Shotgun 3/7: Wednesday
Title: Shotgun (3/7)
Author: July
Rating: R
Genre: Gen, Pre-series, crossover with Friday Night Lights
Spoilers: 4.03 for Supernatural, FNL spoilers through the Pilot
Warnings: Violence and teenage boys.
Disclaimer: I asked Santa. The jolly bastard said no. Beware of canon dialog!
Notes: Sweet Charity fic for the lovely saberivojo. Beta’d by maychorian and kimmer1227. Now with ART by catsbycat.
Summary: Dillon, TX. 1996.
MONDAY
TUESDAY
WEDNESDAY
Motherfuckin’ bad wind came, blew down my home.
Now the green grass grows.
Bad wind came, blew down my home,
Goddamn goodness knows.
-“Ain’t No Right”, Jane’s Addiction
Bobby Singer was a man who appreciated irony. In his line of work, you had to be. And in a few weeks, he would probably look back on this and laugh. Maybe even in a couple of days. But right now? It was hard to savor the moment while one of John Winchester’s kids had a loaded shotgun pointed at his head. There was irony and then there was irony.
“Who the fuck are you?” the kid asked. He was tall, at least six foot, with a military haircut and a hungry face. He was in only his jeans in the cool dawn air, and Bobby could see the kid was no couch potato.
“My name’s Bobby. I’m a friend of your Dad’s.”
“My dad doesn’t have any friends.” The kid’s hands were cool and steady and there was a mean look in his eye that was a little too familiar. John Winchester’s kid. Jesus.
“True enough. I’m a hunting buddy of his. I have-“
“Dean-what the hell?” A second kid stumbled out onto the porch, still in boxers and a t-shirt. He was a hair shorter than his brother, with floppy hair and coltish legs. Dean was the one with the gun, then. Dean reached out at his brother without looking, grabbed him by the shoulder, and pulled the kid behind him in one smooth movement, never taking his eyes off Bobby.
“You must be Sam,” Bobby said amiably.
“Don’t you talk to him,” Dean snapped, pulling the stock firmly against his shoulder. “You wanna talk, you talk to me. Don’t talk to him.”
“What the hell?” the younger kid repeated. “You can’t just go around waving guns at people. I don’t care if this is Texas.” Righteous indignation, a little impotent rage. Christ. John Winchester’s kid.
“Look, son-“
“I’m not your son,” Dean spat back. “You,” he said to his brother, “go back inside.” His brother ignored him.
“Your dad’s not home.”
“Brilliant deduction, Sherlock.”
“Listen. I came because I have something for your father.”
“That’s funny,” Dean tapped his middle finger against the trigger guard. “I have something for you, too.”
“Why don’t you put the gun down and-“
Inside, the phone rang, cutting him off. Please, God, let it be John, he thought. Blown away by some wet-behind-the-ears hunter wannabe with an itchy finger was not how he wanted to go. Dean released his brother, who bounded back inside, tripping over the doorjamb, and finally made it to the hall phone.
“Hello?” he said. The front door was open and Bobby could see all the way down the worn Oriental rug to the phone. He counted half a dozen protection sigils in the hall alone. “Hey, Dad. Yeah. About that…he’s here. Uh-huh.”
“Can I shoot him?” Dean asked.
“Dean wants to know if he can shoot him.” Pause. “Dad says no.”
“Damn. Is he sure?”
“Are you sure?” Pause. “Yeah, he’s sure!” Pause. “Okay, yeah…okay. He’s not gonna like it. I’ll ask him.” The younger boy cleared his throat. “Hey, mister! Dad wants to know if you have…a necklace?”
“A what?” Dean asked.
“It’s a talisman,” Bobby said, feathers ruffled in spite of himself. “Not a necklace. A hand-crafted talisman. Real special."
"What's it for?” the younger one asked.
"Good luck," Bobby hedged. "Like a four-leaf clover."
“Let’s see the necklace, old man.”
Bobby reached slowly into his down vest and retrieved the small package. Pointedly, he avoided the inside pocket that held his knife. No sense getting dead now. He removed the small manila envelope and held it out. Dean made a gesture and Bobby approached with caution. He removed one hand from the weapon long enough to accept the package, never taking his eyes off of Bobby.
“Hey! Dad wants to talk to you,” Sam called. “Oh, and he says to put down the gun.” There was a pause. “He says it’s an order, but he’s laughing pretty hard.”
