have it put right because Sam, or the demon inside him, has cut the line. That’s gonna cost money to get fixed too.
When his neck starts aching, Bobby gives up on staring at the broken Devil’s Trap. He watches the fire instead and tries to see John’s face in the flames.
:::
On the fourth day of downtime since the Trickster, Sam catches wind of a strip of haunted highway. Bobby helps him put the disappearances together while Dean prowls about the place like a bored wildcat looking for something to snap its jaws at. When he’s not stripping his guns down or sharpening a blade, he’s staring out the window at nothing in particular, one hand idly scratching behind Rumsfeld’s ears.
Underneath the leftover bickering and chaos that the Trickster laid on them, Bobby can see some deep-down trouble between the boys. He's seen glimmers of it before but put it down to John's death. This is something more though, a more fundamental change in the basics. There's an urgency in Sam's hunting, something Bobby had always connected more with Dean than him. And the way Dean looks at his brother sometimes, it's a painful, haunted look.
The dawn light in the house is pale and grey. It’s raining, little flecks against the windowpane. Both the boys are in bed. Sam had waited a few hours before going up after his brother and Bobby wonders if he's being too cynical in thinking Sam had been less interested in finishing up some research points than he had in making sure Dean was asleep.
"You know Dean," said Sam, when Bobby had raised the subject. "Still too stubborn to believe that destiny's not gonna back off just because he tells it to."
He'd said it with a smile and Bobby had laughed but neither of them sounded convinced. Watching Dean these days is like watching one brick being placed upon another, until you're wondering how high the tower can be built before it all comes crashing down to dust. Sam wouldn't thank him for saying it but Bobby's relieved Sam's so like John; someone needs to be there to catch Dean. Even if it's that same someone who spurs him onto suicidal devotion.
He doesn't know the full story, only that Sam's got a place at the Yellow-Eyed Demon's side if he wants it. He's figured out that John knew, of course John'll have known. And it doesn't take much to figure out what his answer to that will have been: if you can't prevent it, you put an end to it. John's not around to do it, so he'll have trusted it to his lieutenant.
That's what's eating away at the boy. Bobby knows it even if none of them have said the words. Dean's got a choice of disobeying his daddy or putting a bullet in his baby brother's brain. It's not John's fault but Bobby has a second of hating him for it anyway.
He flips Sam's laptop shut and pushes it away. Between them, Sam and Bobby have half-filled a pad with notes. Bobby's writing is small and square, not like Sam's, which is large and flowing, more elegant than you'd expect his big old hands to produce.
The boys'll be heading out tomorrow, he thinks. Sam's gonna need some more local information, records he can't access from way out here. Dean'll be happy to be back behind the wheel of the Impala again, eating up the road.
Bobby stretches, hearing his bones creak, and then heads up the stairs. He'll catch maybe an hour or two of sleep. Just enough to shake off the dullness. It's darker up here. The curtains are pulled and there's only a dusty grey shaft of light coming through the open door to Bobby's room. He crosses the bare floorboards outside the boys' room as quiet as he can.
Dean's waiting for him, in Bobby's room, on Bobby's bed. God knows how long he's been there. He's sitting cross-legged and barefoot, face turned towards the window. He looks at Bobby, who's stopped in the doorway. It's always in the half-light that Dean really shines. A soft, limpid glow, something the stubble and the scars can't hide. He shifts slightly and Bobby can see the light roll over his collarbone, over the defined muscle of his shoulder beneath his thin t-shirt.
Dean opens his mouth to say something, the tiny wet sound of his lips parting the only noise in the silence, but Bobby shakes his head.
Things are fucked to all hell. Dean is fucked to all hell. But that doesn't mean Bobby has to go along with it.
"Dean, what do you need? Wasn't it a big enough clue when your daddy went to Hell for you that he loves you? And fooling around with me isn't gonna get you anywhere. You don't need that."
Dean's eyes flare wide, hazel flecks charging the green. His lips curl into a snarl, so much viciousness from a mouth that's so pretty, and he surges up off the bed. He comes at Bobby and Bobby tenses to block a fist, but it doesn't come. Dean shoves past him and is gone.
