SPN Fic: Unexpected Company (Gen, PG-13, preseries) -- birthday fic for innie_darling!
It is the birthday of the talented and adorable innie_darling. Sweetie, I hope you are enjoying a few day of doing absolutely nothing and whatever you want.
Title: Unexpected Company
Author: dotfic
Rating: Gen, PG-13, preseries
W/C: ~7,200
Disclaimer: They all belong to people who aren't me.
a/n: Written for innie_darling's birthday. This started with a double drabble I posted earlier this year, It's Just One of Those Days. Insightful beta reading by smilla02, who nudged and poked and guided and refused to settle for less.
Summary: The one where John has wings, Sam is a toddler, Dean is seven, and Bobby is in way over his head.
Bobby took another swallow of beer and scooted his chair closer to the desk with its pitted, dark wood and familiar faint smell of old varnish. He touched his fingers to the large object in front of him. The egg was about a foot in diameter, a dark, mottled blue, rough under his fingertips.
He adjusted the desk lamp so it shone full on the egg, made a note, and for the third time checked the book that lay open on top of a teetering stack of volumes to his left. Bobby would have to keep close watch on that egg - it was liable to up and do all kinds of crazy things.
The Rottweiler puppy lying at his feet snuffled in his sleep, the body warm against Bobby's ankle.
The phone rang.
"Damn it." Bobby put down his pencil and rubbed a hand over his hair.
Calls were almost never good news.
He picked up. "Singer," he said, hoping if he made himself sound grumpy enough, whoever it was would go away. Unless they had an actual emergency, and if they had an actual emergency, that it was a really good one and not because some jackass mixed up a Calopus with a Catoblepas.
"Uh, Caleb sent me," said a man's voice. Deep and solid, but with a note of uncertainty. "He says you…know things."
Shit, sometimes that kid acted like he was some kind of information booth.
"I might," Bobby said, slow, drawing out the words, giving the guy a chance to back out.
"I've got this, well, guess you'd call it a problem…" Any trace of authority in the voice got lost in the fumbling.
Great. Just what he needed -- a greenie. Probably found his first poltergeist and the fool was realizing he was in over his head.
In the background he heard a child's thin high protest, and then another child's voice, a little older: Daddy, Sammy's hungry.
"Boys, quiet," the speaker on the other end said, not so much harsh as sharp and efficient, and the child noises in the background immediately quieted. "Anyway," he said to Bobby, and now he almost seemed to have his shit together. "Caleb says you specialize in this kind of stuff, and…"
"You mind getting to the point?"
"My boy messed with some powders he shouldn't touch, got some of the stuff on me and now I've got -" the man paused, coughed, and mumbled a word.
"Sorry, didn't catch that?"
"Wings," the man said loudly and decisively, all trace of hesitancy gone, time to deal with the crisis at hand. "I've got wings."
Well, that was different, at least. "Well. How about that." Bobby leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking.
"Yep. Wings." He heard the speaker take a long, shaky breath. "Fuckin' wings."
Bobby stretched out his arm and grabbed the book second from the top of the pile beneath the window. The puppy stirred and woke; Bobby heard its whine as it yawned. He hadn't settled on a name yet, didn't even have the proper tags, only just got him a week ago. Found the poor thing curled up in the grass on the side of the road, abandoned, because some people weren't worth shit.
"Wings," he muttered, turning the pages over. The book dated from the 1970's and was a hodge-podge, as if the author had gathered all the stuff too weird to go in with the regular books, and that was saying something, because Bobby's other books were full of weird. "Wings…what did you say your son got on you?"
"Don't know what it's called. Blue powder, in a small glass bottle. We were at a shop in Denver."
"Cecily's?"
There was a pause. "Oh. Yeah. You know her?"
"We go way back." Bobby traced his finger down over the text. "How is the old biddy?"
"She seemed…fine." The guy with wings seemed startled at the question. "Got pretty pissed off after Dean, that's my oldest, picked up the bottles. After I expressly told him not to touch anything." That last bit sounded like the speaker had pulled the phone away from his ear to yell at someone in the room.
Bobby choked back a laugh. "She chase you out of her shop?"
"Yeah."
"What's your name?"
"Winchester. John Winchester."
Gossip moved fast in hunting circles; Bobby had heard of him. He was a greenie, alright. John Winchester, who said his wife burned up on the ceiling with her middle slashed open, John Winchester, who, word had it, was learning how to hunt, was obsessed, and had a toddler and a little boy hanging off his coat tails.
"All right, John Winchester, I've got a book here that says it should wear off in a week."
Winchester let out a sigh of relief, then said, "Dean, get down from there…" There was a pause. "See, here's the thing…I'm in a motel just outside Denver, got my two boys with me, Sam's three and Dean's seven and with these…things on me, I can't fit in my car. Can't let anyone see me like this."
Shit.
"Don't want charity from anyone," Winchester said, voice going tight. "I'll pay you for room and board, and for the help." He paused. "If it was only me, I'd wait it out here. But Sam and Dean." The way Winchester said that, it was like he'd said the sun and moon.
Oh for crying out loud.
"I got a van that should hold you and all your extra limbs," Bobby said, and pulled his notepad closer. "Tell me where you are."
"Thank you," Winchester said flatly.
"Yeah, yeah," said Bobby. He took down the motel location and hung up. "Well boy," he said, leaning down to look at the dog, who looked back up at him, stumpy tail wagging. "Looks like we're having company."
~*~
A soft touch, that's what he was. Pathetic.
One hand on the wheel of the van, Bobby folded back the map against the dashboard with the other. There wasn't much else on the road, not here in the middle of nowhere, as far from one small city as it was from another. Big blue sky, big piles of white clouds, coffee taste lingering pungent on his tongue.
The pup was in a cardboard box in the passenger seat footwell, sitting back on his haunches, tongue lolling as he watched Bobby drive.
Yeah, a soft touch, taking in strays of all kinds. He couldn't very well leave the pup behind, he was still too young to be all by his lonesome. When he got big he'd be an ace guard dog.
"'Nother two hours ought to do it," Bobby said to the pup, who wriggled happily at the sound of Bobby's voice.
Bobby put the map away and reached down to scratch the dog behind the ears.
He made it in an hour and forty-five due to light traffic and good weather, took the exit and then pulled into the parking lot of a dumpy motel.
It was one long, low building with a roof that needed replacing. The eye-violating blue of the walls were ready for a new paint job. A few cars were parked in front of the rooms, a Toyota pick-up, a battered looking Mazda, and a long, giant beauty of a '67 Chevy in front of room 14.
Bobby whistled and the pup, who'd been dozing, lifted its head and pricked up its ears.
"This must be it," Bobby said, pulling into a space. He cut the engine, then gave the dog what a stern look. Had to be firm with rottweilers, train 'em young. "Stay," he said. "Stay."
The pup licked its jowls innocently.
Bobby stepped down out of the van, shut the door firmly behind him, and checked to make sure the windows were rolled down a crack. Then he let out a long sigh, and walked up to room 14.
At his knock, there was a long wait, and then he heard the voice from the phone. "Yeah?"
"It's Bobby Singer."
The door opened about an inch, almost immediately. At about the level of the door knob, a nose dusted with freckles and a pair of hazel green eyes peered out.
"You gonna let me in?" Bobby reached up to scratch the back of his head again, feeling oddly nervous and a little ridiculous. It was like he was being assessed, judged, and evaluated for threat level.
The green eyes narrowed. Then the curtain in the window twitched, and from behind the boy, Bobby heard John Winchester say, "All right, Dean, you can let him in."
The kid - Dean - opened the door slowly and backed into the room to let Bobby enter. A floppy-haired toddler knelt on the bed, playing with oversized chunky legos that he looked up from to stare at Bobby with open curiosity. Dean went to stand between Bobby and the toddler, blocking him from view, and folded his arms. It was a gesture so purposeful and self-conscious it had to be imitation.
Sure enough, when Bobby turned, John Winchester had his arms folded in the same way; but Bobby didn't get a good look at the man at first because really, it was hard to pay attention to anything but the wings.
They rose from his back, looming in the close, low-ceilinged space of the motel room. The feathers were an earthy, varying brown, putting him in mind of a Cooper's Hawk. Bobby had no idea how Winchester had worked things with his t-shirt, if the wings had torn whatever he'd been wearing when it happened, or if he'd had to cut holes in the one he wore now.
The wings looked real enough, and large enough to lift a man that size off the ground just fine, if he knew how to use them.
"Well now," Bobby said. "Well. Doesn't that beat all."
The winged man unfolded his arms and held out his hand. "John Winchester."
"Bobby Singer," he said, and felt his hand swallowed into a dry, powerful grasp, the fingers roughened.
"This is Sammy." Winchester smiled down at the toddler, who reached out, trying to touch the feathers. "And this is Dean." The troubled lines of his face had smoothed away; he looked like any proud parent introducing his kids at the company picnic. Just for a moment, and then the smile wiped away and his eyes went guarded, and he was a guy who'd watched his wife burn to death on the ceiling.