Dean grinned and dropped the shotgun to his waist. Still close at hand but not aimed at Bobby’s head. Sam was smirking, too, as Dean picked up the phone. Bobby didn’t know what he’d been expecting of John’s kids: miniature, unshaven John-look-alikes? Dean looked older than he should, but he didn’t carry the weight of the world like John did. Sam seemed mouthy, but no more so than any other teenager. They were almost normal.
“Hey,” Dean said. “He wants to talk to you, Uncle Bobby.”
“I beg your pardon?” Bobby asked, but Dean just smiled wider and handed him the phone. On the other end, he could hear John snickering.
“How are you doing, Bobby?”
“What are you laughing at, you smug bastard?”
“Little taste of your own medicine?”
“Kiss my ass, Winchester.”
“About that, I need a favor. My boys-”
“No way,” Bobby said. But John just steamrolled on.
“My boys don’t know anything about-Bobby, they don’t know how to protect themselves.”
“All evidence to the contrary.”
“It’s coming back,” John said. Shit. “There have been-there were signs thirteen years ago. And they’re back. And my boys can take care of themselves, but… It’s after Sam. Thirteen years ago, it said it was coming back for Sam.”
“Jesus.”
“Bobby…I’ll be in your debt.”
“Yeah, okay.” He was gonna regret this. He could already tell.
“They don’t know anything, Bobby. I’d like to keep it that way.”
“You’re a real sonuvabitch, you know that?”
“Yeah. I actually do. I’ll be back by Friday night.”
“Fine.” Bobby handed the phone back to Dean. He watched as John’s eldest listened to his father, expressions of amusement, concern, obedience, and finally resolve flickering across his face.
“Yessir.” Dean hung up. A strained quiet descended over the room. Dean stared at Bobby like he was a bum transmission. Sam glared daggers at them both. Finally Dean took a deep breath. He passed the manila envelope, the one with Bobby’s talisman in it, to his brother. “Cheer up, Samantha. You’re in charge of the necklace till Dad gets back.”
“Talisman,” Bobby muttered blackly under his breath.
“Shit,” Sam said, looking up at the clock. “Billy’s gone by now.”
“Shit.” Dean sighed. “Well, Uncle Bobby. How’d you like to drive your two favorite nephews to school?”
Good Christ.
<<<<<>>>>>
It wasn’t but two hours later that the phone rang again. Bobby set down his pencil and stared at it. Then he stood up, crossed the room, and stared at the plastic device in calculation. He was loath to pick it up, but he didn’t want to miss a call from John. He took the middle ground and let the machine get it.
“If we’re not here, you’re screwed,” was the pre-recorded message. Nice.
“Pick up, you old coot,” Dean’s voice hissed. “I know you’re there.”
Bobby snatched the receiver. “Dean?” Jesus, if something happened to the kids, John was gonna have his guts for garters and that was just facts.
“Uncle Bobby!” Dean sang out with real relief.
“Are you boys okay?”
“Funny story.”
<<<<<>>>>>
A half hour later, Bobby was inside the Dillon High administrative office, signing out the Winchester boys on his recognizance. It was a bad idea, but he didn’t have any alternatives. Bobby stood there, making nice with Principal Burleson for a few minutes, keeping one eye on the boys. Sam had his arms crossed over his torn shirt, sullen and withdrawn. Dean’s flannel was splattered with blood. He had one hand in his pocket and the other one held an ice pack to his face. He was playing along, though, telling the principal what he wanted to hear. Good boy, Bobby thought, in spite of himself. Dean was handling this like a pro. It looked like they were in the clear right up until the parking lot. A harried looking man in khaki shorts and a blue polo approached them at a jog. Dean groaned.
“Go,” he said. “I’ll be there in a sec.” Sam planted his feet, but Bobby snagged him by the back of his ruined shirt and guided him a little ways off, but still in earshot.
“Son, what the hell?” asked the man in the polo. Bobby didn’t figure him for trouble: fit enough, a wedding ring and a class ring, maybe, on the right hand. Athletic, but not their type of athlete.
“Coach, I’m sorry.” Dean studied the pavement.
“Sorry? Are we not clear that in two days a group of men are going to be coming down here to try and destroy you? Is that not-is that not clear? You’re sorry?”
“Um, yessir.”
