While Children Softly Fold Away Their Years
Fandom: Supernatural
Title: While Children Softly Fold Away Their Years
Author: Maychorian
Characters: Bobby, Jimmy, Castiel, John, Dean, Sam
Category: Gen, AU, Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Rating: PG13
Warning: ( skip) References to child abuse. Dark themes. And language. Oh, the language.
Spoilers: Through S4
Summary: "I'm a hunter," Bobby said. "Just another hunter, Winchester. I don't want anything from you. But, well, I've got this kid here. He says he needs to talk to you. He says he knows what killed your wife."
Word Count: 5268
Disclaimer: I would be delighted to be Mrs. Maychorian Kripke, but I don't think he would have me.
Author’s Note: Part of the Rain Falling Down AU. If you see typos or missing/transposed words, please let me know. I've been writing stuff in notebooks and typing it up, and I make terrible mistakes that way. I really miss my computer. :(
While Children Softly Fold Away Their Years
Jimmy had been in a good mood all day, running around the house with Bartholomew at his heels, tail wagging and collar jingling. He was singing a song Bobby didn't pay much attention to, something about people building houses on rocks and sand, his voice loud and free and joyful. Bobby, working on invoices at his desk, rubbed a hand over his forehead and reminded himself that he wanted this. He was beginning to realize that going from hermit to hermit-with-a-kid in such a short period of time was going to take some adjustment.
The boy happened to be passing through the study when the phone rang, and he stopped dead in his tracks, staring at it. The song died on his lips and his face went white and his body was suddenly smaller, diminished, transformed from carefree youngster to wary survivor before the first ring had finished jangling in the air.
Bobby gave the phone a baleful look. He'd spent a lot of time yelling into that thing over the past month or so, since he'd decided that the lost, hurt kid who showed up on his doorstep in early June might as well stay as long as he wanted. At the South Dakota social workers: "Whaddya mean, 'ulterior motive'? I found the boy after he ran away from that bastard who was beating him, and I like the kid and he likes me and I want 'im to stay and he wants to stay too. The poor boy's got nothing and no one and he needs something and someone. What more motive do I need? He's a sweet kid and he deserves better than he got, so shut your yappers and do your job."
At the Illinois social workers: "Hey, you're the ones who fell down on the job, here. You placed an innocent kid with a drunken bastard who abused him brutally and you never noticed, so I don't get where you come off questioning me. My home's a hell of a lot more stable than that one ever was, even if I am self-employed and not part of a nuclear family. I'm here cleaning up after your mess, not the other way around, so you can just close this 'line of inquiry' right the hell now."
At the Illinois police: "Oh, that bastard is full of bullshit and you know it. Jimmy's less'n five feet tall 'n' fly-weight. No way he coulda given Baker those bruises. And you saw the photos I sent ya...no defensive wounds on the boy at all, not even a bruised knuckle, except where that bastard slammed his hand in a door. Jimmy says someone else came and started fighting him, and Jimmy took it for the God-given opportunity it was and got the hell out of Dodge. I've got no reason to disbelieve the kid, and neither do you. He's a kind, gentle boy who wouldn't know what to do with a falsehood if it ate his peanut butter sandwich, and Baker's a drunk who beats up little kids. You do the math."
Box of idjits, the bunch of 'em.
Worst had been when the local social workers kept making noises about "proper procedure" and insisted on moving Jimmy into a temporary foster home until Bobby could get certified. Being separated like that had been...awful, and Bobby never wanted to do it again. When poor Jimmy woke the house three nights in a row screaming from nightmares and crying for Uncle Bobby, though, they finally caught a clue and sent Jimmy back to Bobby for a "visit" that had yet to end.
So they both looked at the phone with trepidation, and Bobby was already getting mad just in case he needed to be. Jimmy gave him a pleading look, and Bobby reached over to grab his shoulder, pulling him to his side. "It's gonna be all right, boy," he said softly, in between rings, and Jimmy nodded, believing him as always.
Bobby picked up the phone.
"Who the fuck are you?" demanded the man on the other end, his voice a full-throated bellow. "Who the fuck do you think you are?"
Bobby blinked, then felt his own anger rise to meet this. "Listen, jackass, I don't know what this is about, but you just watch your language now." Jimmy pressed up against his side, trembling, and Bobby slung an arm around his shoulders and held him close. He considered, then went on. "And if this is Les Baker, you can just eat shit and die, you bastard."
"What? No." The man sounded startled, but he gathered his fury for another attack. "This is the third time I've met a guy who heard my name and said, 'Winchester? Oh, Bobby Singer's looking for ya. Let me get you his number.'"
Jimmy looked sharply up, his eyes wide and blue.
"Look," Winchester went on, "I don't know who you are and I don't care. You stay the hell away from me. If you ever come anywhere near me or my boys, I'll rip your heart out through your throat and stomp it on the ground."
Bobby was looking at Jimmy, and he could feel the tension coursing through the kid, his breath speeding up. "Winchester?" he said cautiously. "John Winchester?"
"Yeah, that's me." The man's voice was pure acid, but Bobby heard more than anger, now. That was fear. Fear for his kids, against the perceived threat of Bobby Singer. Bobby got that, he did. "Who are you and what do you want from me?"
"I'm a hunter," Bobby said firmly. "Just another hunter, Winchester. I don't want anything from you. But, well, I've got this kid here." He gave Jimmy a reassuring squeeze. "He says he needs to talk to you. He says he knows what killed your wife."
The was a long stretch of silence from the phone.
"A kid?" Winchester said at last. The anger was gone from his voice, and so was most of the fear. "A kid knows what killed Mary? How can a kid possibly..."
"You've met Missouri Mosely," Bobby cut in. "You know psychics are real."
"Yeah, but she couldn't see that, couldn't see what..." The guy was starting to break down. "Missouri couldn't tell me..."
"This boy is different," Bobby said. "Jimmy Novak. He's special."
Jimmy gave him a smile. Then, over the sound of John Winchester's silence, he motioned for the phone. Bobby gave it to him, still keeping an arm tight around his shoulders.
"John Winchester?" Jimmy said. His voice was calm, sweet. Old Jimmy taking over in this moment of crisis. "Is Dean there?"
"Is...what?" the man repeated faintly.
"Is Dean there? Please, I need to talk to him. The last time I saw him he was..." Jimmy pressed a slender hand over his eyes, shuddering.
"Dean doesn't talk to strangers," Winchester said flatly. "Dean hardly talks at all."
"May I talk to him though, please? Please?"
Another moment of silence, then Bobby heard the distant sounds of rustling movement. "Here," Winchester said, Bobby barely able to hear the single syllable.