"Hiya, Sammy, Dean," Bobby said, nodding at them. Sammy turned from the fascination of his father's wings, and instead extended his chubby arm, holding up the lego. Bobby shook his head. "Nah, but thanks, kiddo."
Winchester touched Dean's head, and the boy's head went up immediately, expectant, unguarded. Bobby saw it, right then, the hero worship in the kid's face.
"So," said Winchester, "A week before I'm back to normal?"
"Would help if I could see the powder your boy spilled on you."
At that, Dean pressed his lips together and stared down at his sneakers.
"I managed to keep some of it." Winchester shot his oldest son a look, and with a rustle of feathers, picked an envelope up off the dresser.
Bobby opened the envelope, held the powder up near his nose and took a cautious sniff. "Yep. I know the stuff. A week, ten days at most." He put the envelope back on the dresser. "You were lucky. I know a guy got turned into an aardvark by that stuff."
"An aardvark?" Dean said, and a small eyebrow shot up in a look that was uncannily adult.
"Seen stranger things that that," Bobby told him.
~*~
A muscle in Winchester's jaw twitched as he gripped the keys to his car tight between thumb and forefinger.
"You've got to," Bobby said, keeping his voice as quiet and reasonable as he could. "Unless you want to come back and find her towed, or up on blocks with her wheels gone. Saw a short-term parking place a few miles down the road. Decent security."
Some people were funny about their cars, but he swore the way this guy handed him the keys, slow, his eyes fixed on Bobby, it was like he was handing over one of his children.
"You get one scratch on her." It was a blunt statement, no trail off at the end, and no need to. The threat was all in the rough catch of the voice.
Bobby refrained from pointing out he dealt with cars for a living and knew a keeper when he saw it. He'd drive carefully, not because he was afraid of John Winchester (no, not at all), but because there was some story here Bobby didn't know. The car was part of it, and he understood about people and the importance of their stories.
~*~
He took a cab back to the motel, and somehow they got all of the Winchester's gear, and the Winchesters themselves, bundled into the van. Dean sat up front resting his dirty sneakers on the edges of the puppy's box. The puppy licked Dean's fingers and Dean scratched him behind the ears, but the boy kept turning around to keep an eye on his father and little brother, and he didn't make the kind of noise most seven year olds made.
Not that Bobby had that much experience with seven year olds, or with toddlers or babies or kids of any shape or size. But in his experience, Dean was a little too quiet for seven.
Winchester got settled in the back, sitting cross-legged among his duffel bags, wings brushing the top of the van, Sammy on his lap.
The toddler carried most of the conversation during the trip back to Bobby's place. Sam wanted to crawl up front and sit with Dean and see the puppy. He wanted to know where they were going. He wanted to know how old Bobby was. He wanted to know if he could have wings too. He wanted to know what the puppy's name was. He wanted to know if he could have some juice.
About halfway there, Sam started singing what Bobby thought was probably "American Pie," only it was hard to tell mixed with all the nonsense toddler-speak.
At that point, Dean slouched down in his seat and put his hand over his face.
"Hey, Sam," Winchester said, and shifted his squirming child so his head tucked against his shoulder. Sam quieted, looking up at his father expectantly. "Maybe you could save the concert for later."
Sam nodded, and asked his father what a concert was.
~*~
Bobby liked the quiet, his stacks of dusty books, Latin and sigils and chalk, rosemary and salt and late nights spent at his desk reading. A dog or two underfoot, while visitors came for information, didn't stay long, shared gossip and swapped old stories over a beer, maybe, and went on their way.
He watched Sam giggling as he rolled around on the floor next to the puppy, and Bobby wondered when his life had turned into sippy cups and endless questions, into peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, glasses of milk, freckles and watchful green eyes, brown feathers shedding all over the place.
"Sorry, I'll sweep it all up," Winchester said, his shoulders hunched in Bobby's kitchen, as if there was anything breakable within range of his wings. He opened the closet door, reaching for a broom.
"Oh, for god's sake," Bobby said, as Winchester started to sweep the kitchen floor. "Like this house hasn't been a mess for years."
Dean finished gulping the last of his glass of milk, then looked at his father for permission. Winchester nodded, and only then did Dean slide off his chair and get down on the floor with Sam and the pup.
"What's his name?" Dean asked, as he tugged on one end of the rawhide the puppy had clenched in its jaws.
The dog slid across the linoleum floor as Dean pulled, toenails scrabbling, while Sam clapped in approval.
"Don't have a name yet," Bobby said. "These things come in their own time."
"Oh." Dean's forehead creased. Then he shrugged and went back to the tug-of-war. The boy looked happy, but still, there was a deliberation to the way he did everything. He kept glancing over at his little brother, regular status checks.
This wasn't play. He was enjoying himself, but it all had a higher agenda of keeping Sam entertained and occupied. When Sam's attention wandered, Dean said, "Hey, Sammy, watch," and tugged the rawhide right out of the dog's mouth, then threw it across the room to make the puppy bound after it.
With strong, sure, movements, Winchester swept the feathers and crumbs into the metal dustpan and dumped it into the trash. "Dean, why don't you take Sam in the other room for a little while."
"Yes, sir." The boy stood, then held his hand out to his little brother. "C'mon, Sammy."
"You can take the dog with you," Bobby said, watching them trail out of the room.
After putting away the broom, Bobby's guest stood with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, as always like he wasn't quite sure how to hold himself with the wings on his back. Or maybe he wasn't sure how he fit in Bobby's house.
Part of a USMC tattoo was visible under the short sleeves of his t-shirt. Bobby had learned never to ask. Either folks might tell you after they had a few shots of whiskey, or they had reasons to keep it to themselves.
The guy was too young to have eyes like that, to have the lines around his mouth he had. Whatever marks being a jarhead had left on his body and soul, they were well hidden. Something else had shattered him.
"I want to thank you again for taking us in," he said, all but scuffing his feet.
"Sit," Bobby gestured. "You want a beer?"
"Not right now." Winchester grabbed a kitchen chair, turned it around, and straddled it, the arch of the wings framing his head, the ends of them trailing onto the floor. His hands tightened around the rungs of the chair - they were hands used to hard work even before his tragedy. Mechanic, Bobby had heard, and they were hands that already knew how to load and fire a gun. "You've got quite a library here."
"Comes in handy." Bobby got up and went to the fridge, got himself a beer, the bottle cold in his palm. Half wondered where he was headed with this, and half already knew, felt a small twitch of uneasiness in his gut.
They all had that same angry, lost look, pleading but not wanting to need to ask, trying to cover it up. He remembered Caleb on his doorstep, all of eighteen when his world went to shreds.
"I need to know more," John said, fingers picking now at the peeling paint on the chair slats. "I know some already, and I've got the weapons knowledge. But there are other things. Herbs and rituals. Exorcisms. Protection. How to fight things I haven't even imagined yet."
Bobby took a couple of slow, careful swallows of beer. This wasn't like some of the people he'd helped. Most people didn't have two little boys to look after.
"All right," he said, lowering the bottle. His thumb traced over the logo. "Since you're stuck here we might as well. I've got some reading for you. Tomorrow, we'll start with herbs."
From the other room came a delighted shriek.
It was none of his business.
"I'll show you how to stay alive," said Bobby.
"Thank you." John gave Bobby the slow curve of a relieved smile that had no joy in it.
~*~
"Dude. You have wings. You gotta fly," Dean insisted.
"Dude," John said, an edge beneath the way he spoke his son's language. "We've already discussed this."
Held in John's arms, Sam was starting to fuss. It was dark outside, the lamps in the library casting the shadow of wings on the floor, the wall, the bookcases. Bobby kept right on taking notes, keeping himself out of a family argument.
Not that he needed to try; as Dean stood squarely in his father's path and stared up at him, and John glared back, squirming toddler draped over his arm, it was clear that right then, no one else in the universe existed.
"But it would be so cool," Dean pushed onward. His expression took on a serious, earnest look, like a preacher man trying to reach the stubborn masses gathered in his tent. "Jump off the car roof. That's not high up. C'mon."
"I said, no." This time the edge in John's voice was enough to make Dean stay silent.
Sam twisted in his father's arms, reaching to touch the wings. He patted along the curve of cartilage of the left one. "Soft," he said, no longer restless, just full of wonder.
"Bed time." John pulled his son's hand down gently.
"Not tired!" Sam said, very loudly, and yawned.
"Sure you aren't. Say goodnight, Sammy."
Sam waved at Bobby. "G'night."
"'Night, kiddo." Bobby smiled at the tyke, who grinned back, and Bobby felt like the room had gotten several shades brighter.
"It's too early for me to go to bed," Dean announced. It was a general statement, getting the facts in order for whoever was listening.
"No, it's not," John said.