Bobby sags there a moment, waiting to hear the roar of the Impala or maybe the cocking of a shotgun, then he sits down heavily on the end of his bed. He tugs his cap off and rubs his head, which is feeling fit to burst. There goes all hope of sleep.
He's not going to sleep. Because this is wrong too.
Then he shoves his cap back on and goes in search of Dean. Dean's fucked, yeah, and Bobby can't take a step back, but it doesn't have to be on Dean's terms either. He finds him downstairs, at the kitchen table and Bobby's determined to rewrite this scene, to make amends, to get it right. He grabs a deck of cards from the drawer and throws them down in front of Dean.
"Deal," says Bobby as he sits down across from him, the chair legs scraping across the floor.
Dean finally looks up at him. That angry, ugly look is still on his face but it's different in a way Bobby can't put his finger on. There's a kind of fierce brightness there that distracts Bobby for a second from realising that Dean's dealing out the cards.
"Poker then," he says.
"Poker I can do."
Bobby smiles slowly and watches it catch on Dean's face. Right there and then, he dares to hope it might just be a start. He's never gonna kiss Dean, never gonna touch him like that again. But he's gonna be right here for Dean. And it might just be all right.
~end
(Dean/Bobby, 12,724 words, NC-17, tiny warning for very mild dub-con)
Dean has issues and Bobby's caught smack-bang in the middle of them.
part I
It’d be a lie to say Bobby never thinks of Dean like that again. Sure he does. He gets that prickle in his belly sometimes when Dean’s bent over under the hood of a car, when Dean’s sprawled out on the couch after a hunt looking blissed-out and indolent. He has the occasional thought when he sees Dean in a certain light, moments of dusk and dawn, and he’s soft-lipped and shining. He still thinks Dean’s more temptation than anything most demons could come up with.
But it’s not so much an issue.
Sam’s a bigger worry. Bobby can’t see John and his boys together for more than half an hour without Sam picking a fight with his dad. Sam’s not cut out for obedience like Dean is. Sam wants hows and whys, knows he’s smart enough to have something valuable to contribute. He wants John to spread his thinking out for Sam and show him the path of each plan. And John’s not the kind of man who’ll do that, not even to satisfy the bitter inquisitiveness of his son.
The night Sam shows up on Bobby’s doorstep, unannounced and furious (and God, even taller than the last time Bobby saw him), Bobby’s first thought is that John’d reached that point where he either had to throw Sam out or murder him. Then he sees Dean stalking up behind his brother, looking just as pissed off. He holds the door wide without a word and Sam brushes past him. Dean shoots him a look that’s as pleading as it is angry as he goes into the house.
Bobby gazes at across the car yard, listening to the bangs and raised voices as the Winchester boys and their argument make themselves at home, stares at the pale yellow light of the fireflies at the edge of the light, then turns and follows them in.
“You know what?” Sam’s snarling. “I don’t even want to be in the same room as you!”
“Fine! Take your frickin’ hissy fit upstairs! Don’t let me hold you up!”
Bobby loiters at the edge of the room because it’s fairly clear the boys don’t need him. He scans the piles of books that are closest to Sam and Dean to make sure there aren’t any he’d really mind losing. He straightens up when he sees Sam take a step towards Dean, because Dean may be well-built but his kid brother’s got a few inches on him now. Last thing he had planned for tonight was breaking up a wrestling match between John’s boys.
“Boys,” he says by way of warning. “You wanna bring it down a notch?”
They ignore him. Sam doesn’t go for Dean, just wants to get in his face.
“What would Dad say, huh? What would Dad say if he knew? You think he’d let you-“
For some reason that gets Bobby a look from Dean and Bobby gets ready to intervene but Dean’s already taking a step towards Sam. He’s about as mad at Sam as Bobby’s ever seen him.
“Shut the fuck up about Dad! He’s not gonna find out unless you tell him! You gonna tell him, Sam?” When Sam doesn’t answer immediately Dean raises his eyebrows at him, a sharper note yet sinking into his tone. “Are you?”
“I should,” Sam says.
It seems to take some of the heat from the row. Dean lets out a breath and turns away, throwing his hands up in defeat. He doesn’t look at Bobby again, just crosses to the door. The keys to the Impala glint in his hand.
“I’m going for a drive. You stay here with Bobby.”