Jimmy hugged himself with one arm, the other holding the phone, and rested his head on Bobby's shoulder. "Hello, Dean."
More silence.
"You don't have to talk," he said after a moment. "I just wanted to... My name is Jimmy. I'm very much looking forward to meeting you."
Bobby strained his ears, but heard nothing on the other end of the line.
Jimmy cleared his throat and stood up straighter, his voice suddenly firm, determined. "We're going to be friends, Dean. We're going to be very good friends."
Bobby thought he could hear the other boy breathing. Then... "Jimmy?"
The voice was so small, so high, so young.
"That's me." He smiled, old Jimmy merging into young Jimmy. Bobby had no idea which personality was dominant at this moment. It didn't seem to matter. "I'll see you soon."
He gave the phone back to Bobby, then ran off singing at the top of his lungs, Bartholomew clattering after him. Bobby stared for a moment, then cleared his throat awkwardly into the phone. "Winchester?"
A slight hesitation, then, "Yeah."
"I think the kids have decided we should meet."
"Yeah. Yeah, I think they have."
"So, uh, let me give you directions to my place."
"Sure."
X
Bobby sat on the porch swing, slowly rocking back and forth, staring out at the dusty August sun setting over the heaps of junked cars. So they had found the mythical John Winchester. It hardly seemed real.
He felt a warm presence and looked down in time to see Jimmy sit down beside him, then squirm under Bobby's arm and rest against his side, smiling up at him with those blue, blue eyes.
Bobby smiled back. "Hey, kid."
Jimmy seemed to be doing a lot more of that, lately. Smiling. Ever since he'd come back from that temporary foster home and his case worker told him that he could stay with Bobby if he wanted, but to be sure and call her if he had any problems. She had stuck about a dozen business cards in various pockets of Jimmy's jeans, jacket, and shirt, and once she'd left he had grinned ear to ear and ripped up every last one.
Bobby might have been irritated at the implied mistrust in him, her making sure that Jimmy could call for help if things went wrong like they so obviously expected them to. But really, he was just glad that someone was finally looking out for the boy, after the unforgivable way they'd failed him in Illinois. And yeah, if Bobby didn't know it was him, he might be suspicious of a single man seeking guardianship of an orphaned kid, too.
"Whatcha thinking about, Uncle Bobby?"
He chuckled and tugged the kid closer against his side. "Just about how glad I am to have you here. How'd you know to come to me, anyway? There must have been other people, closer to you, who could have helped you find Winchester."
Jimmy shrugged. "I just knew, that's all. I knew you would be best."
"And now you've found him." Bobby didn't sigh, damn it. He wasn't that much of a sentimentalist. "You'll be seeing him in a few days. You kept saying you needed to talk to him, and now you finally will."
"Yeah." Jimmy went quiet, staring out at the sun.
"What are you going to say?"
Jimmy pondered this with great gravity. "I'm going to tell him about the future."
And nothing could be more terrifying than that.
X
The house was in the middle of a salvage yard, standing amidst the junkers like a boulder in a stormy sea. John stared up at it uneasily as he slowly pulled the Impala up in the front yard, which barely deserved the name, more weeds and dirt than grass.
They were waiting for him on the front porch, a bearded redneck with his arm around a dark-haired kid, both staring at John as if he was the second coming. Sammy gurgled in his car seat, and John looked back at them. Dean was quiet in his booster seat, staring out the window and craning his shaggy gold-brown head to look up at the house. Sammy waved his arms and legs, probably just glad that the car was finally coming to a stop, which meant that he might be able to get out soon.
"Stay in the car," John ordered his eldest. "Look out for your brother."
He didn't know why he added the second one. Dean always looked out for Sammy, gave him more words than the rest of the world combined, let John know when he needed fed or changed and sometimes even tried to do it himself. Sometimes it seemed like looking out for Sammy was all Dean cared about. But at least he cared about something.
John stepped out of the car and slowly approached the house. "Singer?"
The redneck nodded and tipped his chin to the boy. "This is Jimmy. He's the reason we're all here, I guess."
Jimmy shook his head solemnly, looking up at the two men without a hint of anxiety, as if they were equals. "You would have met in a few years anyway. I only hastened events."
The kid's eyes startled John a bit. They were a sharp, intelligent blue, piercing and calm and too old for his face. Did all psychics look like that, or just kid ones? Missouri had been far more welcoming and encouraging, despite the horror of her honesty.
Singer was staring at the car, forehead wrinkling, mouth pulling down in a frown. "You just gonna leave your kids in there? It's after noon in the middle of August."
John looked back at the car. Dean's little nose was pressed snub against the window, and his eyes were huge. He didn't seem nervous of the strangers, as John had expected--he looked eager to meet them, mutely pleading for his dad to let him out of his cage so he could come play.
Shoulders slumping, John reached back and made the all-clear signal with one hand. Those big eyes brightened, and in seconds Dean was climbing out of the car and making a beeline for the porch. Kid had always been clever with buckles and latches.
Once he reached his father's side, Dean grabbed a fistful of John's coat and gave it a tug, then pointed back at the car door he'd left hanging open. "What, you didn't get Sammy yourself?" Ever since the baby had started walking, Dean had seemed to believe that Sammy could follow Dean anywhere, and facilitated this whenever possible.
But this time he'd left Sammy in the car.
Huh.
Dean tugged John's jacket again.
"You want me to go get him?"
A tiny nod, but Dean's eyes remained fixed. He was staring at Jimmy with an intense, unsettling level of concentration, and Jimmy was staring right back.
John didn't want to leave Sammy in the car, but he also didn't want to leave Dean alone with this weird psychic kid.
They stood there in this odd Mexican stand-off for about two seconds before Bobby Singer made an exasperated noise that sounded distinctly bear-like. "Oh, fer cryin'... I'll get the baby, ya idjits."
He lumbered off to the car with a big, shaggy black dog trotting behind him. John glanced after him, still half-wanting to follow, but Jimmy Novak was standing there staring at his vulnerable, silent kid, and he couldn't.
"How old are you, Dean?" Jimmy asked, his voice somehow lighter now.
Dean held up five fingers.
"I'm ten." The other boy held up both hands. "That's two times five. Neat, huh?"
Dean nodded.
"Do you like dogs?" Jimmy pointed at the black monstrosity now coming back toward the house behind Bobby Singer, who was cradling a grinning, drooling Sammy in his arms with surprising competence. "That's Bartholomew. He's my best friend, besides Uncle Bobby. Or he has been up till now, anyway. He's a good dog. He really likes to snuggle. Want to see?"
Dean nodded again. He let go of John's coat and reached that hand toward Jimmy, and the older boy took it gently. "Come on. I have so much to show you."