He headed off with one kid attached at his hip, the other trailing behind. When they got to the steps, John shifted his grip on Sam, put his arm across Dean's shoulder. They went up the stairs like that, in the dim light their shadows merging into a chimera of wings and too many heads and arms. Halfway up the stairs, John murmured something, and Sam gave a happy shriek, and Dean laughed, easy and open.
That boy seemed most alive in his father's presence, but what Bobby noticed more, was how it was John who only seemed complete when he was with his kids.
~*~
They spent the morning learning about herbs and their properties. John picked things up fast.
"You know about knife-throwing?" Bobby said, putting the rosemary back into its jar.
John let out a small huff of breath that might've been a laugh. "I was in the Marines," he said.
"Then let's see what you can do."
They packed up peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for the boys, and hiked down to the creek at the bottom of Bobby's property. Bobby watched John walk ahead of him through the woods with Sam riding piggy-back. Even with the wings, the man moved along easily, at a strong clip, and he was watchful. Dean stepped where his father did, turned to look off into the trees in the same way.
Knight and squire, captain and lieutenant.
Turned out John knew a lot more about knife-throwing and combat techniques than he did about herbs and Latin and monsters. He hit the targets, and corrected Bobby's throwing technique.
Smartass.
They sat on boulders by the rushing water, eating sandwiches. Dean had kicked off his sneakers and had his jeans rolled up. He was ankle deep in the water, which had to be ice-cold, while Sam stood nearby on a spit of sand. The sun made the creek glitter hard, like silver.
"Hunting's a hard life," Bobby said, his back against the sun-warm rock. It wasn't meddling, it was teaching, giving the newcomer a full picture of what he was getting into. That was all.
John picked up one of the water-polished stones and turned it over in his fingers before his glance slid over to his boys, watchful. "Never said I thought it'd be easy." He threw the stone into the water. The breeze ruffled his wings, sent a few feathers swirling into the clear air.
Bobby already felt the door was shut on the conversation, and he wasn't about to push further - wasn't his place.
But then John went on, still watching his boys. "Something I can't explain killed my wife." He turned to Bobby and for a moment the grief was clear, still raw and sharp beneath the dulled surface of it, like it was brand new. "I'm not ever letting it take our boys." Then John blinked, exhaled, stood up, his face gone back to keeping its secrets.
~*~
"My shoe is stuck on the roof," Dean announced, handing Sammy another bite of hotdog.
"It's what?" John gave his boy a long, slow glance across the kitchen table, his eyebrows rising. There were dark circles under his eyes that hadn't been there a few days ago.
"Excuse me?" Bobby said at the same time.
"My shoe got stuck on the roof." Dean shrugged and reached for the mustard, but Bobby saw the way he watched John out of the corner of his eye.
John rubbed his palm down his face, got a feather caught on his lower lip, spat it out. "Fu-crap, these things are driving me nuts." He twitched his shoulders, and the wings shook, sending more feathers onto the floor as John turned his stare back on Dean. "And how did your shoe get on the roof?"
"It was an accident," Dean said calmly.
Bobby knew a con when he heard one.
"Assident!" Sam shouted, and laughed.
"Can you get it down for me, Daddy?" Dean picked up his hotdog and took a bite, looking as innocent as a six-weeks-old puppy and Bobby couldn't help but admire the kid's skill.
The innocent look faltered under John's hard look.
"You got a ladder I can borrow?" John said, turning to Bobby, a tired sigh in his voice.
"Better let me do it," said Bobby. "With those wings you'll most likely overbalance." He stood up and headed for the door. "Might as well take care of it now. Boy's going to need his sneaker."
"Watch Sammy," John said, sharp and tight, getting up to follow. He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something else to his son, but instead he kept his silence.
Dean's head went down. "Yes, sir."
~*~
After carrying Sam upstairs and putting him down for his nap (Sam's voice drifting down the stairs, asking why he had to take a nap, how come daddy had wings now, why did he have to go to sleep if he wasn't tired, why didn't Dean have to take a nap too), John retreated to an armchair deep enough to accommodate both him and his wings with the large volume Bobby had assigned him.
Quiet fell over Bobby's house again.
He stepped out onto the porch, thinking he'd maybe go and evaluate the new junkers he'd acquired a few days back, and found Dean sitting on the top step. The puppy was asleep with its head against Dean's thigh.
"Hey, kid."
"Hello." Dean squinted into the late afternoon sun, his freckles the color of the dirt in Bobby's yard.
"That brother of yours is a pistol."
"He likes to ask a lot of questions." Dean nodded, as if he'd long ago resigned himself to the way of things.
The silence deepened. Somewhere off in the woods, a crow called.
Well, this was awkward, but it bugged him, the idea of leaving the kid sitting so quiet and still by his lonesome. It didn't seem to fit, as if that was only a layer over the actual kid beneath, one who sassed back and jumped on the furniture and laughed.
"See that truck over there?" Bobby pointed, and Dean tilted up his chin, looking.
"Yeah?"
"I have to take a look at the engine. You want to help me with that?"
The boy's face lit up like someone had flicked on a switch.
~*~
They worked on the Ford F-100 until sunset. Well, Bobby worked, and Dean stood on the bumper, peering down into the engine. He accurately identified the engine parts Bobby pointed to, and started every other sentence with Daddy says…. It was the chattiest Bobby had seen the boy get.
The dying sun beat warm on their backs and Bobby felt comfortable, glad for the company.
~*~
"What're you looking at here?" John peered down at the egg. He rolled his shoulders, reached up to scratch at his neck, and started when his fingers touched his left wing. It was as if he'd forgotten the wings were there.
"It's from a harpy's nest." Bobby said, and glanced at Dean. The boy stared at the egg, didn't seem to be listening. Bobby went on, hoping Dean wouldn't understand, but knowing he probably would. "I flushed 'em out, got rid of 'em. Stumbled upon the nest while I was doing a sweep to check and make sure I hadn't missed any. Decided to keep it for study."
John tapped his fingers lightly against the shell, then reached down, hooked his hands under Dean's armpits, and lifted him so he could see better. The boy's legs rested against the edge of the desk as they looked down at the egg together, expressions similar, intent and frowning.
"What's a harpy?" Dean said, craning his head back to look up at his father.
"I'll explain when you're older," John said, and then he looked at Bobby. "You going to tell me how you killed them?"
"Yeah." Not with the boy standing right there listening, but Bobby didn't say that part. He knew he didn't have to.
But it would only be a matter time. Bobby watched Dean and John studying the egg together, while Sammy played on the floor at their feet with a set of keys and John asked Dean to describe the egg, tell him what he noticed about it. Another two years, maybe, before John started telling Dean the things Bobby was telling John now. Less than a year, probably, until Dean was taught that salt wasn't just for putting on eggs.
Too young, Bobby thought. Too damn young.
But it was none of his business.
~*~
With the pale light of dawn coming in through a bull's-eye window, Bobby walked down the stairs in his bare feet, jeans, and thermal long-sleeved shirt. His assumption that he was the first being awake fell away as he caught a movement through the window, a flicker of brown.
He peered closer through the quartered panes and watched as John bowed his head, the brown wings rising from his back, casting no shadow yet because the sun wasn't high or strong enough.
John raised his head and the wings beat once, twice, bringing up curls of dust at his feet.
Then he stopped. He made a face, like he was a man laughing at himself, twitched his shoulders with a shrug, the wings rising and settling again with the motion.
Bobby drew back from the window, shook his head. A few more days, that's all, if Winchester could keep from going mad first. Bobby'd feel the same way, in his situation. Men like him and John didn't have any use for wings.
~*~
Bobby was just passing through his kitchen, wanted to wash the grease off his hands and grab a beer before he started work on the Buick Skylark. Dean sat the table, none too patiently knocking his sneakers against the chair rungs and Sam was on the floor with the puppy.
With a book propped open against the toaster, John made the boys grilled cheese sandwiches, and did a decent job of it, from what Bobby could see, especially considering how John spent more time staring at the pages than at the frying pan. But he flipped the sandwiches perfectly, kept them from burning, lowered the heat on the burners, and went right back to reading.
"Eisenhower!" Sam crowed suddenly.
"Huh?" Bobby stopped in the middle of reaching for the faucet, while Dean and John turned to look at Sam.
"Hey, kiddo, what's up?" John said, bending a little awkwardly with the wings, still a little off-balance even days into it. He put his palm against the cabinet door to steady himself.
Sam craned his head back to look up into his father's face, and smiled, wide and gap-toothed. "That's his name, Daddy," Sam said, and then gave an uncannily adult-sounding snort, like he felt surely any idiot should understand.
"Uh, whose name?" Dean said, getting down onto the floor with his brother.
In answer, Sam grabbed the dog into a hug. The puppy squirmed, but arched its neck back to lick Sam on the chin.
"Eisenhower," Bobby said, and then shrugged. "Good a name as any, I guess."