“These same men are going to be coming down here and they’re going to use everything they have to hurt you. They’re going to attempt to do this in front of your father and in front of your brother and-who is that, anyway?”
“My uncle, sir, I-“
“You’ve got a game in two days, and you’re giving me an ulcer, Dean.” He sighed, removed his cap and ran his hands through a shock of dark hair that seemed to have taken on a life of its own. Bobby recognized the look of a man marshalling his reserves.
“Coach-“
“Not another word. I’ll see you at practice.”
“Mr. Burleson said-“
“You let me and Coach Lamar deal with Mr. Burleson. Understand?”
“Yessir.”
“Now go home, cool off, and quit letting your brother hit you in the face.” The man replaced his cap. “Not broken, is it?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. I need you looking pretty on Friday night.” Coach was resigned now, and a little amused.
“Big dance,” Dean said, the smile creeping back onto his face.
"Aright. Get on out of here, then," Coach said and sent Dean on his way with a wave of his hand. Dean caught up to Bobby and Sam, looking sheepish.
“What?”
“Jesus, Dean,” Sam said with disgust. “Could you crawl any further up his ass?”
“Save it for the car,” Bobby growled with as much command as he could. Sam made a small noise of disgust, but held his tongue until they were in the Chevelle, Dean riding up front. Bobby gripped the steering wheel and thanked whatever lucky stars were left that he’d never had kids.
“So?” Sam said.
“What exactly do you want from me, Sam?” Dean asked, tired.
“Think for yourself, for once in your fucking life.”
“Language,” Dean said, hackles up. “And fuck you think for yourself.”
“That’s a persuasive argument,” Sam shot back.
“And fuck you persuasive argument.”
“I’m just wondering if you ever spend any time thinking about what you’re actually doing.”
“And I wonder if you spend anytime thinking about the ungrateful shit you say. Oh, fuck.”
Bobby looked over. Blood was leaking out of Dean’s nose again. He tilted his head back and re-applied the icepack. In the rearview mirror, Sam had the grace to at least look regretful, if not actually guilty. They finished the car ride in silence. When they reached the house, Sam headed directly for the boys’ room. Dean headed for the kitchen, and Bobby followed.
“That kid is gonna give me an ulcer,” Dean said. Bobby quashed a smile and wondered if Dean was aware he was using his coach’s words. Dean ran water in the sink and grumbled something about losing a perfectly good shirt. He pulled it off, eyeing the bloodstain with disgust, and dropped it into the water. Bobby blinked, momentarily taken aback. Dean’s torso was covered with bruises, one of them so big it covered most of his left ribs.
“Jesus,” Bobby muttered.
“What, these?” Dean looked down. “Yeah. Our best offensive lineman was out last week. He let a greased hog loose in the gym during cheer practice. And then he got stuck under the bleachers trying to catch the damn thing.”
Bobby chuckled. Dean sighed and crossed his arms, turning his back to the window. His eyes drifted past Bobby and down to the kitchen table. He frowned. Too late, Bobby realized he’d left all of his research out. Mostly demonology. Dammit. Dean was gonna run him out of town on a rail, and then John was gonna kill him.
“You better put that away,” Dean said flatly. “My brother’s not supposed to see shit like that.”
Bobby had nothing to say to that.
<<<<<>>>>>
Bobby couldn’t get over how flat West Texas was. The dying grass looked golden on the horizon, a line dotted only by ranch houses and a water tower. Dean was holding his cards pretty close to the vest, hadn’t mentioned the kitchen, hadn’t really acknowledged Bobby’s presence till now. And now probably only because Bobby was driving him to practice.
“My Dad has a saying,” Dean declared, apropos of absolutely squat. “You can’t ride two horses with one ass.”
“Poetic.”
“Sam started it. Today, at school. He thinks you’re a serial killer, by the way.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah. And he thinks I’m some kind of sycophantic jackass. His words.”
Bobby nodded.
“He said I was a sycophantic jackass, letting some kind of serial killer in the house on Dad’s say-so. A sycophantic jackass. I’m not gonna lie. I threw the first punch. After that, though, it was all Sammy.”
“Seems like he can take care of himself.” Bobby pulled into the parking lot outside the stadium. Dean nodded sagely, then turned and looked at Bobby with something in his eyes that was way too old for seventeen.
“No shit, though. You touch my brother and I kill you.”
Where green grass grows there can’t be no wrong.
And goodness knows, there ain’t no right.