The two children brushed by John as they moved down the porch steps, barely even acknowledging him. John turned around to watch them go, and Bobby joined him on the porch, Sammy babbling gleefully against his shoulder.
"Young Jimmy does have a way with kids," the hunter said thoughtfully.
John gave him a narrow look. "What do you mean? Jimmy is a kid."
"Most of the time, yeah."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Bobby shook his head and just motioned for John to come inside. "Come on. I've got coffee on. The boys'll be busy awhile."
John followed him. Those were the magic words. Besides the fact, of course, that Singer was still holding his baby. He couldn't help but complain, though. "I think there's something wrong with your nephew. You sure Dean's safe with him?"
Bobby sighed as he led the way down a short passage to the kitchen. John's eyes widened, taking in the books and papers and occult bric-a-brac jammed into every corner of Singer's house. The man lived in a very old, very crowded library.
"He's not actually my nephew," Bobby said. "Well, not biologically. But there's nothing wrong with him. And yes, I'm sure that Dean is perfectly safe with him."
Singer moved toward the coffee pot gurgling cheerfully on the counter, and John scowled and plucked Sammy away from him, them reluctantly sat at the table and waited for his coffee. "I think you have some explaining to do, Singer."
"You take it black?" Bobby held up a mug with an expectant quirk of one eyebrow.
"One sugar," John said grudgingly. "Singer..."
"I know, I know. This is all new and scary to you and you just want someone to lay it out on the line for you. I get it, I do. I became a hunter after my wife died from supernatural causes, too."
Bobby finished fixing the coffee and brought it over to the table, sitting across from John and sliding his mug to him across the Formica surface.
John picked up his coffee and took a sip, careful to keep it away from Sammy, who was squirming to be let down. He didn't want to admit that Singer was right about him, but he was. "I just don't get how a kid can know about me and my family when we've never even met before."
"Oh, I don't understand it either. And neither does Jimmy, I don't think. The way he says it, he just knows stuff, that's all, and then has to figure out what to do with it. Luckily for you, he seems to want to help you with this knowledge, instead of packing it away and ignoring it, or sitting curled up in a corner in a little ball of trauma. Which was equally likely, given what the poor kid has gone through."
John stared down at his coffee. Part of him wanted to ask for clarification on that one, and part of him didn't want to know. At all. His family had been through enough. No need to borrow someone else's trouble.
"I was a little surprised that he wanted to play with Dean before talking to you," Bobby went on, musingly, staring out the window as he drank his coffee. "Talking to John Winchester has been his most important goal from the moment he showed up at my door looking like a drowned cat."
John opened his mouth, then blinked. "Don't you mean drowned rat?"
"Nah. Drowned cats look much more pitiful. Which he did."
"Deeeee..." Sammy garbled, straining toward the door with his chubby fingers squeezing open and shut. John looked down at him.
"Yeah, Dean," he said, and looked up at Singer again. "Why is your boy so focused on my son? It's creepy."
Bobby shrugged. "My guess is that Jimmy sees the future in flashes. Visions. He certainly has enough nightmares and he hardly ever talks about them. Somehow he's gotten to know you and your family through this psychic shit, and in his mind he and Dean are already friends, have been for awhile. It's the way he talks about him, all, 'Dean always says that...' or 'When Dean and Sam did this...' Yeah, it's a little weird, but he can't help it. And I know he doesn't mean you any harm."
They were silent for a moment, and John did his best to absorb this strangeness. His life had been pretty thoroughly screwed up since he lost Mary, but this was an extra level of pure insanity.
"And I think..." Bobby said slowly, his jaw working as if he was eating something chewy. "I think maybe in the last vision or whatever, the last time he saw Dean, your boy was dead. And Jimmy, he's had enough death to last him."
John finally set Sammy down on the floor, so he could cover his eyes with his hand. God, he couldn't even imagine what he would do if he lost Dean or Sammy. It would kill him, just kill him. Sammy babbled happily and toddled away across the kitchen floor, and John concentrated on that sound, the life in it, his baby boy strong and well and alive.
"What do you think the kid wants to tell me so bad?" he asked eventually.
"He said he's going to tell you about the future. I guess he's hoping you can change it."
John drank his coffee and tried to think about something else.
Eventually they heard the screen door slam, children giggling, dog-claws skittering on the wood floor of Bobby's entryway. John stood and moved to the kitchen door, saw Dean on the floor playing with Bartholomew. Jimmy was already moving toward John, his little face solemn and calm and utterly still. John could hardly believe that he'd heard the kid giggling just seconds before.
"John Winchester," Jimmy said, stopping by the kitchen doorway and gazing up at him with strangely regal authority. "We need to talk."
"You can use the study," Bobby Singer said, not glancing up from where he was valiantly struggling to keep Sammy out of his lower cupboards.
Jimmy led the way, and John followed.
X
They had been in the study for a long time. Bobby tried not to think about it, fully occupied with keeping the Winchester boys out of trouble. Dean and Bartholomew had taken to each other like two ticks on a hound-dog, so that was all right, but Sammy's little fingers seemed to be everywhere at once. Bobby had never child-proofed his place--never needed to, much as he might have once liked to have the need--and it was all open to the baby's unquenchable curiosity. Eventually Bobby got the little one set with dropping a handful of washers into a Cool Whip container, dumping them out, and starting over (a process the tiny boy found infinitely fascinating), and called it good.
The first noise he heard from the study sounded like muffled shouting. He snapped his head up in time to see John Winchester emerge and stomp toward the kitchen, face black and glowering. He pushed past Bobby into the kitchen and immediately started going through his fridge and cupboards.
Bobby leaned against the wall on one shoulder and watched him, arms crossed over his chest. The boys kept playing, evidently used to this.
"What the...?" After several minutes of fruitless searching, John turned his glare to Bobby. "Where's your alcohol? Don't tell me a man like you doesn't even keep a stock of beer."
Bobby's jaw worked. "Whiskey is my poison of choice, actually. But no, no alcohol in the house. Not with Jimmy here."
"The hell?" Winchester stood still with his back against the sink, hands raised in helpless bewilderment. "I have kids, too. Doesn't stop me from knocking back a brew when I need one."
"Yeah, well, he's not exactly my kid." Bobby went around the kitchen, closing all the cupboard doors. "Not exactly. And before he came looking for me, Jimmy had a foster dad who was a drunk."
John just stared at him, still not getting it.
"A drunk foster dad," Bobby repeated. "A drunk foster dad who beat him. Beat him, slammed his hand in a door, locked him in a closet, and I don't even know what else. So yeah, I used to have alcohol in the house. Probably could have opened my own liquor store. But I don't have it anymore, and if you want some you're gonna have to go somewhere else."