Sam looks as pleased to be a seventeen-year old with a babysitter as Bobby is to be babysitting a seventeen-year old. The sleek, haughty set to his face makes Bobby think of the bad-tempered Siamese his auntie had when he was a little boy.
Outside the Impala growls alive then races off.
Liquor is Bobby's first thought but Sam's different to his brother and his dad. He's picked up some strange sophistication along the way; he's much more likely to hang out in coffeehouses than bars if given the choice. Bobby falters on the way to the kitchen and throws him a glance over his shoulder.
"You want coffee? Or something stronger?"
"I don't want anything," says Sam, but he follows him into the kitchen anyway and sits down at the table.
Bobby goes through the motions of making coffee for want of any better strategy. He can feel Sam watching him but when he turns to ask if he's sure he can't get him something to drink, Sam's gaze drops abruptly to the tabletop. He picks at the tattered cuff of his hoodie, tugging on the loose cotton threads. When Bobby sets a steaming mug of coffee down in front of him, Sam switches to stirring it with the tarnished spoon Bobby left sticking out of it.
He takes a seat across from Sam and pushes his cap a little further back on his head so he can get a better look at him; Sam doesn't seem to be planning on giving up growing until he can look the Statue of Liberty in the eye.
"So… you wanna tell me what's got you and Dean at each other's throats?"
Sam peers at him through his shaggy fringe and gives a small, huffing sound. The spoon clanks against the side of the mug as his stirring takes on a fiercer edge and then is abandoned.
"He's totally fucked-up. I mean, totally!" Sam's nostrils flare and he wraps his hands about his mug. The rage drains from his voice, leaving him sounding old and tired. "It's the people he picks up, Bobby."
It's hard to hide a smile but Bobby's an old hand at keeping his expression neutral. With all the demons and spirits and crazy shit going on in the world, it's reassuring to come head to head with something like teenage drama.
Still, teenage drama aside, Sam's proficient with firearms and hand-to-hand and Bobby's not gonna do something so stupid as piss him off further. Teenagers may be run of the mill but that doesn't mean they can't do just as much damage as a poltergeist if provoked.
"Sam, I know it's awkward for you but your brother's at that age where he should be picking up girls. And I'm sure he's got lousy taste but you've gotta-"
"I don't care about the girls," says Sam and Bobby stops. He looks Bobby square in the eye and says, "And I don't care that he's fucking guys either. It's not that. It's the ones he chooses."
Bobby plays for time. He takes a long sip of his coffee and lets it burn his mouth. He kind of wishes Sam would just go on because he's not sure he trusts his voice right now. But his daddy taught him never to be afraid of silence so he waits it out until he's got a grip on himself.
"What's the problem with 'em then, Sam?"
"It was a cop this time. I thought… thought he was hurting Dean. 'Course, he wasn't, was he?" Sam's voice is bitter and black. "Telling him what a good boy Dean was. Always with the frickin' authority figures. Cops, hunters. Military types."
Sam looks up and catches Bobby's eyes. There's such meaning in them and Bobby doesn't want to understand what Sam's telling him but he can't help it. His coffee tastes cold and colourless in his mouth. Sam huffs again and hunches over his mug.
"I fucking hate my dad sometimes," he says.
It's not the first time that Bobby's wished Sam wasn't quite so smart.
:::
It's after dawn when Bobby hears the Impala approaching. Sam's been in bed for a few hours. Bobby tried to doze on the couch a couple of times but gave up when he realised his brain didn't plan on shutting down. So he's been reading instead. Grimoires with their visions of hell and demonic evocations are more comforting than thinking about Dean's fucked-up craziness.
Dean's quiet about coming in and the look on his face when he sees Bobby waiting for him says he clearly didn't expect to have to deal with him.
"Sam asleep?" he says.
Bobby nods and stands up. He looks him over carefully and sees Dean adjust to the scrutiny, folding his arms over his chest and cocking his head at him. He's smiling but Bobby has it down as an immediate defence mechanism. It's not the kind of smile he recognises on Dean. Bobby wonders how many people have seen that smile just before Dean punches them out. He's guessing it's probably somewhere in triple figures by now.
"You gonna lecture me, Bobby? Because I don't know what the kid's told you but it's only fair I get to give you my side firs-"
"I reckon I've got it figured out."