THURSDAY
No spoilers past 4.10, please!
Author: July
Rating: R
Genre: Gen, Pre-series, crossover with Friday Night Lights
Spoilers: 4.03 for Supernatural, FNL spoilers through the Pilot
Warnings: Violence and teenage boys.
Disclaimer: I asked Santa. The jolly bastard said no. Beware of canon dialog!
Notes: Sweet Charity fic for the lovely saberivojo. Beta’d by maychorian and kimmer1227. Now with ART by catsbycat.
Summary: Dillon, TX. 1996.
MONDAY
TUESDAY
WEDNESDAY
Motherfuckin’ bad wind came, blew down my home.
Now the green grass grows.
Bad wind came, blew down my home,
Goddamn goodness knows.
-“Ain’t No Right”, Jane’s Addiction
Bobby Singer was a man who appreciated irony. In his line of work, you had to be. And in a few weeks, he would probably look back on this and laugh. Maybe even in a couple of days. But right now? It was hard to savor the moment while one of John Winchester’s kids had a loaded shotgun pointed at his head. There was irony and then there was irony.
“Who the fuck are you?” the kid asked. He was tall, at least six foot, with a military haircut and a hungry face. He was in only his jeans in the cool dawn air, and Bobby could see the kid was no couch potato.
“My name’s Bobby. I’m a friend of your Dad’s.”
“My dad doesn’t have any friends.” The kid’s hands were cool and steady and there was a mean look in his eye that was a little too familiar. John Winchester’s kid. Jesus.
“True enough. I’m a hunting buddy of his. I have-“
“Dean-what the hell?” A second kid stumbled out onto the porch, still in boxers and a t-shirt. He was a hair shorter than his brother, with floppy hair and coltish legs. Dean was the one with the gun, then. Dean reached out at his brother without looking, grabbed him by the shoulder, and pulled the kid behind him in one smooth movement, never taking his eyes off Bobby.
“You must be Sam,” Bobby said amiably.
“Don’t you talk to him,” Dean snapped, pulling the stock firmly against his shoulder. “You wanna talk, you talk to me. Don’t talk to him.”
“What the hell?” the younger kid repeated. “You can’t just go around waving guns at people. I don’t care if this is Texas.” Righteous indignation, a little impotent rage. Christ. John Winchester’s kid.
“Look, son-“
“I’m not your son,” Dean spat back. “You,” he said to his brother, “go back inside.” His brother ignored him.
“Your dad’s not home.”
“Brilliant deduction, Sherlock.”
“Listen. I came because I have something for your father.”
“That’s funny,” Dean tapped his middle finger against the trigger guard. “I have something for you, too.”
“Why don’t you put the gun down and-“
Inside, the phone rang, cutting him off. Please, God, let it be John, he thought. Blown away by some wet-behind-the-ears hunter wannabe with an itchy finger was not how he wanted to go. Dean released his brother, who bounded back inside, tripping over the doorjamb, and finally made it to the hall phone.
“Hello?” he said. The front door was open and Bobby could see all the way down the worn Oriental rug to the phone. He counted half a dozen protection sigils in the hall alone. “Hey, Dad. Yeah. About that…he’s here. Uh-huh.”
“Can I shoot him?” Dean asked.
“Dean wants to know if he can shoot him.” Pause. “Dad says no.”
“Damn. Is he sure?”
“Are you sure?” Pause. “Yeah, he’s sure!” Pause. “Okay, yeah…okay. He’s not gonna like it. I’ll ask him.” The younger boy cleared his throat. “Hey, mister! Dad wants to know if you have…a necklace?”
“A what?” Dean asked.
“It’s a talisman,” Bobby said, feathers ruffled in spite of himself. “Not a necklace. A hand-crafted talisman. Real special."
"What's it for?” the younger one asked.
"Good luck," Bobby hedged. "Like a four-leaf clover."
“Let’s see the necklace, old man.”
Bobby reached slowly into his down vest and retrieved the small package. Pointedly, he avoided the inside pocket that held his knife. No sense getting dead now. He removed the small manila envelope and held it out. Dean made a gesture and Bobby approached with caution. He removed one hand from the weapon long enough to accept the package, never taking his eyes off of Bobby.
“Hey! Dad wants to talk to you,” Sam called. “Oh, and he says to put down the gun.” There was a pause. “He says it’s an order, but he’s laughing pretty hard.”