"Oh." Winchester's eyes strayed to his own boys, playing on the floor, reasonably happy despite the turn their lives had taken. "Well, that explains that, then."
"Explains what?" Bobby asked, suddenly suspicious.
"Um. I might have yelled. A little. And waved my arms around. Some. And, uh, Jimmy maybe didn't react that well. Maybe. I kind of left him in a...a state."
"A state?" Bobby repeated incredulously. "You left him in a state? And then you came out here looking for a drink?"
"I...might have done that, yeah."
Only the very sheepish look on Winchester's young face, and the fact that his kids were in the room, kept Bobby from punching him in his stupid nose. His voice was low, pitched for Winchester's ears alone. "I have just a few simple rules for getting along with me. All the gov'mint idjits who've been coming around in the last month seem to've figured it out, so I expect you might be able to get it through your thick skull, too. Number one, be nice to Jimmy. Number two, be nice to my dog. Number three, be nice to Jimmy. You got that, or is that too high for you to count?"
John nodded. "I got it."
"Good. Stay here." Bobby spun on his heel and half-walked, half-ran to the study.
Jimmy was in a state, all right. He was curled up as small as he could get in the chair farthest from the door, knees drawn up and arms wrapped around them, face white, eyes closed, forehead sweaty. He was shaking like a mouse in a live trap.
"A state, he says," Bobby muttered. "I'd like to leave him in a state. Jackass."
It was a form of shock, Bobby saw, and he could only come up with one way to deal with it. He scooped the Jimmy-ball into his arms and sat in the chair, folding the kid into his lap as he went. "Aw, Jimmy," he murmured, briskly rubbing the rigid back. "Just can't catch a break, can ya?"
After a few moments the boy went limp and loose against him, a breathy sigh threading out between shaky lips. "Sorry," he whispered.
Bobby wrapped a hand around his head and held him close. "What'd you do? What did he do?"
"I..." Jimmy licked his lips, and the trembling began to fade. "I told him what he had to do. John Winchester doesn't like being told what to do."
"Yeah, I gathered that. He scared ya, huh?"
"It was...involuntary, this reaction." Jimmy's knees slid down from his chest, though his head remained on Bobby's shoulder. "I know I should be stronger, but this body has...involuntary reactions." He looked up and gave Bobby a gloomy smile. "He acted like...he acted like that and I acted the way I always did, back then. Sometimes it helped. I know it's foolish."
"Nah. It's the least foolish thing in the world. But you're okay now?"
Jimmy nodded slowly. "I'm tired, though."
"Perfectly natural."
They didn't move for awhile. Just resting.
A loud, awkward clearing of a throat interrupted the peace, and they looked up to see John Winchester holding a steaming mug. Dean peeked out from behind his legs, wide-eyed and cautious.
"I saw you had some hot chocolate in the cupboard." John held it out with a hopeful smile. "Thought it might help."
Jimmy reached for the mug immediately, beckoning with all four fingers. He loved hot chocolate. He was also very forgiving, Bobby had noticed, but especially when the peace offering involved food.
John watched him drink it with some gratification and more guilt. "I didn't mean to scare you, buddy."
"Yes, you did," Jimmy said reasonably. "You just didn't meant to scare me that much."
"Yeah." John smiled thinly. "But I hope you know I would never hurt you. I would never hurt any kid."
"I know." Jimmy paused, tracing a finger around the rim of his mug. "Intellectually, I know."
Bobby nudged his shoulder. "Big word, little guy." Old Jimmy always seemed to appreciate being told when he was acting oddly for his age. Over the past couple of months he'd gotten much better at impersonating young Jimmy, the better for keeping him safe, off the radar. It was sometimes hard for even Bobby to tell which persona was present at any given moment.
He knew that this should be a good thing. The cure for multiple personalities was to integrate them, make the person suffering the disorder whole. He tried to ignore the tiny voice deep inside that insisted that this might not be such a good thing, after all.
"Wanna hug Jimmy," said a tiny voice, and Bobby looked over in surprise. It was the first time he'd heard Dean speak since they arrived.
John looked startled, too, but he moved aside to give his son access. "Sure, kiddo."
Jimmy slid off Bobby's lap and set his hot chocolate aside so he could lean down and accept a big, exuberant hug from the little boy. "I'm okay, Dean," he said softly.
"Good." Tiny arms squeezed around the older kid's neck, and Dean closed his eyes and held on tight.
And when they were done, they ran off to play with the dog.
X
The boys were asleep at last, Dean and Jimmy in Jimmy's bed, Sammy in the portable bassinet John hauled around in his boat of a car. After the initial problems, everyone had gotten along like a house afire. Even Bobby and John had found that they had plenty to talk about, once they got past the "Don't mess with my kid!", "Don't mess with my kid!" stage.
After dark, John had driven off and come back with a six-pack. "If we drink it sitting on the Impala, it won't be in the house," he told Bobby very seriously, though a suspicious twinkle glimmered in his eye.
Bobby felt like a kid again, sitting with a buddy on the hood of an old car, drinking warm beer straight from the can and hoping not to get caught. He considered himself to be a tough old bastard, but Jimmy's disappointment was nigh unbearable.
"There's something wrong with your boy," John said when they were sufficiently relaxed, just watching the fireflies and the moonlight. The August heat settled around them, growing softer and hazier as the night deepened. "Don't think I haven't noticed. He'll be the sweetest, happiest little kid you ever saw, and then he goes all formal and distant. It's weird. I don't like it."
Bobby sighed. "I know. It's a defense mechanism, I figure. He's just protecting himself, had to do it alone for a long time and now he doesn't know how to quit."
"That makes sense, I guess." John thoughtfully drank his beer.
"I'm not taking him to a shrink," Bobby said.
John shot him a look. "I wasn't gonna suggest it. What do those morons know anyway? Kid needs a family, not a lab monkey who's going to be fascinated as all hell but not actually give a damn."
"Yeah." Bobby leaned back into the Impala's windshield. "Family. I guess he picked his own."
"I guess so. He's not gonna be happy unless we visit all the time, is he?"
Bobby smiled, knowing it was hidden in the dark. "At least once a month, yeah. Possibly more."
John huffed. "Well, if we have to."
"To keep Jimmy happy," Bobby said mockingly.
"Dean, too."
"Right. Of course. Dean, too."
An agreeable silence stretched between them.
"I probably won't mind it too bad," Bobby admitted.
John grunted. "Guess I'll learn to live with it."
They clinked beer cans, and the deal was made.