~*~
When Bobby next came back inside, Eisenhower staying obediently at heel, John's book was resting on the chair where he'd probably been sitting for most of the afternoon. He'd put the reading aside because Sam had somehow gotten into the old wood cabinet over on the wall, and was now crouched with papers strewn around him.
"Sammy, no." Kneeling, his wings brushing against the dusty floor, John pried the papers out of his son's chubby hands. Sam fussed, and Eisenhower started to bark.
A photograph fluttered down out of John's grasp, and Bobby felt a little jolt of adrenaline, stinging and quick, gone in an instant.
Dean bent over to pick up the picture. He frowned down at it. "She's pretty," he said, handing it to Bobby.
"Keep your boys out of my things, Winchester," Bobby snapped, and John's jaw tightened.
Shit.
Bobby walked fast out of the room, not looking at how Sam's face puckered, at the way Dean had gone very still. He tucked the photograph into the back pocket of his jeans.
~*~
Worrying over people, that never came to any good. Liking them, that was fine, and Bobby was never one to turn away anyone who needed help. But the sooner the Winchesters were gone, the better.
~*~
When Bobby returned to the house, the fireflies were out and John was leaning against the porch railing, drinking a beer. In the light shining out through the windows behind him, the wings were a mix of brightness and shadow, the brown taking on a touch of gold. Bobby thought John might make a decent avenging angel.
Bobby put his boots on the first step, and it creaked. He waited, listening to the crickets, watching the fireflies blink in and out.
He should apologize, was opening his mouth to do it, when John spoke first. "Who was she?"
The fireflies blinked a few more times, bright yellow glows that took John's face in and out of shadow.
Bobby breathed in and out a few times, remembering the way John's face had looked down at the creek. "My wife," he said finally. Bobby rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. "I lost her."
"I'm sorry."
"It was a long time ago." He continued up the steps, noticed the book sitting on the glider at the end of the porch. "When you're done with that one," he said, jerking his head, "I've got more for you."
John took another swallow of beer, and nodded. "Good."
~*~
Bobby blamed himself for it.
It was just an egg, after all, and he'd studied it until his eyes were about ready to pop out of his head. So he wasn't alarmed when Sam came running clumsily out onto the porch the next morning with the egg in his arms, Dean on his heels. Eisenhower bounded after them, barking.
"Sammy, no, you're not supposed to touch that!"
Bobby remembered when his house used to be quiet. He set aside the shotgun he was cleaning as Sam fled down the porch steps.
Dean leapt to the dirt, skipping the steps, and grabbed Sam's shoulders. "Whoa. Stop. Sammy, give me the egg."
"No!"
"Hey!" Bobby said sharply, getting to his feet, and they both turned to look at him. "Let him have it, Dean, I'm done with it."
"Really?" His freckles bright in the sun, Dean screwed up his face like he'd never heard of such a crazy thing.
"Really." Bobby rolled his eyes. "It's nothing but a paperweight now. Where's your daddy?"
"Inside, memorizing that stuff you gave him."
Sam settled onto the ground with Eisenhower and the egg. He pursed his lips and made brrrrrrrrr engine noises while he pushed the egg around in the dust.
Dean sat down on the porch next to Bobby. "Whatcha doing?"
"None of your beeswax." Bobby picked up the borebrush and went back to working. He didn't like doing this right in front of Dean, especially the way Dean watched so carefully. "You boys should go back inside."
"It's boring in there."
"It's boring out here too." His nose itched; Bobby rubbed the back of his sleeve across his face, and then was astonished when Dean copied him. Crap, no, the kid already had a father.
Eisenhower stiffened, put his nose into the wind.
Dean was on his feet even before the strange shadow fell over Sam, and before Bobby could move, he'd jumped down to the yard, grabbed up Sam away from the egg. Pushed him so Sam fell in the dust and started to cry.
The cry turned to a scream when the mighty beat of enormous wings brought a swirl of dust that hazed Bobby's sight of the boys. He fumbled with one of the cleaned guns, loaded and ready.
There was a reason the egg seemed wrong. It wasn't a harpy's, it was a gryphon's.
The monster had Dean dangling off the ground, one of the thing's talons hooked through his shirt, the other set of talons closed around the egg.
"John," Bobby bellowed, and got the shotgun up to his shoulder. Sam wailed in the dirt and Eisenhower leapt at the sky, jaws snapping on nothing.
Shit, he couldn't fire, he might hit Dean. Meanwhile the creature was carrying Dean higher.
The front door banged open behind him, and Bobby felt the floorboards shake as John bounded down the steps.
John kept on running, twitched his shoulders, and then the wings on his back beat once, twice, and John was in the air, wobbling badly.
Heart hammering, inhaling dust with every breath, Bobby kept the gun aimed, but still didn't fire, couldn't. Not yet. Not yet.
Eisenhower was having hysterics, high-pitched puppy barks that had gone hoarse, while Sam's sobs were heart-rending enough to signal the end of the world. John grabbed Dean, pulled something out of the waistband of his jeans. A knife flashed, Dean's shirt ripped, and John got both arms around Dean.
Dean wrapped his arms around John's neck, and they dropped.
Bobby fired once, hit the monster, fired again. The gryphon crashed into the upper branches of a tree, then tumbled, but Bobby barely noticed it beyond a blur in the corner of his eye, because John was still dropping, Dean wrapped close against his chest.
As they hit the ground, John tucked his body around his son's, and they thumped to a dead stop in a jumble of dust and feathers.
Oh, God, please, Bobby thought; Bobby who hadn't had a serious use for God in a long time. He made himself take a moment to look at the gryphon. It lay still under the tree, its flank still. Keeping his grip on the shotgun, Bobby rattled down the porch steps and scooped up Sam with one arm.
The toddler grabbed onto him with a strangling grip, his small body hitching with the sobs. "It's okay, kiddo," Bobby whispered, tightening his hold, his hand against Sam's back. The boy smelled like dog and baby shampoo, and Bobby felt an ache in his chest as he ran, holding Sam and the shotgun, towards the heap of brown feathers and denim.
"John? Shit. John! Dean?" He managed to kneel, keeping his grip on Sam, who squirmed and reached out desperately.
There was a groan from John, and Dean coughed, half-concealed with John's left wing tucked around him. His breath rasping in his throat, John sat up, grabbed Dean, turned him around to face him. "You all right, Dean?"
"Yes, sir."
John pulled Dean in close again, while Dean wrapped his arms around John's neck, and then John reached out for Sam. The moment John touched him, Sam's crying stopped.
As Bobby got to his feet, the sting of grit in his eyes made it hard to see straight. He walked over to check on the gryphon.
The creature was dead. Bobby stood looking down at it, cursed himself for being an idiot and making too many assumptions, and just to be certain, nudged the thing three times with the butt of the gun. The egg lay cracked a few yards off. He spat. Two less creatures he had to worry about snatching cattle, family pets, and even the occasional child if it was hungry enough.
Bobby glanced behind him and saw that John had reached the porch under his own steam, moving stiffly with Sam and Dean hanging off him like extra limbs.
There was a sound at his feet. Bobby looked down, and saw Eisenhower leaning against his ankle, looking up at him. The dog whined. "Yeah, boy, it's okay." He blinked a few times until his vision stopped swimming. "It's okay."
~*~
A few days later, John's wings were gone.
"I've had to sleep on my stomach all week. Woke up this morning and the weight was just, it was gone," John said, a hint of wonder under the relief in his voice. He bent and scooped up Sam, lifted him up towards the ceiling of Bobby's library while Sam put his head back and shrieked with laughter.
"The wings were awesome," Dean said, slouched in a wooden chair with his arms folded, mouth drawn down.
"They gave your old man a back-ache," said John, and lowered Sam, tucked him into a comfortable spot on his hip before he turned to Bobby. "Don't know how I'll ever repay you."
"So don't," Bobby said, putting his eyes back down to the leather-bound volume he was translating.
~*~
He left the Winchesters at the lot where the Impala was parked and drove himself and Eisenhower back home with the radio on the whole way because he'd suddenly gotten unused to quiet. A few days later, Bobby discovered that every creaky hinge, every busted window, every loose floorboard in his house had been repaired. John must've done it while Bobby was out working on the junkers, when he got tired of squinting at faded, archaic texts.
Bobby wandered his empty house, past rooms that had been shut up so long he could only half remember what was in them. The other rooms held books and extra beds.
He listened to his own footsteps and to Eisenhower's, padding along behind him, and told himself he wasn't lonely.
Late that night, Bobby sat down at his desk, switching on the lamp. He turned the photograph of the love he'd lost, remembering how she'd smile, how the kitchen smelled when she made pancakes, how she was a better shot than he was when the coyotes got too bold, the way her dark hair smelled just after she'd washed it. Bobby glanced across the room at the cabinet where he kept all his secrets, his past, put away.
