dean-centric fic & art meme #8
So that fantastic, all-expenses-paid weekend getaway you had planned--you cancelled that, right? You're ready for this? BECAUSE I AM READY FOR THIS. MY BODY IS READY FOR THIS. In anticipation of S9, let's pour some chum in the waters. Bring on the Dean!pain (and comfort!). >:D
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“--everything I touch,” Bobby is saying when Dean wordlessly passes him the water, “you can’t stay, boy, everything I fucking touch turns to shit.”
It’s an unexpected sentiment, and one that makes Dean’s chest hurt in a way he can’t quite articulate, and he is seized with the sudden childish urge to dive onto the couch and gather Bobby in a hug, cuddle up to him like a child and tell him no, no, Bobby, you’re better than that. He doesn’t, though, because long experience has taught him that tough love works best in these situations (get off me, Dean, just get off--Christ, you’re too big for that shit, go to fucking sleep already).
“You should drink all of that,” he says, and he sounds hollow even to his own ears, but Bobby blinks up and him and does it. Satisfied for the moment, Dean sinks down to the floor and sits in front of the couch, where Bobby is listing sideways. “All of it,” he says firmly, when Bobby makes to set the half empty glass on the side table.
Curiously, Bobby does it, and Dean is glad for it, because John is a bitch to wrangle when he’s drunk, and doesn’t take kindly to being ordered around by his son, goddammit. When the glass is empty Bobby stares down into it, blinks rapidly for a moment, and then slurs, “She wouldn’t stop.”
“I know,” says Dean, because that’s what he needs to say.
“I--I begged her,” says Bobby in a low voice, still staring down into the glass, “but she--again and again, and she was screaming, I was screaming, and I didn’t know. I--I didn’t know!”
The last word is shouted, and Dean ducks, waiting for Bobby to throw the glass or worse, but he doesn’t, just grips it tighter and curls into himself. “It’s okay, Bobby,” says Dean, sitting up into a kneel and reaching up to lay a hand on Bobby’s shoulder. “It’s okay, man, you didn’t know.”
“She wouldn’t stop,” whispers Bobby. “I loved her.”
Dean swallows, don’t fucking cry, fists Bobby’s shirt involuntarily, he is not talking about your mother, he is not Dad, don’t fucking cry, and he says, “I know, man. It wasn’t your fault. Bobby. It wasn’t.”
Bobby nods, miserably, not believing him, and Dean pries the glass from his hands, sets it on the side table. “Lie down, man,” he says, guiding him, tugging the throw blanket from the back of the couch and settling it around Bobby’s shoulders. “On your side,” he adds, “okay? Stay on your side.”
Bobby stays, pressing his face into the pillow Dean propped beneath his head and mumbling incoherently for a little while longer before he goes quiet, and his heavy breathing, still thick and teary, grows rhythmic and relaxed. Dean falls asleep sitting with his back to the couch, his head tilted back onto the cushion, not far from Bobby’s face, pinched in misery even as he sleeps.
He awakens with a wicked crick in his neck, the blanket draped haphazardly over his own curled up body, to the smell and crackle of frying bacon.
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I'm glad you...liked it? <3
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I have a feeling Bobby was exceedingly gentle with Dean all morning before the panic got to be too much and he scurried off--but I also have a feeling he was back pretty quickly because Bobby "just really needed a second pair of eyes" on some document or some such...because Bobby is a mensch of the highest order, really, even when he fucks up.
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The thoughts in the poor messed up head. Perfection.
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This is beautiful. <333 I especially love the line about one door being open, in a world of many closed ones, and the way that folds back on itself in some ways, as the fic continues onward. These two, good god. <3
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