(End)
Next story in 'verse: And Make Their Quiet Pleas for Sanity
Detour to the soundtrack w/ fic snippets: Butterfly Against a Hurricane
Title: While Children Softly Fold Away Their Years
Author: Maychorian
Characters: Bobby, Jimmy, Castiel, John, Dean, Sam
Category: Gen, AU, Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Rating: PG13
Warning: ( skip) References to child abuse. Dark themes. And language. Oh, the language.
Spoilers: Through S4
Summary: "I'm a hunter," Bobby said. "Just another hunter, Winchester. I don't want anything from you. But, well, I've got this kid here. He says he needs to talk to you. He says he knows what killed your wife."
Word Count: 5268
Disclaimer: I would be delighted to be Mrs. Maychorian Kripke, but I don't think he would have me.
Author’s Note: Part of the Rain Falling Down AU. If you see typos or missing/transposed words, please let me know. I've been writing stuff in notebooks and typing it up, and I make terrible mistakes that way. I really miss my computer. :(
While Children Softly Fold Away Their Years
Jimmy had been in a good mood all day, running around the house with Bartholomew at his heels, tail wagging and collar jingling. He was singing a song Bobby didn't pay much attention to, something about people building houses on rocks and sand, his voice loud and free and joyful. Bobby, working on invoices at his desk, rubbed a hand over his forehead and reminded himself that he wanted this. He was beginning to realize that going from hermit to hermit-with-a-kid in such a short period of time was going to take some adjustment.
The boy happened to be passing through the study when the phone rang, and he stopped dead in his tracks, staring at it. The song died on his lips and his face went white and his body was suddenly smaller, diminished, transformed from carefree youngster to wary survivor before the first ring had finished jangling in the air.
Bobby gave the phone a baleful look. He'd spent a lot of time yelling into that thing over the past month or so, since he'd decided that the lost, hurt kid who showed up on his doorstep in early June might as well stay as long as he wanted. At the South Dakota social workers: "Whaddya mean, 'ulterior motive'? I found the boy after he ran away from that bastard who was beating him, and I like the kid and he likes me and I want 'im to stay and he wants to stay too. The poor boy's got nothing and no one and he needs something and someone. What more motive do I need? He's a sweet kid and he deserves better than he got, so shut your yappers and do your job."
At the Illinois social workers: "Hey, you're the ones who fell down on the job, here. You placed an innocent kid with a drunken bastard who abused him brutally and you never noticed, so I don't get where you come off questioning me. My home's a hell of a lot more stable than that one ever was, even if I am self-employed and not part of a nuclear family. I'm here cleaning up after your mess, not the other way around, so you can just close this 'line of inquiry' right the hell now."
At the Illinois police: "Oh, that bastard is full of bullshit and you know it. Jimmy's less'n five feet tall 'n' fly-weight. No way he coulda given Baker those bruises. And you saw the photos I sent ya...no defensive wounds on the boy at all, not even a bruised knuckle, except where that bastard slammed his hand in a door. Jimmy says someone else came and started fighting him, and Jimmy took it for the God-given opportunity it was and got the hell out of Dodge. I've got no reason to disbelieve the kid, and neither do you. He's a kind, gentle boy who wouldn't know what to do with a falsehood if it ate his peanut butter sandwich, and Baker's a drunk who beats up little kids. You do the math."
Box of idjits, the bunch of 'em.
Worst had been when the local social workers kept making noises about "proper procedure" and insisted on moving Jimmy into a temporary foster home until Bobby could get certified. Being separated like that had been...awful, and Bobby never wanted to do it again. When poor Jimmy woke the house three nights in a row screaming from nightmares and crying for Uncle Bobby, though, they finally caught a clue and sent Jimmy back to Bobby for a "visit" that had yet to end.
So they both looked at the phone with trepidation, and Bobby was already getting mad just in case he needed to be. Jimmy gave him a pleading look, and Bobby reached over to grab his shoulder, pulling him to his side. "It's gonna be all right, boy," he said softly, in between rings, and Jimmy nodded, believing him as always.
Bobby picked up the phone.
"Who the fuck are you?" demanded the man on the other end, his voice a full-throated bellow. "Who the fuck do you think you are?"
Bobby blinked, then felt his own anger rise to meet this. "Listen, jackass, I don't know what this is about, but you just watch your language now." Jimmy pressed up against his side, trembling, and Bobby slung an arm around his shoulders and held him close. He considered, then went on. "And if this is Les Baker, you can just eat shit and die, you bastard."
"What? No." The man sounded startled, but he gathered his fury for another attack. "This is the third time I've met a guy who heard my name and said, 'Winchester? Oh, Bobby Singer's looking for ya. Let me get you his number.'"
Jimmy looked sharply up, his eyes wide and blue.
"Look," Winchester went on, "I don't know who you are and I don't care. You stay the hell away from me. If you ever come anywhere near me or my boys, I'll rip your heart out through your throat and stomp it on the ground."
Bobby was looking at Jimmy, and he could feel the tension coursing through the kid, his breath speeding up. "Winchester?" he said cautiously. "John Winchester?"
"Yeah, that's me." The man's voice was pure acid, but Bobby heard more than anger, now. That was fear. Fear for his kids, against the perceived threat of Bobby Singer. Bobby got that, he did. "Who are you and what do you want from me?"
"I'm a hunter," Bobby said firmly. "Just another hunter, Winchester. I don't want anything from you. But, well, I've got this kid here." He gave Jimmy a reassuring squeeze. "He says he needs to talk to you. He says he knows what killed your wife."
The was a long stretch of silence from the phone.
"A kid?" Winchester said at last. The anger was gone from his voice, and so was most of the fear. "A kid knows what killed Mary? How can a kid possibly..."
"You've met Missouri Mosely," Bobby cut in. "You know psychics are real."
"Yeah, but she couldn't see that, couldn't see what..." The guy was starting to break down. "Missouri couldn't tell me..."
"This boy is different," Bobby said. "Jimmy Novak. He's special."
Jimmy gave him a smile. Then, over the sound of John Winchester's silence, he motioned for the phone. Bobby gave it to him, still keeping an arm tight around his shoulders.
"John Winchester?" Jimmy said. His voice was calm, sweet. Old Jimmy taking over in this moment of crisis. "Is Dean there?"
"Is...what?" the man repeated faintly.
"Is Dean there? Please, I need to talk to him. The last time I saw him he was..." Jimmy pressed a slender hand over his eyes, shuddering.
"Dean doesn't talk to strangers," Winchester said flatly. "Dean hardly talks at all."
"May I talk to him though, please? Please?"
Another moment of silence, then Bobby heard the distant sounds of rustling movement. "Here," Winchester said, Bobby barely able to hear the single syllable.