No, not this picture, not any more. He picked up the small wooden frame, put the picture inside, and placed it on his desk.
Bobby opened a book and got back to work.
~end
Title: Unexpected Company
Author: dotfic
Rating: Gen, PG-13, preseries
W/C: ~7,200
Disclaimer: They all belong to people who aren't me.
a/n: Written for innie_darling's birthday. This started with a double drabble I posted earlier this year, It's Just One of Those Days. Insightful beta reading by smilla02, who nudged and poked and guided and refused to settle for less.
Summary: The one where John has wings, Sam is a toddler, Dean is seven, and Bobby is in way over his head.
Bobby took another swallow of beer and scooted his chair closer to the desk with its pitted, dark wood and familiar faint smell of old varnish. He touched his fingers to the large object in front of him. The egg was about a foot in diameter, a dark, mottled blue, rough under his fingertips.
He adjusted the desk lamp so it shone full on the egg, made a note, and for the third time checked the book that lay open on top of a teetering stack of volumes to his left. Bobby would have to keep close watch on that egg - it was liable to up and do all kinds of crazy things.
The Rottweiler puppy lying at his feet snuffled in his sleep, the body warm against Bobby's ankle.
The phone rang.
"Damn it." Bobby put down his pencil and rubbed a hand over his hair.
Calls were almost never good news.
He picked up. "Singer," he said, hoping if he made himself sound grumpy enough, whoever it was would go away. Unless they had an actual emergency, and if they had an actual emergency, that it was a really good one and not because some jackass mixed up a Calopus with a Catoblepas.
"Uh, Caleb sent me," said a man's voice. Deep and solid, but with a note of uncertainty. "He says you…know things."
Shit, sometimes that kid acted like he was some kind of information booth.
"I might," Bobby said, slow, drawing out the words, giving the guy a chance to back out.
"I've got this, well, guess you'd call it a problem…" Any trace of authority in the voice got lost in the fumbling.
Great. Just what he needed -- a greenie. Probably found his first poltergeist and the fool was realizing he was in over his head.
In the background he heard a child's thin high protest, and then another child's voice, a little older: Daddy, Sammy's hungry.
"Boys, quiet," the speaker on the other end said, not so much harsh as sharp and efficient, and the child noises in the background immediately quieted. "Anyway," he said to Bobby, and now he almost seemed to have his shit together. "Caleb says you specialize in this kind of stuff, and…"
"You mind getting to the point?"
"My boy messed with some powders he shouldn't touch, got some of the stuff on me and now I've got -" the man paused, coughed, and mumbled a word.
"Sorry, didn't catch that?"
"Wings," the man said loudly and decisively, all trace of hesitancy gone, time to deal with the crisis at hand. "I've got wings."
Well, that was different, at least. "Well. How about that." Bobby leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking.
"Yep. Wings." He heard the speaker take a long, shaky breath. "Fuckin' wings."
Bobby stretched out his arm and grabbed the book second from the top of the pile beneath the window. The puppy stirred and woke; Bobby heard its whine as it yawned. He hadn't settled on a name yet, didn't even have the proper tags, only just got him a week ago. Found the poor thing curled up in the grass on the side of the road, abandoned, because some people weren't worth shit.
"Wings," he muttered, turning the pages over. The book dated from the 1970's and was a hodge-podge, as if the author had gathered all the stuff too weird to go in with the regular books, and that was saying something, because Bobby's other books were full of weird. "Wings…what did you say your son got on you?"
"Don't know what it's called. Blue powder, in a small glass bottle. We were at a shop in Denver."
"Cecily's?"
There was a pause. "Oh. Yeah. You know her?"
"We go way back." Bobby traced his finger down over the text. "How is the old biddy?"
"She seemed…fine." The guy with wings seemed startled at the question. "Got pretty pissed off after Dean, that's my oldest, picked up the bottles. After I expressly told him not to touch anything." That last bit sounded like the speaker had pulled the phone away from his ear to yell at someone in the room.
Bobby choked back a laugh. "She chase you out of her shop?"
"Yeah."
"What's your name?"
"Winchester. John Winchester."
Gossip moved fast in hunting circles; Bobby had heard of him. He was a greenie, alright. John Winchester, who said his wife burned up on the ceiling with her middle slashed open, John Winchester, who, word had it, was learning how to hunt, was obsessed, and had a toddler and a little boy hanging off his coat tails.
"All right, John Winchester, I've got a book here that says it should wear off in a week."
Winchester let out a sigh of relief, then said, "Dean, get down from there…" There was a pause. "See, here's the thing…I'm in a motel just outside Denver, got my two boys with me, Sam's three and Dean's seven and with these…things on me, I can't fit in my car. Can't let anyone see me like this."
Shit.
"Don't want charity from anyone," Winchester said, voice going tight. "I'll pay you for room and board, and for the help." He paused. "If it was only me, I'd wait it out here. But Sam and Dean." The way Winchester said that, it was like he'd said the sun and moon.
Oh for crying out loud.
"I got a van that should hold you and all your extra limbs," Bobby said, and pulled his notepad closer. "Tell me where you are."
"Thank you," Winchester said flatly.
"Yeah, yeah," said Bobby. He took down the motel location and hung up. "Well boy," he said, leaning down to look at the dog, who looked back up at him, stumpy tail wagging. "Looks like we're having company."
~*~
A soft touch, that's what he was. Pathetic.
One hand on the wheel of the van, Bobby folded back the map against the dashboard with the other. There wasn't much else on the road, not here in the middle of nowhere, as far from one small city as it was from another. Big blue sky, big piles of white clouds, coffee taste lingering pungent on his tongue.
The pup was in a cardboard box in the passenger seat footwell, sitting back on his haunches, tongue lolling as he watched Bobby drive.
Yeah, a soft touch, taking in strays of all kinds. He couldn't very well leave the pup behind, he was still too young to be all by his lonesome. When he got big he'd be an ace guard dog.
"'Nother two hours ought to do it," Bobby said to the pup, who wriggled happily at the sound of Bobby's voice.
Bobby put the map away and reached down to scratch the dog behind the ears.
He made it in an hour and forty-five due to light traffic and good weather, took the exit and then pulled into the parking lot of a dumpy motel.
It was one long, low building with a roof that needed replacing. The eye-violating blue of the walls were ready for a new paint job. A few cars were parked in front of the rooms, a Toyota pick-up, a battered looking Mazda, and a long, giant beauty of a '67 Chevy in front of room 14.
Bobby whistled and the pup, who'd been dozing, lifted its head and pricked up its ears.
"This must be it," Bobby said, pulling into a space. He cut the engine, then gave the dog what a stern look. Had to be firm with rottweilers, train 'em young. "Stay," he said. "Stay."
The pup licked its jowls innocently.
Bobby stepped down out of the van, shut the door firmly behind him, and checked to make sure the windows were rolled down a crack. Then he let out a long sigh, and walked up to room 14.
At his knock, there was a long wait, and then he heard the voice from the phone. "Yeah?"
"It's Bobby Singer."
The door opened about an inch, almost immediately. At about the level of the door knob, a nose dusted with freckles and a pair of hazel green eyes peered out.
"You gonna let me in?" Bobby reached up to scratch the back of his head again, feeling oddly nervous and a little ridiculous. It was like he was being assessed, judged, and evaluated for threat level.
The green eyes narrowed. Then the curtain in the window twitched, and from behind the boy, Bobby heard John Winchester say, "All right, Dean, you can let him in."
The kid - Dean - opened the door slowly and backed into the room to let Bobby enter. A floppy-haired toddler knelt on the bed, playing with oversized chunky legos that he looked up from to stare at Bobby with open curiosity. Dean went to stand between Bobby and the toddler, blocking him from view, and folded his arms. It was a gesture so purposeful and self-conscious it had to be imitation.
Sure enough, when Bobby turned, John Winchester had his arms folded in the same way; but Bobby didn't get a good look at the man at first because really, it was hard to pay attention to anything but the wings.
They rose from his back, looming in the close, low-ceilinged space of the motel room. The feathers were an earthy, varying brown, putting him in mind of a Cooper's Hawk. Bobby had no idea how Winchester had worked things with his t-shirt, if the wings had torn whatever he'd been wearing when it happened, or if he'd had to cut holes in the one he wore now.
The wings looked real enough, and large enough to lift a man that size off the ground just fine, if he knew how to use them.
"Well now," Bobby said. "Well. Doesn't that beat all."
The winged man unfolded his arms and held out his hand. "John Winchester."
"Bobby Singer," he said, and felt his hand swallowed into a dry, powerful grasp, the fingers roughened.
"This is Sammy." Winchester smiled down at the toddler, who reached out, trying to touch the feathers. "And this is Dean." The troubled lines of his face had smoothed away; he looked like any proud parent introducing his kids at the company picnic. Just for a moment, and then the smile wiped away and his eyes went guarded, and he was a guy who'd watched his wife burn to death on the ceiling.