"Really," says Dean. It's not a question.
He can feel the walls going up. Dean's backing away so fast, even as he stands right there in front of Bobby. It's his own fault. He fucked up. He fucked up years ago and he's got no right to be angry with Dean because he shoulda seen this problem before it ever got chance to register on Sam's radar.
"Look," he says, holding a hand up to shut down anything Dean might say that'll make this worse. He has to let his hand drop when he realises it's shaking. "Look, whatever you think you need, try to find it someplace that isn't gonna get you into trouble."
"You saying I should come to you, Bobby?"
It's as much a challenge as it is a direct question. There's a light in Dean's eyes that says he genuinely wants to know. He's calling Bobby out, yes, but this is an answer that's important. But what can Bobby tell him? Yes or no, Bobby's gonna hate himself.
Bobby never had himself figured for a coward but that's the only word for it when he goes back to his reading without a word.
:::
Dean never comes to Bobby like that. Bobby doesn't know whether he's relieved about it or disappointed. The amount of time he spends thinking on it, after sundown when sleep won't come or out in the car yard, doing some chore so basic that his hands don't need his brain's input, it seems for a while that Dean's issues are becoming Bobby's issues.
That feeling fades in time. When Sam goes off to Stanford and Dean doesn't turn up on Bobby's doorstep, Bobby starts to think that maybe this is when Dean's outgrown needing that kind of reassurance. He sure doesn't think twice about putting his body between Bobby's shotgun and his daddy when Bobby loses all patience with one of John's more suicidal plans.
And when it's all swapped-round, and Dean's hunting with Sam and not John, then Bobby looks at Dean and sees a man who's capable and confident. He sees a man who shouldn't need his father to be proud of him.
'Course, that doesn't mean that's what Dean sees.
:::
The most Bobby ever tells John about his son's misguided search for his approval is after John's been possessed by the Demon and in a near-fatal car accident. After all, his mom always told him that bad things come in threes.
He goes to the hospital because staring at the Impala, crumpled like an old soda can, makes him jittery and useless. He can't fix the car. It's a hunk of junk and Sam won't let him do the decent thing and put it to rest. The cracked black paint is dull in the daylight. The windows are smashed to hell, the shards of glass tipped with blood. The backseat's got a big black stain on it.
It needs salting and burning. And Bobby's not allowed to do that, so he goes to the hospital instead.
He doesn't stop in at Dean's room. He can hear Sam in there with him, can hear the hiss and click of a ventilator. That's enough for Bobby. He spent enough time in hospitals when Gloria was dying and it may be selfish but he's not planning on sitting by anyone's bedside and watching them die, not ever again.
John's up and dressed. Bobby taps lightly on the door and raises an eyebrow at him when John turns round.
"Good to see you up and around," he says. "Little sooner than I was expecting."
John hesitates a moment before smiling at him and sitting down on the end of the bed. He waves Bobby towards a chair. He looks like hell. Still, that's what possession and playing bumper cars with a semi will do to you. Not to mention all the rest.
"Only so long I could take being stuck in a blue bathrobe," says John.
Bobby sits down and looks at John while John looks back at him. Last time he saw this man he wanted to kill him. Not many things that can get to Bobby like that but John's one of them. He's surprised John's not torn him a new one for letting Sam in on what kind of shopping list John had given him. Sam's not the type to hold something like that in.
"Hear you've been helping my boys out," John says at last.
"They're good boys," says Bobby.
"Yes, they are." John wets his lips and rubs his stubbled jaw.
They sit in silence until Bobby realises that John's not gonna break and that Bobby can't let it go. He can't pretend that it's okay to just wait and see. Because John's not the kind of man to simply sit still and let things come to pass but that's exactly what he looks to be doing.
"Hear Dean's not doing so good," he says.
It's a good opening gambit but John doesn't take it. He looks at Bobby with narrowed eyes. He's polite but cold. Bobby remembers why he wanted to shoot him.
"It's great to see you again, Bobby. Been too long. We'll have to get a beer sometime, catch up. But right now I got some business I-"
"When did you last tell Dean you were proud of him, John?"