Jimmy hugged himself with one arm, the other holding the phone, and rested his head on Bobby's shoulder. "Hello, Dean."
More silence.
"You don't have to talk," he said after a moment. "I just wanted to... My name is Jimmy. I'm very much looking forward to meeting you."
Bobby strained his ears, but heard nothing on the other end of the line.
Jimmy cleared his throat and stood up straighter, his voice suddenly firm, determined. "We're going to be friends, Dean. We're going to be very good friends."
Bobby thought he could hear the other boy breathing. Then... "Jimmy?"
The voice was so small, so high, so young.
"That's me." He smiled, old Jimmy merging into young Jimmy. Bobby had no idea which personality was dominant at this moment. It didn't seem to matter. "I'll see you soon."
He gave the phone back to Bobby, then ran off singing at the top of his lungs, Bartholomew clattering after him. Bobby stared for a moment, then cleared his throat awkwardly into the phone. "Winchester?"
A slight hesitation, then, "Yeah."
"I think the kids have decided we should meet."
"Yeah. Yeah, I think they have."
"So, uh, let me give you directions to my place."
"Sure."
X
Bobby sat on the porch swing, slowly rocking back and forth, staring out at the dusty August sun setting over the heaps of junked cars. So they had found the mythical John Winchester. It hardly seemed real.
He felt a warm presence and looked down in time to see Jimmy sit down beside him, then squirm under Bobby's arm and rest against his side, smiling up at him with those blue, blue eyes.
Bobby smiled back. "Hey, kid."
Jimmy seemed to be doing a lot more of that, lately. Smiling. Ever since he'd come back from that temporary foster home and his case worker told him that he could stay with Bobby if he wanted, but to be sure and call her if he had any problems. She had stuck about a dozen business cards in various pockets of Jimmy's jeans, jacket, and shirt, and once she'd left he had grinned ear to ear and ripped up every last one.
Bobby might have been irritated at the implied mistrust in him, her making sure that Jimmy could call for help if things went wrong like they so obviously expected them to. But really, he was just glad that someone was finally looking out for the boy, after the unforgivable way they'd failed him in Illinois. And yeah, if Bobby didn't know it was him, he might be suspicious of a single man seeking guardianship of an orphaned kid, too.
"Whatcha thinking about, Uncle Bobby?"
He chuckled and tugged the kid closer against his side. "Just about how glad I am to have you here. How'd you know to come to me, anyway? There must have been other people, closer to you, who could have helped you find Winchester."
Jimmy shrugged. "I just knew, that's all. I knew you would be best."
"And now you've found him." Bobby didn't sigh, damn it. He wasn't that much of a sentimentalist. "You'll be seeing him in a few days. You kept saying you needed to talk to him, and now you finally will."
"Yeah." Jimmy went quiet, staring out at the sun.
"What are you going to say?"
Jimmy pondered this with great gravity. "I'm going to tell him about the future."
And nothing could be more terrifying than that.
X
The house was in the middle of a salvage yard, standing amidst the junkers like a boulder in a stormy sea. John stared up at it uneasily as he slowly pulled the Impala up in the front yard, which barely deserved the name, more weeds and dirt than grass.
They were waiting for him on the front porch, a bearded redneck with his arm around a dark-haired kid, both staring at John as if he was the second coming. Sammy gurgled in his car seat, and John looked back at them. Dean was quiet in his booster seat, staring out the window and craning his shaggy gold-brown head to look up at the house. Sammy waved his arms and legs, probably just glad that the car was finally coming to a stop, which meant that he might be able to get out soon.
"Stay in the car," John ordered his eldest. "Look out for your brother."
He didn't know why he added the second one. Dean always looked out for Sammy, gave him more words than the rest of the world combined, let John know when he needed fed or changed and sometimes even tried to do it himself. Sometimes it seemed like looking out for Sammy was all Dean cared about. But at least he cared about something.
John stepped out of the car and slowly approached the house. "Singer?"
The redneck nodded and tipped his chin to the boy. "This is Jimmy. He's the reason we're all here, I guess."
Jimmy shook his head solemnly, looking up at the two men without a hint of anxiety, as if they were equals. "You would have met in a few years anyway. I only hastened events."
The kid's eyes startled John a bit. They were a sharp, intelligent blue, piercing and calm and too old for his face. Did all psychics look like that, or just kid ones? Missouri had been far more welcoming and encouraging, despite the horror of her honesty.
Singer was staring at the car, forehead wrinkling, mouth pulling down in a frown. "You just gonna leave your kids in there? It's after noon in the middle of August."
John looked back at the car. Dean's little nose was pressed snub against the window, and his eyes were huge. He didn't seem nervous of the strangers, as John had expected--he looked eager to meet them, mutely pleading for his dad to let him out of his cage so he could come play.
Shoulders slumping, John reached back and made the all-clear signal with one hand. Those big eyes brightened, and in seconds Dean was climbing out of the car and making a beeline for the porch. Kid had always been clever with buckles and latches.
Once he reached his father's side, Dean grabbed a fistful of John's coat and gave it a tug, then pointed back at the car door he'd left hanging open. "What, you didn't get Sammy yourself?" Ever since the baby had started walking, Dean had seemed to believe that Sammy could follow Dean anywhere, and facilitated this whenever possible.
But this time he'd left Sammy in the car.
Huh.
Dean tugged John's jacket again.
"You want me to go get him?"
A tiny nod, but Dean's eyes remained fixed. He was staring at Jimmy with an intense, unsettling level of concentration, and Jimmy was staring right back.
John didn't want to leave Sammy in the car, but he also didn't want to leave Dean alone with this weird psychic kid.
They stood there in this odd Mexican stand-off for about two seconds before Bobby Singer made an exasperated noise that sounded distinctly bear-like. "Oh, fer cryin'... I'll get the baby, ya idjits."
He lumbered off to the car with a big, shaggy black dog trotting behind him. John glanced after him, still half-wanting to follow, but Jimmy Novak was standing there staring at his vulnerable, silent kid, and he couldn't.
"How old are you, Dean?" Jimmy asked, his voice somehow lighter now.
Dean held up five fingers.
"I'm ten." The other boy held up both hands. "That's two times five. Neat, huh?"
Dean nodded.
"Do you like dogs?" Jimmy pointed at the black monstrosity now coming back toward the house behind Bobby Singer, who was cradling a grinning, drooling Sammy in his arms with surprising competence. "That's Bartholomew. He's my best friend, besides Uncle Bobby. Or he has been up till now, anyway. He's a good dog. He really likes to snuggle. Want to see?"
Dean nodded again. He let go of John's coat and reached that hand toward Jimmy, and the older boy took it gently. "Come on. I have so much to show you."