"Hiya, Sammy, Dean," Bobby said, nodding at them. Sammy turned from the fascination of his father's wings, and instead extended his chubby arm, holding up the lego. Bobby shook his head. "Nah, but thanks, kiddo."
Winchester touched Dean's head, and the boy's head went up immediately, expectant, unguarded. Bobby saw it, right then, the hero worship in the kid's face.
"So," said Winchester, "A week before I'm back to normal?"
"Would help if I could see the powder your boy spilled on you."
At that, Dean pressed his lips together and stared down at his sneakers.
"I managed to keep some of it." Winchester shot his oldest son a look, and with a rustle of feathers, picked an envelope up off the dresser.
Bobby opened the envelope, held the powder up near his nose and took a cautious sniff. "Yep. I know the stuff. A week, ten days at most." He put the envelope back on the dresser. "You were lucky. I know a guy got turned into an aardvark by that stuff."
"An aardvark?" Dean said, and a small eyebrow shot up in a look that was uncannily adult.
"Seen stranger things that that," Bobby told him.
~*~
A muscle in Winchester's jaw twitched as he gripped the keys to his car tight between thumb and forefinger.
"You've got to," Bobby said, keeping his voice as quiet and reasonable as he could. "Unless you want to come back and find her towed, or up on blocks with her wheels gone. Saw a short-term parking place a few miles down the road. Decent security."
Some people were funny about their cars, but he swore the way this guy handed him the keys, slow, his eyes fixed on Bobby, it was like he was handing over one of his children.
"You get one scratch on her." It was a blunt statement, no trail off at the end, and no need to. The threat was all in the rough catch of the voice.
Bobby refrained from pointing out he dealt with cars for a living and knew a keeper when he saw it. He'd drive carefully, not because he was afraid of John Winchester (no, not at all), but because there was some story here Bobby didn't know. The car was part of it, and he understood about people and the importance of their stories.
~*~
He took a cab back to the motel, and somehow they got all of the Winchester's gear, and the Winchesters themselves, bundled into the van. Dean sat up front resting his dirty sneakers on the edges of the puppy's box. The puppy licked Dean's fingers and Dean scratched him behind the ears, but the boy kept turning around to keep an eye on his father and little brother, and he didn't make the kind of noise most seven year olds made.
Not that Bobby had that much experience with seven year olds, or with toddlers or babies or kids of any shape or size. But in his experience, Dean was a little too quiet for seven.
Winchester got settled in the back, sitting cross-legged among his duffel bags, wings brushing the top of the van, Sammy on his lap.
The toddler carried most of the conversation during the trip back to Bobby's place. Sam wanted to crawl up front and sit with Dean and see the puppy. He wanted to know where they were going. He wanted to know how old Bobby was. He wanted to know if he could have wings too. He wanted to know what the puppy's name was. He wanted to know if he could have some juice.
About halfway there, Sam started singing what Bobby thought was probably "American Pie," only it was hard to tell mixed with all the nonsense toddler-speak.
At that point, Dean slouched down in his seat and put his hand over his face.
"Hey, Sam," Winchester said, and shifted his squirming child so his head tucked against his shoulder. Sam quieted, looking up at his father expectantly. "Maybe you could save the concert for later."
Sam nodded, and asked his father what a concert was.
~*~
Bobby liked the quiet, his stacks of dusty books, Latin and sigils and chalk, rosemary and salt and late nights spent at his desk reading. A dog or two underfoot, while visitors came for information, didn't stay long, shared gossip and swapped old stories over a beer, maybe, and went on their way.
He watched Sam giggling as he rolled around on the floor next to the puppy, and Bobby wondered when his life had turned into sippy cups and endless questions, into peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, glasses of milk, freckles and watchful green eyes, brown feathers shedding all over the place.
"Sorry, I'll sweep it all up," Winchester said, his shoulders hunched in Bobby's kitchen, as if there was anything breakable within range of his wings. He opened the closet door, reaching for a broom.
"Oh, for god's sake," Bobby said, as Winchester started to sweep the kitchen floor. "Like this house hasn't been a mess for years."
Dean finished gulping the last of his glass of milk, then looked at his father for permission. Winchester nodded, and only then did Dean slide off his chair and get down on the floor with Sam and the pup.
"What's his name?" Dean asked, as he tugged on one end of the rawhide the puppy had clenched in its jaws.
The dog slid across the linoleum floor as Dean pulled, toenails scrabbling, while Sam clapped in approval.
"Don't have a name yet," Bobby said. "These things come in their own time."
"Oh." Dean's forehead creased. Then he shrugged and went back to the tug-of-war. The boy looked happy, but still, there was a deliberation to the way he did everything. He kept glancing over at his little brother, regular status checks.
This wasn't play. He was enjoying himself, but it all had a higher agenda of keeping Sam entertained and occupied. When Sam's attention wandered, Dean said, "Hey, Sammy, watch," and tugged the rawhide right out of the dog's mouth, then threw it across the room to make the puppy bound after it.
With strong, sure, movements, Winchester swept the feathers and crumbs into the metal dustpan and dumped it into the trash. "Dean, why don't you take Sam in the other room for a little while."
"Yes, sir." The boy stood, then held his hand out to his little brother. "C'mon, Sammy."
"You can take the dog with you," Bobby said, watching them trail out of the room.
After putting away the broom, Bobby's guest stood with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, as always like he wasn't quite sure how to hold himself with the wings on his back. Or maybe he wasn't sure how he fit in Bobby's house.
Part of a USMC tattoo was visible under the short sleeves of his t-shirt. Bobby had learned never to ask. Either folks might tell you after they had a few shots of whiskey, or they had reasons to keep it to themselves.
The guy was too young to have eyes like that, to have the lines around his mouth he had. Whatever marks being a jarhead had left on his body and soul, they were well hidden. Something else had shattered him.
"I want to thank you again for taking us in," he said, all but scuffing his feet.
"Sit," Bobby gestured. "You want a beer?"
"Not right now." Winchester grabbed a kitchen chair, turned it around, and straddled it, the arch of the wings framing his head, the ends of them trailing onto the floor. His hands tightened around the rungs of the chair - they were hands used to hard work even before his tragedy. Mechanic, Bobby had heard, and they were hands that already knew how to load and fire a gun. "You've got quite a library here."
"Comes in handy." Bobby got up and went to the fridge, got himself a beer, the bottle cold in his palm. Half wondered where he was headed with this, and half already knew, felt a small twitch of uneasiness in his gut.
They all had that same angry, lost look, pleading but not wanting to need to ask, trying to cover it up. He remembered Caleb on his doorstep, all of eighteen when his world went to shreds.
"I need to know more," John said, fingers picking now at the peeling paint on the chair slats. "I know some already, and I've got the weapons knowledge. But there are other things. Herbs and rituals. Exorcisms. Protection. How to fight things I haven't even imagined yet."
Bobby took a couple of slow, careful swallows of beer. This wasn't like some of the people he'd helped. Most people didn't have two little boys to look after.
"All right," he said, lowering the bottle. His thumb traced over the logo. "Since you're stuck here we might as well. I've got some reading for you. Tomorrow, we'll start with herbs."
From the other room came a delighted shriek.
It was none of his business.
"I'll show you how to stay alive," said Bobby.
"Thank you." John gave Bobby the slow curve of a relieved smile that had no joy in it.
~*~
"Dude. You have wings. You gotta fly," Dean insisted.
"Dude," John said, an edge beneath the way he spoke his son's language. "We've already discussed this."
Held in John's arms, Sam was starting to fuss. It was dark outside, the lamps in the library casting the shadow of wings on the floor, the wall, the bookcases. Bobby kept right on taking notes, keeping himself out of a family argument.
Not that he needed to try; as Dean stood squarely in his father's path and stared up at him, and John glared back, squirming toddler draped over his arm, it was clear that right then, no one else in the universe existed.
"But it would be so cool," Dean pushed onward. His expression took on a serious, earnest look, like a preacher man trying to reach the stubborn masses gathered in his tent. "Jump off the car roof. That's not high up. C'mon."
"I said, no." This time the edge in John's voice was enough to make Dean stay silent.
Sam twisted in his father's arms, reaching to touch the wings. He patted along the curve of cartilage of the left one. "Soft," he said, no longer restless, just full of wonder.
"Bed time." John pulled his son's hand down gently.
"Not tired!" Sam said, very loudly, and yawned.
"Sure you aren't. Say goodnight, Sammy."
Sam waved at Bobby. "G'night."
"'Night, kiddo." Bobby smiled at the tyke, who grinned back, and Bobby felt like the room had gotten several shades brighter.
"It's too early for me to go to bed," Dean announced. It was a general statement, getting the facts in order for whoever was listening.
"No, it's not," John said.