John's got one arm in a sling but it doesn't stop his hands from curling into fists. He straightens up a little on the bed and Bobby refuses to give an inch. He's faced scarier things than John Winchester. He can't for the life of him think of one right now but he knows he has.
"Excuse me?" says John.
"When did you last tell Dean you were proud of him? When did you- Fuck, John, just listen to me. That boy's got issues. And it's about time you knew."
"Knew what? Dean's got his hang-ups, sure, but-"
"He's crazy for your approval. Gets off on approval from people he can pretend are you. That's not a 'hang-up', John, that's a disaster waiting to happen."
There's that silence again and then John smiles at Bobby and Bobby sees where Dean learnt that smile.
"It's probably the drugs they've got me on, Bobby, but it sounded to me like you just said Dean's got a daddy-kink."
This isn't a conversation Bobby wants to be having. But damn, they're having it so Bobby's gonna see to it that John understands, that he understands like Bobby should have done right from the get-go. So he shakes his head and tries to sound calm and not at all like he wants to throttle John.
"No, you daft old sonofabitch. I'm saying he wants your approval. Just that. But he doesn't know what it looks like, so he's taking anything he can kid himself into believing is close enough."
Dean's never gonna forgive Bobby for telling John this. But it's gonna be worth it. It's gonna be worth it because then John'll finally understand and Dean won't have to go looking in all the wrong places, and Bobby won't have to worry about the kid.
He just has to survive the brutal and bloody light in John's eyes as he looks at him.
"And what's it look like, Bobby? This approval that Dean's finding, what's it look like to you?"
Bobby doesn't tell him. He doesn't think he has to. And he never gets what he knows he deserves from John because the next time he hears anything of him, it's that he's dead.
:::
The week that Dean and Sam spend with Bobby after John's death is like walking on broken glass, lying on a bed of nails and any other analogy of pain and discomfort you'd like to pick. The boys are welcome, of course they are, but the house is full of misery. It's like mould on the books, it's thick and musty in the air.
Dean's quiet and withdrawn for the first day and then he seems to snap back to normal, or what passes for it. Sam trails around after him, offering him coffee and a shoulder to cry on, but Dean's having none of it. It hurts Sam, Bobby can see it even if Dean can't. It's not fair that Sam's left to grieve on his own. Still, Dean's not gonna get pushed into mourning.
"I can't get through to him," Sam says one day, cornering Bobby amongst his books. "What do I do?"
"You just gotta give him time. It'll get better for him in time."
That's what everyone said after Gloria died. It's a load of bull. Time doesn't make the hurting stop. You just get so used to the ache that you learn to function with it. There's no stop clock on missing someone. There's nothing Sam can do if Dean's not gonna let him.
"You could talk to him. I've tried. He just keeps blowing me off. But you could try."
No. That's the last thing Bobby wants to try. He sidesteps Sam, carrying a pile of books to the over laden desk on the far side of the room. Clouds of dust shoot up into a shaft of colorless sunlight as he sets the books down.
"Aww, Sam, I don't think that'll help."
He crosses to the window and peers through the blinds down to the car yard. He can't see Dean among all the glinting metal and faded paintwork but he can hear the clatter of him working and the faint tinny sound of old rock on the radio. Sam keeps at his elbow, lanky and determined as an Irish Setter.
"Please, Bobby. I'm worried about him. He won't talk to me. He might talk to you. You and Dad go way back."
It's not that Bobby doesn't want to help. He wants to fix Dean and give Sam his brother back. He wants to be there for Dean, to work on that car of his with him, to be a support and a comfort. But he doesn't think Dean'll accept the comfort Bobby's offering and Bobby hasn't got it in him to deal with what he thinks Dean will push for. He can't take the temptation, can't take the guilt.
So he resists Sam's prodding and pleading until it becomes clear that he's the next step in Sam's battleplan. It's the devil and the deep blue sea. He's got a Winchester pushing him in one direction and a damn pushy Winchester waiting. Bobby doesn't stand a chance.
He gives in, follows the sound of the radio and finds Dean among the towers of car-shells. Days like this, when the sunshine's bright and bouncing off the fenders, used to dazzle Bobby. In summer, the air would shiver like a mirage while he worked. He wonders if it's still like that for Dean, if it ever was at all.