Dean grinned and dropped the shotgun to his waist. Still close at hand but not aimed at Bobby’s head. Sam was smirking, too, as Dean picked up the phone. Bobby didn’t know what he’d been expecting of John’s kids: miniature, unshaven John-look-alikes? Dean looked older than he should, but he didn’t carry the weight of the world like John did. Sam seemed mouthy, but no more so than any other teenager. They were almost normal.
“Hey,” Dean said. “He wants to talk to you, Uncle Bobby.”
“I beg your pardon?” Bobby asked, but Dean just smiled wider and handed him the phone. On the other end, he could hear John snickering.
“How are you doing, Bobby?”
“What are you laughing at, you smug bastard?”
“Little taste of your own medicine?”
“Kiss my ass, Winchester.”
“About that, I need a favor. My boys-”
“No way,” Bobby said. But John just steamrolled on.
“My boys don’t know anything about-Bobby, they don’t know how to protect themselves.”
“All evidence to the contrary.”
“It’s coming back,” John said. Shit. “There have been-there were signs thirteen years ago. And they’re back. And my boys can take care of themselves, but… It’s after Sam. Thirteen years ago, it said it was coming back for Sam.”
“Jesus.”
“Bobby…I’ll be in your debt.”
“Yeah, okay.” He was gonna regret this. He could already tell.
“They don’t know anything, Bobby. I’d like to keep it that way.”
“You’re a real sonuvabitch, you know that?”
“Yeah. I actually do. I’ll be back by Friday night.”
“Fine.” Bobby handed the phone back to Dean. He watched as John’s eldest listened to his father, expressions of amusement, concern, obedience, and finally resolve flickering across his face.
“Yessir.” Dean hung up. A strained quiet descended over the room. Dean stared at Bobby like he was a bum transmission. Sam glared daggers at them both. Finally Dean took a deep breath. He passed the manila envelope, the one with Bobby’s talisman in it, to his brother. “Cheer up, Samantha. You’re in charge of the necklace till Dad gets back.”
“Talisman,” Bobby muttered blackly under his breath.
“Shit,” Sam said, looking up at the clock. “Billy’s gone by now.”
“Shit.” Dean sighed. “Well, Uncle Bobby. How’d you like to drive your two favorite nephews to school?”
Good Christ.
<<<<<>>>>>
It wasn’t but two hours later that the phone rang again. Bobby set down his pencil and stared at it. Then he stood up, crossed the room, and stared at the plastic device in calculation. He was loath to pick it up, but he didn’t want to miss a call from John. He took the middle ground and let the machine get it.
“If we’re not here, you’re screwed,” was the pre-recorded message. Nice.
“Pick up, you old coot,” Dean’s voice hissed. “I know you’re there.”
Bobby snatched the receiver. “Dean?” Jesus, if something happened to the kids, John was gonna have his guts for garters and that was just facts.
“Uncle Bobby!” Dean sang out with real relief.
“Are you boys okay?”
“Funny story.”
<<<<<>>>>>
A half hour later, Bobby was inside the Dillon High administrative office, signing out the Winchester boys on his recognizance. It was a bad idea, but he didn’t have any alternatives. Bobby stood there, making nice with Principal Burleson for a few minutes, keeping one eye on the boys. Sam had his arms crossed over his torn shirt, sullen and withdrawn. Dean’s flannel was splattered with blood. He had one hand in his pocket and the other one held an ice pack to his face. He was playing along, though, telling the principal what he wanted to hear. Good boy, Bobby thought, in spite of himself. Dean was handling this like a pro. It looked like they were in the clear right up until the parking lot. A harried looking man in khaki shorts and a blue polo approached them at a jog. Dean groaned.
“Go,” he said. “I’ll be there in a sec.” Sam planted his feet, but Bobby snagged him by the back of his ruined shirt and guided him a little ways off, but still in earshot.
“Son, what the hell?” asked the man in the polo. Bobby didn’t figure him for trouble: fit enough, a wedding ring and a class ring, maybe, on the right hand. Athletic, but not their type of athlete.
“Coach, I’m sorry.” Dean studied the pavement.
“Sorry? Are we not clear that in two days a group of men are going to be coming down here to try and destroy you? Is that not-is that not clear? You’re sorry?”
“Um, yessir.”
“These same men are going to be coming down here and they’re going to use everything they have to hurt you. They’re going to attempt to do this in front of your father and in front of your brother and-who is that, anyway?”