The two children brushed by John as they moved down the porch steps, barely even acknowledging him. John turned around to watch them go, and Bobby joined him on the porch, Sammy babbling gleefully against his shoulder.
"Young Jimmy does have a way with kids," the hunter said thoughtfully.
John gave him a narrow look. "What do you mean? Jimmy is a kid."
"Most of the time, yeah."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Bobby shook his head and just motioned for John to come inside. "Come on. I've got coffee on. The boys'll be busy awhile."
John followed him. Those were the magic words. Besides the fact, of course, that Singer was still holding his baby. He couldn't help but complain, though. "I think there's something wrong with your nephew. You sure Dean's safe with him?"
Bobby sighed as he led the way down a short passage to the kitchen. John's eyes widened, taking in the books and papers and occult bric-a-brac jammed into every corner of Singer's house. The man lived in a very old, very crowded library.
"He's not actually my nephew," Bobby said. "Well, not biologically. But there's nothing wrong with him. And yes, I'm sure that Dean is perfectly safe with him."
Singer moved toward the coffee pot gurgling cheerfully on the counter, and John scowled and plucked Sammy away from him, them reluctantly sat at the table and waited for his coffee. "I think you have some explaining to do, Singer."
"You take it black?" Bobby held up a mug with an expectant quirk of one eyebrow.
"One sugar," John said grudgingly. "Singer..."
"I know, I know. This is all new and scary to you and you just want someone to lay it out on the line for you. I get it, I do. I became a hunter after my wife died from supernatural causes, too."
Bobby finished fixing the coffee and brought it over to the table, sitting across from John and sliding his mug to him across the Formica surface.
John picked up his coffee and took a sip, careful to keep it away from Sammy, who was squirming to be let down. He didn't want to admit that Singer was right about him, but he was. "I just don't get how a kid can know about me and my family when we've never even met before."
"Oh, I don't understand it either. And neither does Jimmy, I don't think. The way he says it, he just knows stuff, that's all, and then has to figure out what to do with it. Luckily for you, he seems to want to help you with this knowledge, instead of packing it away and ignoring it, or sitting curled up in a corner in a little ball of trauma. Which was equally likely, given what the poor kid has gone through."
John stared down at his coffee. Part of him wanted to ask for clarification on that one, and part of him didn't want to know. At all. His family had been through enough. No need to borrow someone else's trouble.
"I was a little surprised that he wanted to play with Dean before talking to you," Bobby went on, musingly, staring out the window as he drank his coffee. "Talking to John Winchester has been his most important goal from the moment he showed up at my door looking like a drowned cat."
John opened his mouth, then blinked. "Don't you mean drowned rat?"
"Nah. Drowned cats look much more pitiful. Which he did."
"Deeeee..." Sammy garbled, straining toward the door with his chubby fingers squeezing open and shut. John looked down at him.
"Yeah, Dean," he said, and looked up at Singer again. "Why is your boy so focused on my son? It's creepy."
Bobby shrugged. "My guess is that Jimmy sees the future in flashes. Visions. He certainly has enough nightmares and he hardly ever talks about them. Somehow he's gotten to know you and your family through this psychic shit, and in his mind he and Dean are already friends, have been for awhile. It's the way he talks about him, all, 'Dean always says that...' or 'When Dean and Sam did this...' Yeah, it's a little weird, but he can't help it. And I know he doesn't mean you any harm."
They were silent for a moment, and John did his best to absorb this strangeness. His life had been pretty thoroughly screwed up since he lost Mary, but this was an extra level of pure insanity.
"And I think..." Bobby said slowly, his jaw working as if he was eating something chewy. "I think maybe in the last vision or whatever, the last time he saw Dean, your boy was dead. And Jimmy, he's had enough death to last him."
John finally set Sammy down on the floor, so he could cover his eyes with his hand. God, he couldn't even imagine what he would do if he lost Dean or Sammy. It would kill him, just kill him. Sammy babbled happily and toddled away across the kitchen floor, and John concentrated on that sound, the life in it, his baby boy strong and well and alive.
"What do you think the kid wants to tell me so bad?" he asked eventually.
"He said he's going to tell you about the future. I guess he's hoping you can change it."
John drank his coffee and tried to think about something else.
Eventually they heard the screen door slam, children giggling, dog-claws skittering on the wood floor of Bobby's entryway. John stood and moved to the kitchen door, saw Dean on the floor playing with Bartholomew. Jimmy was already moving toward John, his little face solemn and calm and utterly still. John could hardly believe that he'd heard the kid giggling just seconds before.
"John Winchester," Jimmy said, stopping by the kitchen doorway and gazing up at him with strangely regal authority. "We need to talk."
"You can use the study," Bobby Singer said, not glancing up from where he was valiantly struggling to keep Sammy out of his lower cupboards.
Jimmy led the way, and John followed.
X
They had been in the study for a long time. Bobby tried not to think about it, fully occupied with keeping the Winchester boys out of trouble. Dean and Bartholomew had taken to each other like two ticks on a hound-dog, so that was all right, but Sammy's little fingers seemed to be everywhere at once. Bobby had never child-proofed his place--never needed to, much as he might have once liked to have the need--and it was all open to the baby's unquenchable curiosity. Eventually Bobby got the little one set with dropping a handful of washers into a Cool Whip container, dumping them out, and starting over (a process the tiny boy found infinitely fascinating), and called it good.
The first noise he heard from the study sounded like muffled shouting. He snapped his head up in time to see John Winchester emerge and stomp toward the kitchen, face black and glowering. He pushed past Bobby into the kitchen and immediately started going through his fridge and cupboards.
Bobby leaned against the wall on one shoulder and watched him, arms crossed over his chest. The boys kept playing, evidently used to this.
"What the...?" After several minutes of fruitless searching, John turned his glare to Bobby. "Where's your alcohol? Don't tell me a man like you doesn't even keep a stock of beer."
Bobby's jaw worked. "Whiskey is my poison of choice, actually. But no, no alcohol in the house. Not with Jimmy here."
"The hell?" Winchester stood still with his back against the sink, hands raised in helpless bewilderment. "I have kids, too. Doesn't stop me from knocking back a brew when I need one."
"Yeah, well, he's not exactly my kid." Bobby went around the kitchen, closing all the cupboard doors. "Not exactly. And before he came looking for me, Jimmy had a foster dad who was a drunk."
John just stared at him, still not getting it.
"A drunk foster dad," Bobby repeated. "A drunk foster dad who beat him. Beat him, slammed his hand in a door, locked him in a closet, and I don't even know what else. So yeah, I used to have alcohol in the house. Probably could have opened my own liquor store. But I don't have it anymore, and if you want some you're gonna have to go somewhere else."