Dean throws the wrench down when he sees Bobby approaching. He looks good for a man who was all ready to be measured up for a coffin less than two weeks ago. There's still an ugly red line across his forehead where his skull was cracked open but that's the only sign of the disaster he's left behind.
It's only when Bobby gets closer he can see all the things that are wrong with John's boy. He doesn't think John would approve of the deadness in Dean's eyes, not now Bobby's putting together the switch that went on at the hospital. Bobby definitely doesn't approve of the way Dean tilts his head to watch him, wiping his hands on a rag like he's gonna need them for this conversation.
"Didn't mean to interrupt," says Bobby. "You go on with your girl. Just thought you'd want to know Donny rang, he's got the part in you were asking after. He's gonna bring it round on his way home tonight."
Dean nods and leans up against an old Ford, crossing his legs at the ankle and keeping that dirty red rag twisting through his hands. Bobby gives it a moment. If he goes back in too quick then Sam'll know he didn’t try, but he's not gonna push Dean either because he knows where that could go.
A breeze passes through the yard and metalwork creaks gently. Something drips in the Impala's engine and Bobby makes a mental note that Dean should check that out.
Then he nods back at Dean and turns to leave.
"Seems like you've been avoiding me," says Dean, the very moment Bobby tries to make his escape.
Bobby's stomach sinks. He can't help the rough sigh of breath that escapes him.
"No, Dean," he says, turning around. "I haven't been-"
Dean's right up close to him in seconds. There's the first spark in his eyes that Bobby's seen in a long time. His skin shines with sweat and car-grease as he looms over Bobby.
"Don't you lie to me, Bobby. Don't. You have. I walk into the room and you bolt. Are you mad at me?"
Bobby blinks. This isn't what he was expecting. He's not on the same page as Dean and trying to get some clarification is only going to open up discussions he doesn't want to have. He's trying to pick his words when Dean speaks again. His voice drops to an urgent whisper.
"Are you disappointed with me, Bobby? Did I- have I let you down?"
The tremble in Dean's voice breaks him. Bobby reaches out and claps him on the shoulder. It's a light touch but Dean sags under it, like his legs are buckling. He lets out a choked noise and Bobby wonders how long he's been holding it in.
"No, Dean, I'm not disappointed. You haven't let anyone down."
If it ended right this second, Bobby would be happy. He'd done good. It just has to end right now.
It doesn't end. Dean presses against him, ducking his head to hide his face in Bobby's neck. He grips Bobby's shoulders so tight it almost hurts. Bobby doesn't move. Dean's breath is warm on his throat, even in the unseasonable heat. He can feel the sweat-damp spikes of Dean's hair rubbing his chin.
He doesn't trust himself to breathe, let alone speak. In the tremble of taut muscle, Bobby can feel Dean struggling with something. And when he's just pressing up against Bobby, not really moving or speaking, then Bobby can tell himself he's not doing anything wrong. That this isn't dangerous. They're not holding each other, it's not an embrace. Bobby's just temporarily taking some of the strain off Dean.
It's when Dean shifts just so, his thigh dragging over Bobby's groin, that this perfect little moment goes to hell. Bobby gets hard, starts to get conscious of things like the moist softness of Dean's lips against his neck, the lean power of Dean's body against his chest and legs. Dean's only got a t-shirt and jeans on. It's too little, not enough in between him and Bobby. It's too easy to imagine what he must look like naked.
Dean's hips give a slow roll then, when Bobby makes a low noise in the back of his throat, settle into a fierce grind.
"Dean, don't."
He starts to try to pull free but Dean's hold on him tightens. The boy's strong, in his prime. Bobby could break his grip on him, probably, but not without breaking a few bones with it.
"Don't leave me."
It's barely even a whisper. The very same note of desperation in Dean's voice that should make Bobby end this makes it impossible for him to do so. Bobby screws his eyes shut against the blinding gleam of old metal in the sunlight. He grips the tight, high curve of Dean's ass and hauls him impossibly closer.
He brings him off as quick as he can, needing this to be over before he can remember too much of it. There's a sinuous grace to Dean's movements, even as he's frantic and shuddering right next to Bobby. Dean clings hold of him and, half-straddling Bobby's thigh, rocks against him.