“My uncle, sir, I-“
“You’ve got a game in two days, and you’re giving me an ulcer, Dean.” He sighed, removed his cap and ran his hands through a shock of dark hair that seemed to have taken on a life of its own. Bobby recognized the look of a man marshalling his reserves.
“Coach-“
“Not another word. I’ll see you at practice.”
“Mr. Burleson said-“
“You let me and Coach Lamar deal with Mr. Burleson. Understand?”
“Yessir.”
“Now go home, cool off, and quit letting your brother hit you in the face.” The man replaced his cap. “Not broken, is it?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. I need you looking pretty on Friday night.” Coach was resigned now, and a little amused.
“Big dance,” Dean said, the smile creeping back onto his face.
"Aright. Get on out of here, then," Coach said and sent Dean on his way with a wave of his hand. Dean caught up to Bobby and Sam, looking sheepish.
“What?”
“Jesus, Dean,” Sam said with disgust. “Could you crawl any further up his ass?”
“Save it for the car,” Bobby growled with as much command as he could. Sam made a small noise of disgust, but held his tongue until they were in the Chevelle, Dean riding up front. Bobby gripped the steering wheel and thanked whatever lucky stars were left that he’d never had kids.
“So?” Sam said.
“What exactly do you want from me, Sam?” Dean asked, tired.
“Think for yourself, for once in your fucking life.”
“Language,” Dean said, hackles up. “And fuck you think for yourself.”
“That’s a persuasive argument,” Sam shot back.
“And fuck you persuasive argument.”
“I’m just wondering if you ever spend any time thinking about what you’re actually doing.”
“And I wonder if you spend anytime thinking about the ungrateful shit you say. Oh, fuck.”
Bobby looked over. Blood was leaking out of Dean’s nose again. He tilted his head back and re-applied the icepack. In the rearview mirror, Sam had the grace to at least look regretful, if not actually guilty. They finished the car ride in silence. When they reached the house, Sam headed directly for the boys’ room. Dean headed for the kitchen, and Bobby followed.
“That kid is gonna give me an ulcer,” Dean said. Bobby quashed a smile and wondered if Dean was aware he was using his coach’s words. Dean ran water in the sink and grumbled something about losing a perfectly good shirt. He pulled it off, eyeing the bloodstain with disgust, and dropped it into the water. Bobby blinked, momentarily taken aback. Dean’s torso was covered with bruises, one of them so big it covered most of his left ribs.
“Jesus,” Bobby muttered.
“What, these?” Dean looked down. “Yeah. Our best offensive lineman was out last week. He let a greased hog loose in the gym during cheer practice. And then he got stuck under the bleachers trying to catch the damn thing.”
Bobby chuckled. Dean sighed and crossed his arms, turning his back to the window. His eyes drifted past Bobby and down to the kitchen table. He frowned. Too late, Bobby realized he’d left all of his research out. Mostly demonology. Dammit. Dean was gonna run him out of town on a rail, and then John was gonna kill him.
“You better put that away,” Dean said flatly. “My brother’s not supposed to see shit like that.”
Bobby had nothing to say to that.
<<<<<>>>>>
Bobby couldn’t get over how flat West Texas was. The dying grass looked golden on the horizon, a line dotted only by ranch houses and a water tower. Dean was holding his cards pretty close to the vest, hadn’t mentioned the kitchen, hadn’t really acknowledged Bobby’s presence till now. And now probably only because Bobby was driving him to practice.
“My Dad has a saying,” Dean declared, apropos of absolutely squat. “You can’t ride two horses with one ass.”
“Poetic.”
“Sam started it. Today, at school. He thinks you’re a serial killer, by the way.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah. And he thinks I’m some kind of sycophantic jackass. His words.”
Bobby nodded.
“He said I was a sycophantic jackass, letting some kind of serial killer in the house on Dad’s say-so. A sycophantic jackass. I’m not gonna lie. I threw the first punch. After that, though, it was all Sammy.”
“Seems like he can take care of himself.” Bobby pulled into the parking lot outside the stadium. Dean nodded sagely, then turned and looked at Bobby with something in his eyes that was way too old for seventeen.
“No shit, though. You touch my brother and I kill you.”
Where green grass grows there can’t be no wrong.
And goodness knows, there ain’t no right.
THURSDAY
No spoilers past 4.10, please!