He headed off with one kid attached at his hip, the other trailing behind. When they got to the steps, John shifted his grip on Sam, put his arm across Dean's shoulder. They went up the stairs like that, in the dim light their shadows merging into a chimera of wings and too many heads and arms. Halfway up the stairs, John murmured something, and Sam gave a happy shriek, and Dean laughed, easy and open.
That boy seemed most alive in his father's presence, but what Bobby noticed more, was how it was John who only seemed complete when he was with his kids.
~*~
They spent the morning learning about herbs and their properties. John picked things up fast.
"You know about knife-throwing?" Bobby said, putting the rosemary back into its jar.
John let out a small huff of breath that might've been a laugh. "I was in the Marines," he said.
"Then let's see what you can do."
They packed up peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for the boys, and hiked down to the creek at the bottom of Bobby's property. Bobby watched John walk ahead of him through the woods with Sam riding piggy-back. Even with the wings, the man moved along easily, at a strong clip, and he was watchful. Dean stepped where his father did, turned to look off into the trees in the same way.
Knight and squire, captain and lieutenant.
Turned out John knew a lot more about knife-throwing and combat techniques than he did about herbs and Latin and monsters. He hit the targets, and corrected Bobby's throwing technique.
Smartass.
They sat on boulders by the rushing water, eating sandwiches. Dean had kicked off his sneakers and had his jeans rolled up. He was ankle deep in the water, which had to be ice-cold, while Sam stood nearby on a spit of sand. The sun made the creek glitter hard, like silver.
"Hunting's a hard life," Bobby said, his back against the sun-warm rock. It wasn't meddling, it was teaching, giving the newcomer a full picture of what he was getting into. That was all.
John picked up one of the water-polished stones and turned it over in his fingers before his glance slid over to his boys, watchful. "Never said I thought it'd be easy." He threw the stone into the water. The breeze ruffled his wings, sent a few feathers swirling into the clear air.
Bobby already felt the door was shut on the conversation, and he wasn't about to push further - wasn't his place.
But then John went on, still watching his boys. "Something I can't explain killed my wife." He turned to Bobby and for a moment the grief was clear, still raw and sharp beneath the dulled surface of it, like it was brand new. "I'm not ever letting it take our boys." Then John blinked, exhaled, stood up, his face gone back to keeping its secrets.
~*~
"My shoe is stuck on the roof," Dean announced, handing Sammy another bite of hotdog.
"It's what?" John gave his boy a long, slow glance across the kitchen table, his eyebrows rising. There were dark circles under his eyes that hadn't been there a few days ago.
"Excuse me?" Bobby said at the same time.
"My shoe got stuck on the roof." Dean shrugged and reached for the mustard, but Bobby saw the way he watched John out of the corner of his eye.
John rubbed his palm down his face, got a feather caught on his lower lip, spat it out. "Fu-crap, these things are driving me nuts." He twitched his shoulders, and the wings shook, sending more feathers onto the floor as John turned his stare back on Dean. "And how did your shoe get on the roof?"
"It was an accident," Dean said calmly.
Bobby knew a con when he heard one.
"Assident!" Sam shouted, and laughed.
"Can you get it down for me, Daddy?" Dean picked up his hotdog and took a bite, looking as innocent as a six-weeks-old puppy and Bobby couldn't help but admire the kid's skill.
The innocent look faltered under John's hard look.
"You got a ladder I can borrow?" John said, turning to Bobby, a tired sigh in his voice.
"Better let me do it," said Bobby. "With those wings you'll most likely overbalance." He stood up and headed for the door. "Might as well take care of it now. Boy's going to need his sneaker."
"Watch Sammy," John said, sharp and tight, getting up to follow. He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something else to his son, but instead he kept his silence.
Dean's head went down. "Yes, sir."
~*~
After carrying Sam upstairs and putting him down for his nap (Sam's voice drifting down the stairs, asking why he had to take a nap, how come daddy had wings now, why did he have to go to sleep if he wasn't tired, why didn't Dean have to take a nap too), John retreated to an armchair deep enough to accommodate both him and his wings with the large volume Bobby had assigned him.
Quiet fell over Bobby's house again.
He stepped out onto the porch, thinking he'd maybe go and evaluate the new junkers he'd acquired a few days back, and found Dean sitting on the top step. The puppy was asleep with its head against Dean's thigh.
"Hey, kid."
"Hello." Dean squinted into the late afternoon sun, his freckles the color of the dirt in Bobby's yard.
"That brother of yours is a pistol."
"He likes to ask a lot of questions." Dean nodded, as if he'd long ago resigned himself to the way of things.
The silence deepened. Somewhere off in the woods, a crow called.
Well, this was awkward, but it bugged him, the idea of leaving the kid sitting so quiet and still by his lonesome. It didn't seem to fit, as if that was only a layer over the actual kid beneath, one who sassed back and jumped on the furniture and laughed.
"See that truck over there?" Bobby pointed, and Dean tilted up his chin, looking.
"Yeah?"
"I have to take a look at the engine. You want to help me with that?"
The boy's face lit up like someone had flicked on a switch.
~*~
They worked on the Ford F-100 until sunset. Well, Bobby worked, and Dean stood on the bumper, peering down into the engine. He accurately identified the engine parts Bobby pointed to, and started every other sentence with Daddy says…. It was the chattiest Bobby had seen the boy get.
The dying sun beat warm on their backs and Bobby felt comfortable, glad for the company.
~*~
"What're you looking at here?" John peered down at the egg. He rolled his shoulders, reached up to scratch at his neck, and started when his fingers touched his left wing. It was as if he'd forgotten the wings were there.
"It's from a harpy's nest." Bobby said, and glanced at Dean. The boy stared at the egg, didn't seem to be listening. Bobby went on, hoping Dean wouldn't understand, but knowing he probably would. "I flushed 'em out, got rid of 'em. Stumbled upon the nest while I was doing a sweep to check and make sure I hadn't missed any. Decided to keep it for study."
John tapped his fingers lightly against the shell, then reached down, hooked his hands under Dean's armpits, and lifted him so he could see better. The boy's legs rested against the edge of the desk as they looked down at the egg together, expressions similar, intent and frowning.
"What's a harpy?" Dean said, craning his head back to look up at his father.
"I'll explain when you're older," John said, and then he looked at Bobby. "You going to tell me how you killed them?"
"Yeah." Not with the boy standing right there listening, but Bobby didn't say that part. He knew he didn't have to.
But it would only be a matter time. Bobby watched Dean and John studying the egg together, while Sammy played on the floor at their feet with a set of keys and John asked Dean to describe the egg, tell him what he noticed about it. Another two years, maybe, before John started telling Dean the things Bobby was telling John now. Less than a year, probably, until Dean was taught that salt wasn't just for putting on eggs.
Too young, Bobby thought. Too damn young.
But it was none of his business.
~*~
With the pale light of dawn coming in through a bull's-eye window, Bobby walked down the stairs in his bare feet, jeans, and thermal long-sleeved shirt. His assumption that he was the first being awake fell away as he caught a movement through the window, a flicker of brown.
He peered closer through the quartered panes and watched as John bowed his head, the brown wings rising from his back, casting no shadow yet because the sun wasn't high or strong enough.
John raised his head and the wings beat once, twice, bringing up curls of dust at his feet.
Then he stopped. He made a face, like he was a man laughing at himself, twitched his shoulders with a shrug, the wings rising and settling again with the motion.
Bobby drew back from the window, shook his head. A few more days, that's all, if Winchester could keep from going mad first. Bobby'd feel the same way, in his situation. Men like him and John didn't have any use for wings.
~*~
Bobby was just passing through his kitchen, wanted to wash the grease off his hands and grab a beer before he started work on the Buick Skylark. Dean sat the table, none too patiently knocking his sneakers against the chair rungs and Sam was on the floor with the puppy.
With a book propped open against the toaster, John made the boys grilled cheese sandwiches, and did a decent job of it, from what Bobby could see, especially considering how John spent more time staring at the pages than at the frying pan. But he flipped the sandwiches perfectly, kept them from burning, lowered the heat on the burners, and went right back to reading.
"Eisenhower!" Sam crowed suddenly.
"Huh?" Bobby stopped in the middle of reaching for the faucet, while Dean and John turned to look at Sam.
"Hey, kiddo, what's up?" John said, bending a little awkwardly with the wings, still a little off-balance even days into it. He put his palm against the cabinet door to steady himself.
Sam craned his head back to look up into his father's face, and smiled, wide and gap-toothed. "That's his name, Daddy," Sam said, and then gave an uncannily adult-sounding snort, like he felt surely any idiot should understand.
"Uh, whose name?" Dean said, getting down onto the floor with his brother.
In answer, Sam grabbed the dog into a hug. The puppy squirmed, but arched its neck back to lick Sam on the chin.
"Eisenhower," Bobby said, and then shrugged. "Good a name as any, I guess."