"Oh." Winchester's eyes strayed to his own boys, playing on the floor, reasonably happy despite the turn their lives had taken. "Well, that explains that, then."
"Explains what?" Bobby asked, suddenly suspicious.
"Um. I might have yelled. A little. And waved my arms around. Some. And, uh, Jimmy maybe didn't react that well. Maybe. I kind of left him in a...a state."
"A state?" Bobby repeated incredulously. "You left him in a state? And then you came out here looking for a drink?"
"I...might have done that, yeah."
Only the very sheepish look on Winchester's young face, and the fact that his kids were in the room, kept Bobby from punching him in his stupid nose. His voice was low, pitched for Winchester's ears alone. "I have just a few simple rules for getting along with me. All the gov'mint idjits who've been coming around in the last month seem to've figured it out, so I expect you might be able to get it through your thick skull, too. Number one, be nice to Jimmy. Number two, be nice to my dog. Number three, be nice to Jimmy. You got that, or is that too high for you to count?"
John nodded. "I got it."
"Good. Stay here." Bobby spun on his heel and half-walked, half-ran to the study.
Jimmy was in a state, all right. He was curled up as small as he could get in the chair farthest from the door, knees drawn up and arms wrapped around them, face white, eyes closed, forehead sweaty. He was shaking like a mouse in a live trap.
"A state, he says," Bobby muttered. "I'd like to leave him in a state. Jackass."
It was a form of shock, Bobby saw, and he could only come up with one way to deal with it. He scooped the Jimmy-ball into his arms and sat in the chair, folding the kid into his lap as he went. "Aw, Jimmy," he murmured, briskly rubbing the rigid back. "Just can't catch a break, can ya?"
After a few moments the boy went limp and loose against him, a breathy sigh threading out between shaky lips. "Sorry," he whispered.
Bobby wrapped a hand around his head and held him close. "What'd you do? What did he do?"
"I..." Jimmy licked his lips, and the trembling began to fade. "I told him what he had to do. John Winchester doesn't like being told what to do."
"Yeah, I gathered that. He scared ya, huh?"
"It was...involuntary, this reaction." Jimmy's knees slid down from his chest, though his head remained on Bobby's shoulder. "I know I should be stronger, but this body has...involuntary reactions." He looked up and gave Bobby a gloomy smile. "He acted like...he acted like that and I acted the way I always did, back then. Sometimes it helped. I know it's foolish."
"Nah. It's the least foolish thing in the world. But you're okay now?"
Jimmy nodded slowly. "I'm tired, though."
"Perfectly natural."
They didn't move for awhile. Just resting.
A loud, awkward clearing of a throat interrupted the peace, and they looked up to see John Winchester holding a steaming mug. Dean peeked out from behind his legs, wide-eyed and cautious.
"I saw you had some hot chocolate in the cupboard." John held it out with a hopeful smile. "Thought it might help."
Jimmy reached for the mug immediately, beckoning with all four fingers. He loved hot chocolate. He was also very forgiving, Bobby had noticed, but especially when the peace offering involved food.
John watched him drink it with some gratification and more guilt. "I didn't mean to scare you, buddy."
"Yes, you did," Jimmy said reasonably. "You just didn't meant to scare me that much."
"Yeah." John smiled thinly. "But I hope you know I would never hurt you. I would never hurt any kid."
"I know." Jimmy paused, tracing a finger around the rim of his mug. "Intellectually, I know."
Bobby nudged his shoulder. "Big word, little guy." Old Jimmy always seemed to appreciate being told when he was acting oddly for his age. Over the past couple of months he'd gotten much better at impersonating young Jimmy, the better for keeping him safe, off the radar. It was sometimes hard for even Bobby to tell which persona was present at any given moment.
He knew that this should be a good thing. The cure for multiple personalities was to integrate them, make the person suffering the disorder whole. He tried to ignore the tiny voice deep inside that insisted that this might not be such a good thing, after all.
"Wanna hug Jimmy," said a tiny voice, and Bobby looked over in surprise. It was the first time he'd heard Dean speak since they arrived.
John looked startled, too, but he moved aside to give his son access. "Sure, kiddo."
Jimmy slid off Bobby's lap and set his hot chocolate aside so he could lean down and accept a big, exuberant hug from the little boy. "I'm okay, Dean," he said softly.
"Good." Tiny arms squeezed around the older kid's neck, and Dean closed his eyes and held on tight.
And when they were done, they ran off to play with the dog.
X
The boys were asleep at last, Dean and Jimmy in Jimmy's bed, Sammy in the portable bassinet John hauled around in his boat of a car. After the initial problems, everyone had gotten along like a house afire. Even Bobby and John had found that they had plenty to talk about, once they got past the "Don't mess with my kid!", "Don't mess with my kid!" stage.
After dark, John had driven off and come back with a six-pack. "If we drink it sitting on the Impala, it won't be in the house," he told Bobby very seriously, though a suspicious twinkle glimmered in his eye.
Bobby felt like a kid again, sitting with a buddy on the hood of an old car, drinking warm beer straight from the can and hoping not to get caught. He considered himself to be a tough old bastard, but Jimmy's disappointment was nigh unbearable.
"There's something wrong with your boy," John said when they were sufficiently relaxed, just watching the fireflies and the moonlight. The August heat settled around them, growing softer and hazier as the night deepened. "Don't think I haven't noticed. He'll be the sweetest, happiest little kid you ever saw, and then he goes all formal and distant. It's weird. I don't like it."
Bobby sighed. "I know. It's a defense mechanism, I figure. He's just protecting himself, had to do it alone for a long time and now he doesn't know how to quit."
"That makes sense, I guess." John thoughtfully drank his beer.
"I'm not taking him to a shrink," Bobby said.
John shot him a look. "I wasn't gonna suggest it. What do those morons know anyway? Kid needs a family, not a lab monkey who's going to be fascinated as all hell but not actually give a damn."
"Yeah." Bobby leaned back into the Impala's windshield. "Family. I guess he picked his own."
"I guess so. He's not gonna be happy unless we visit all the time, is he?"
Bobby smiled, knowing it was hidden in the dark. "At least once a month, yeah. Possibly more."
John huffed. "Well, if we have to."
"To keep Jimmy happy," Bobby said mockingly.
"Dean, too."
"Right. Of course. Dean, too."
An agreeable silence stretched between them.
"I probably won't mind it too bad," Bobby admitted.
John grunted. "Guess I'll learn to live with it."
They clinked beer cans, and the deal was made.
(End)
Next story in 'verse: And Make Their Quiet Pleas for Sanity
Detour to the soundtrack w/ fic snippets: Butterfly Against a Hurricane