If Dean would just let Bobby, screw that, if Dean would just let Sam get this close without it having to be sex, then the boys would both have someone in their grieving. But Dean doesn't know how to be close, tries to drop his emotional barriers and ends up dropping the sexual ones. And this is what happens. Dean suffers, Sam suffers, John'd be turning in his grave if the boys hadn't cremated him.
Bobby suffers.
No, that's a goddamn lie.
Bobby doesn't suffer now, not when he's dry-fucking Dean and Dean's so greedy for him, such a slut for being touched and held. He'll suffer later when he drags himself over the hot coals for letting this happen again. But this is all Dean wants from him and Bobby would want to give it to him, even if Dean didn't have this effect on him, even if he wasn't the only person Bobby had ever wanted since Gloria died.
He's never seen Dean come before. He realises it when Dean's grip on him tightens and his head rolls back. There are beads of sweat glistening on Dean's sun-gold skin and Bobby's struck with the urge to kiss Dean. It's a fleeting impulse, he's too quickly distracted by the blissful expression on Dean's face and his own approaching climax to follow through.
He comes, hard and desperate, in his pants like he hasn't done since he was fifteen. Dean's still shivering against him and Bobby holds onto him until he's sure they're both gonna stay on their feet when he lets go. He hears the wet sound of Dean swallowing and then they step apart.
Dean's flushed and he doesn't look at Bobby, just turns back to his car. There's a frown on his face though. Bobby feels sweaty and dirty, can't figure out, even knowing what he does about Dean's craziness, why Dean'd be happy to go at it with an old bastard like Bobby. His come feels sticky as it dribbles down his leg, scratching against his jeans.
"Damn it, Dean," Bobby says when he's caught his breath. He says it like he'd not been part of it, not at all, no sir.
Dean doesn't answer, or even look at him. And it's right then that Bobby knows this can't keep happening. Not with him. Because Dean's not the only one in danger of breaking.
:::
There’s no surprise on Dean’s face when the demon in Sam taunts him about John. No denial either. Bobby’s not surprised either, even though this is the first he’s hearing of it. Of course John’d leap headfirst into Hell if it’d get one of his boys put back together. The only surprise is that he didn’t figure out what John’d done sooner. The Colt and his soul for Dean’s life: that would’ve made good business sense to John. He doesn’t like admitting it but it makes a cruel kind of sense to Bobby too: if you’ve got two Winchesters, you need one of ‘em to be Dean or you’ve got a fight on your hands.
Dean won’t see it like that though.
The sweet and sour smell of burnt flesh hangs in the air for a long time after the boys leave. Bobby’s done what he can for them to protect them from possession, and from Steve Wandell’s buddies who are looking to have a lynching, but that doesn’t mean Sam and Dean won’t find some new trouble. They’re bound to. It’s what they do. For Christ’s sake, Dean’s on the FBI’s Most Wanted list; there’ll be more trouble yet.
He restacks the piles of books that have been knocked over and mops up Dean’s blood from the floor in the corner. Then he considers the crack going across his ceiling and rubs his chin, wondering how the hell he’s gonna get that put right. S’not like he can call someone to have it put right because Sam, or the demon inside him, has cut the line. That’s gonna cost money to get fixed too.
When his neck starts aching, Bobby gives up on staring at the broken Devil’s Trap. He watches the fire instead and tries to see John’s face in the flames.
:::
On the fourth day of downtime since the Trickster, Sam catches wind of a strip of haunted highway. Bobby helps him put the disappearances together while Dean prowls about the place like a bored wildcat looking for something to snap its jaws at. When he’s not stripping his guns down or sharpening a blade, he’s staring out the window at nothing in particular, one hand idly scratching behind Rumsfeld’s ears.
Underneath the leftover bickering and chaos that the Trickster laid on them, Bobby can see some deep-down trouble between the boys. He's seen glimmers of it before but put it down to John's death. This is something more though, a more fundamental change in the basics. There's an urgency in Sam's hunting, something Bobby had always connected more with Dean than him. And the way Dean looks at his brother sometimes, it's a painful, haunted look.
The dawn light in the house is pale and grey. It’s raining, little flecks against the windowpane. Both the boys are in bed. Sam had waited a few hours before going up after his brother and Bobby wonders if he's being too cynical in thinking Sam had been less interested in finishing up some research points than he had in making sure Dean was asleep.