~*~
When Bobby next came back inside, Eisenhower staying obediently at heel, John's book was resting on the chair where he'd probably been sitting for most of the afternoon. He'd put the reading aside because Sam had somehow gotten into the old wood cabinet over on the wall, and was now crouched with papers strewn around him.
"Sammy, no." Kneeling, his wings brushing against the dusty floor, John pried the papers out of his son's chubby hands. Sam fussed, and Eisenhower started to bark.
A photograph fluttered down out of John's grasp, and Bobby felt a little jolt of adrenaline, stinging and quick, gone in an instant.
Dean bent over to pick up the picture. He frowned down at it. "She's pretty," he said, handing it to Bobby.
"Keep your boys out of my things, Winchester," Bobby snapped, and John's jaw tightened.
Shit.
Bobby walked fast out of the room, not looking at how Sam's face puckered, at the way Dean had gone very still. He tucked the photograph into the back pocket of his jeans.
~*~
Worrying over people, that never came to any good. Liking them, that was fine, and Bobby was never one to turn away anyone who needed help. But the sooner the Winchesters were gone, the better.
~*~
When Bobby returned to the house, the fireflies were out and John was leaning against the porch railing, drinking a beer. In the light shining out through the windows behind him, the wings were a mix of brightness and shadow, the brown taking on a touch of gold. Bobby thought John might make a decent avenging angel.
Bobby put his boots on the first step, and it creaked. He waited, listening to the crickets, watching the fireflies blink in and out.
He should apologize, was opening his mouth to do it, when John spoke first. "Who was she?"
The fireflies blinked a few more times, bright yellow glows that took John's face in and out of shadow.
Bobby breathed in and out a few times, remembering the way John's face had looked down at the creek. "My wife," he said finally. Bobby rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. "I lost her."
"I'm sorry."
"It was a long time ago." He continued up the steps, noticed the book sitting on the glider at the end of the porch. "When you're done with that one," he said, jerking his head, "I've got more for you."
John took another swallow of beer, and nodded. "Good."
~*~
Bobby blamed himself for it.
It was just an egg, after all, and he'd studied it until his eyes were about ready to pop out of his head. So he wasn't alarmed when Sam came running clumsily out onto the porch the next morning with the egg in his arms, Dean on his heels. Eisenhower bounded after them, barking.
"Sammy, no, you're not supposed to touch that!"
Bobby remembered when his house used to be quiet. He set aside the shotgun he was cleaning as Sam fled down the porch steps.
Dean leapt to the dirt, skipping the steps, and grabbed Sam's shoulders. "Whoa. Stop. Sammy, give me the egg."
"No!"
"Hey!" Bobby said sharply, getting to his feet, and they both turned to look at him. "Let him have it, Dean, I'm done with it."
"Really?" His freckles bright in the sun, Dean screwed up his face like he'd never heard of such a crazy thing.
"Really." Bobby rolled his eyes. "It's nothing but a paperweight now. Where's your daddy?"
"Inside, memorizing that stuff you gave him."
Sam settled onto the ground with Eisenhower and the egg. He pursed his lips and made brrrrrrrrr engine noises while he pushed the egg around in the dust.
Dean sat down on the porch next to Bobby. "Whatcha doing?"
"None of your beeswax." Bobby picked up the borebrush and went back to working. He didn't like doing this right in front of Dean, especially the way Dean watched so carefully. "You boys should go back inside."
"It's boring in there."
"It's boring out here too." His nose itched; Bobby rubbed the back of his sleeve across his face, and then was astonished when Dean copied him. Crap, no, the kid already had a father.
Eisenhower stiffened, put his nose into the wind.
Dean was on his feet even before the strange shadow fell over Sam, and before Bobby could move, he'd jumped down to the yard, grabbed up Sam away from the egg. Pushed him so Sam fell in the dust and started to cry.
The cry turned to a scream when the mighty beat of enormous wings brought a swirl of dust that hazed Bobby's sight of the boys. He fumbled with one of the cleaned guns, loaded and ready.
There was a reason the egg seemed wrong. It wasn't a harpy's, it was a gryphon's.
The monster had Dean dangling off the ground, one of the thing's talons hooked through his shirt, the other set of talons closed around the egg.
"John," Bobby bellowed, and got the shotgun up to his shoulder. Sam wailed in the dirt and Eisenhower leapt at the sky, jaws snapping on nothing.
Shit, he couldn't fire, he might hit Dean. Meanwhile the creature was carrying Dean higher.
The front door banged open behind him, and Bobby felt the floorboards shake as John bounded down the steps.
John kept on running, twitched his shoulders, and then the wings on his back beat once, twice, and John was in the air, wobbling badly.
Heart hammering, inhaling dust with every breath, Bobby kept the gun aimed, but still didn't fire, couldn't. Not yet. Not yet.
Eisenhower was having hysterics, high-pitched puppy barks that had gone hoarse, while Sam's sobs were heart-rending enough to signal the end of the world. John grabbed Dean, pulled something out of the waistband of his jeans. A knife flashed, Dean's shirt ripped, and John got both arms around Dean.
Dean wrapped his arms around John's neck, and they dropped.
Bobby fired once, hit the monster, fired again. The gryphon crashed into the upper branches of a tree, then tumbled, but Bobby barely noticed it beyond a blur in the corner of his eye, because John was still dropping, Dean wrapped close against his chest.
As they hit the ground, John tucked his body around his son's, and they thumped to a dead stop in a jumble of dust and feathers.
Oh, God, please, Bobby thought; Bobby who hadn't had a serious use for God in a long time. He made himself take a moment to look at the gryphon. It lay still under the tree, its flank still. Keeping his grip on the shotgun, Bobby rattled down the porch steps and scooped up Sam with one arm.
The toddler grabbed onto him with a strangling grip, his small body hitching with the sobs. "It's okay, kiddo," Bobby whispered, tightening his hold, his hand against Sam's back. The boy smelled like dog and baby shampoo, and Bobby felt an ache in his chest as he ran, holding Sam and the shotgun, towards the heap of brown feathers and denim.
"John? Shit. John! Dean?" He managed to kneel, keeping his grip on Sam, who squirmed and reached out desperately.
There was a groan from John, and Dean coughed, half-concealed with John's left wing tucked around him. His breath rasping in his throat, John sat up, grabbed Dean, turned him around to face him. "You all right, Dean?"
"Yes, sir."
John pulled Dean in close again, while Dean wrapped his arms around John's neck, and then John reached out for Sam. The moment John touched him, Sam's crying stopped.
As Bobby got to his feet, the sting of grit in his eyes made it hard to see straight. He walked over to check on the gryphon.
The creature was dead. Bobby stood looking down at it, cursed himself for being an idiot and making too many assumptions, and just to be certain, nudged the thing three times with the butt of the gun. The egg lay cracked a few yards off. He spat. Two less creatures he had to worry about snatching cattle, family pets, and even the occasional child if it was hungry enough.
Bobby glanced behind him and saw that John had reached the porch under his own steam, moving stiffly with Sam and Dean hanging off him like extra limbs.
There was a sound at his feet. Bobby looked down, and saw Eisenhower leaning against his ankle, looking up at him. The dog whined. "Yeah, boy, it's okay." He blinked a few times until his vision stopped swimming. "It's okay."
~*~
A few days later, John's wings were gone.
"I've had to sleep on my stomach all week. Woke up this morning and the weight was just, it was gone," John said, a hint of wonder under the relief in his voice. He bent and scooped up Sam, lifted him up towards the ceiling of Bobby's library while Sam put his head back and shrieked with laughter.
"The wings were awesome," Dean said, slouched in a wooden chair with his arms folded, mouth drawn down.
"They gave your old man a back-ache," said John, and lowered Sam, tucked him into a comfortable spot on his hip before he turned to Bobby. "Don't know how I'll ever repay you."
"So don't," Bobby said, putting his eyes back down to the leather-bound volume he was translating.
~*~
He left the Winchesters at the lot where the Impala was parked and drove himself and Eisenhower back home with the radio on the whole way because he'd suddenly gotten unused to quiet. A few days later, Bobby discovered that every creaky hinge, every busted window, every loose floorboard in his house had been repaired. John must've done it while Bobby was out working on the junkers, when he got tired of squinting at faded, archaic texts.
Bobby wandered his empty house, past rooms that had been shut up so long he could only half remember what was in them. The other rooms held books and extra beds.
He listened to his own footsteps and to Eisenhower's, padding along behind him, and told himself he wasn't lonely.
Late that night, Bobby sat down at his desk, switching on the lamp. He turned the photograph of the love he'd lost, remembering how she'd smile, how the kitchen smelled when she made pancakes, how she was a better shot than he was when the coyotes got too bold, the way her dark hair smelled just after she'd washed it. Bobby glanced across the room at the cabinet where he kept all his secrets, his past, put away.
No, not this picture, not any more. He picked up the small wooden frame, put the picture inside, and placed it on his desk.
Bobby opened a book and got back to work.
~end