"You know Dean," said Sam, when Bobby had raised the subject. "Still too stubborn to believe that destiny's not gonna back off just because he tells it to."
He'd said it with a smile and Bobby had laughed but neither of them sounded convinced. Watching Dean these days is like watching one brick being placed upon another, until you're wondering how high the tower can be built before it all comes crashing down to dust. Sam wouldn't thank him for saying it but Bobby's relieved Sam's so like John; someone needs to be there to catch Dean. Even if it's that same someone who spurs him onto suicidal devotion.
He doesn't know the full story, only that Sam's got a place at the Yellow-Eyed Demon's side if he wants it. He's figured out that John knew, of course John'll have known. And it doesn't take much to figure out what his answer to that will have been: if you can't prevent it, you put an end to it. John's not around to do it, so he'll have trusted it to his lieutenant.
That's what's eating away at the boy. Bobby knows it even if none of them have said the words. Dean's got a choice of disobeying his daddy or putting a bullet in his baby brother's brain. It's not John's fault but Bobby has a second of hating him for it anyway.
He flips Sam's laptop shut and pushes it away. Between them, Sam and Bobby have half-filled a pad with notes. Bobby's writing is small and square, not like Sam's, which is large and flowing, more elegant than you'd expect his big old hands to produce.
The boys'll be heading out tomorrow, he thinks. Sam's gonna need some more local information, records he can't access from way out here. Dean'll be happy to be back behind the wheel of the Impala again, eating up the road.
Bobby stretches, hearing his bones creak, and then heads up the stairs. He'll catch maybe an hour or two of sleep. Just enough to shake off the dullness. It's darker up here. The curtains are pulled and there's only a dusty grey shaft of light coming through the open door to Bobby's room. He crosses the bare floorboards outside the boys' room as quiet as he can.
Dean's waiting for him, in Bobby's room, on Bobby's bed. God knows how long he's been there. He's sitting cross-legged and barefoot, face turned towards the window. He looks at Bobby, who's stopped in the doorway. It's always in the half-light that Dean really shines. A soft, limpid glow, something the stubble and the scars can't hide. He shifts slightly and Bobby can see the light roll over his collarbone, over the defined muscle of his shoulder beneath his thin t-shirt.
Dean opens his mouth to say something, the tiny wet sound of his lips parting the only noise in the silence, but Bobby shakes his head.
Things are fucked to all hell. Dean is fucked to all hell. But that doesn't mean Bobby has to go along with it.
"Dean, what do you need? Wasn't it a big enough clue when your daddy went to Hell for you that he loves you? And fooling around with me isn't gonna get you anywhere. You don't need that."
Dean's eyes flare wide, hazel flecks charging the green. His lips curl into a snarl, so much viciousness from a mouth that's so pretty, and he surges up off the bed. He comes at Bobby and Bobby tenses to block a fist, but it doesn't come. Dean shoves past him and is gone.
Bobby sags there a moment, waiting to hear the roar of the Impala or maybe the cocking of a shotgun, then he sits down heavily on the end of his bed. He tugs his cap off and rubs his head, which is feeling fit to burst. There goes all hope of sleep.
He's not going to sleep. Because this is wrong too.
Then he shoves his cap back on and goes in search of Dean. Dean's fucked, yeah, and Bobby can't take a step back, but it doesn't have to be on Dean's terms either. He finds him downstairs, at the kitchen table and Bobby's determined to rewrite this scene, to make amends, to get it right. He grabs a deck of cards from the drawer and throws them down in front of Dean.
"Deal," says Bobby as he sits down across from him, the chair legs scraping across the floor.
Dean finally looks up at him. That angry, ugly look is still on his face but it's different in a way Bobby can't put his finger on. There's a kind of fierce brightness there that distracts Bobby for a second from realising that Dean's dealing out the cards.
"Poker then," he says.
"Poker I can do."
Bobby smiles slowly and watches it catch on Dean's face. Right there and then, he dares to hope it might just be a start. He's never gonna kiss Dean, never gonna touch him like that again. But he's gonna be right here for Dean. And it might just be all right.
~end