Happy birthday fic for dancetomato! :D
Happy birthday, dancetomato! I hope you are having a truly fantabulous day! However, I feel there is probably no day that cannot be improved by some Sam/Dean sex pollen from Bobby's POV with bonus!Castiel.
~2650 words, rated R for language and concepts. Many thanks to madame_meretrix for a rapid-fire beta job.
get outta the kitchen
Bobby’s making soup on a Saturday when he hears the Impala pull up outside.
At least, he’s pretty sure it’s the Impala, from the sounds of her engine, but damned if he’s ever heard Dean screech the brakes that badly. And was that…?
He’s still holding the vegetable knife when he skids to a stop on the front porch, staring at the Impala, which, yes, has her bumper crunched against said porch.
He only has a second to think that one of the Winchester boys must be dying - again - if they’re driving like that, before the driver’s door opens and Castiel climbs awkwardly out.
“That is harder than Dean makes it look,” Castiel says. “I am sorry about your house.”
Bobby hardly hears him, too fixated on the bodies slumped in the back seat.
“Are they…?”
He’s been answering phones half the morning; that’s why his voice is so strained.
“Unconscious.”
Almost every muscle in Bobby’s body relaxes. Fortunately, the knife he drops as a result embeds itself in the porch, not his foot.
“I talked to Dean a few days ago. He told me they were heading to somewhere near Des Moines to investigate the deaths of numerous young men, and other strange happenings. He thought it might be a witch. Or witches.”
“They called you when they hit trouble?” Bobby frowns. “And you took your sweet time getting there?”
Castiel is shaking his head. “They did not call me. I wanted to ask Sam a question, and they were not answering their phones. When I found them, it was immediately apparent there was a problem.”
“Well, yeah.” Bobby starts down the steps. “Takes a lot to knock out a Winchester. Y’know what hit 'em?”
“Technically, I did,” Castiel says. He holds up his hands against Bobby’s glare and continues, “Nothing else was working.”
“Working?”
“They were cursed. I could not separate them.”
Castiel opens the back door and Sam’s head flops out. There’s a bruise on his neck and blood trickling from his lip.
Bobby frowns. “You knocked them out to stop them beating the crap out of each other?”
Castiel clears his throat. “Not exactly.”
He hooks his arms under Sam’s and pulls. Sam’s torso emerges from the car and Bobby gets a look at his shirt, torn open, buttons missing. He notes the unzipped jeans, and takes a better look at the bruise on Sam’s neck…
“What did you say they were up against?” he asks, but he’s pretty sure he already knows, and this is going to take more than soup.
Bobby’s holding Sam’s legs as they maneuver up the steps and through the hall. The kid’s burning up; Bobby can feel it even through the thick denim.
They lay him out on the sofa and Bobby checks his pulse. Way too fast. His breathing’s rapid and shallow, too. Strands of hair stick to his sweat-dampened forehead.
“How long’s it been?”
“I am not sure.” Castiel frowns. “It took me a little over four hours to get them here. However, they may have been affected much earlier but managed to fight it.”
“Why didn’t you just zap them over?”
“I considered it, but I was not certain how it might affect them. Transporting is a strain on the body and Dean’s vitals are already dangerously unstable.”
“Sam’s ain’t too hot neither.” Bobby grimaces. “Get Dean in here. I’ll get some ice.”
Castiel heads out to the car to haul in Dean. Bobby raids the linen closet for a pile of old towels and heads for the kitchen. The soup pot’s in use, but there’s still the roasting pan; he fills it with ice and water and returns to Sam.
“How long’ll they be out?” he asks, when Castiel comes back in, Dean slung over one shoulder.
“Maybe another half hour. I would not want to do it to them again; it might do more damage.”
Bobby nods, wrapping another cold wet towel around Sam. “Better put him in my room. The door locks. We’ll put Sam downstairs.”
“In the panic room?”
“Yeah.” Bobby shrugs. “It’s the best I got. We’ll have to hope he’s not up to breaking out this time around.”
“I do not think that will be a problem.”
Bobby glances at Castiel. The angel’s voice had sounded odd, but he looks like his usual, unflappable self.
“Yeah, I guess he’s not good for much, what with his brain cooking in his skull.” He drops the remainder of the towels in the roasting pan and picks it up. “Let’s get Dean settled, get some ice on him too.”
Bobby’s door can be locked from the outside, but the windows are still a viable escape route.
“Your bed is very solid. Do you have restraints?”
Bobby gives him an incredulous look.
“We should probably tie Dean to it.”
“There’s a set in the basement. Guess we don’t need to strap Sam down.” Bobby sighs. “I need a drink.”
He deeply regrets not having replenished the whiskey supply after Crowley’s last visit. Admittedly, that had only been two days ago.
After securing Dean to the bed frame, they get Sam laid out on his old cot in the panic room. The towels are already warm. Bobby dunks them back in the ice water and slaps them on Sam’s naked chest.
“Should we take the rest of his clothing off?”
“Nah.” Bobby considers. “Well, maybe his boots.”
Castiel loosens the laces and pulls them off. A small shower of fine dust grains spills from Sam’s left boot. They sparkle in the sunlight from the vent as they drift lazily to the floor. The air, which by rights should smell like Sam’s wet socks, is suddenly scented with vanilla and cedar.
“Oh, hell, no.” Bobby’s stomach drops. “I thought it was a lust spell! Them, I can deal with.” A horrible thought strikes him. “Castiel? Don’t breathe! Get back.”
“I can drink Dean under the table,” Castiel reminds him. “Influences do not affect me as they do mortals.”
“Small mercies.” Bobby pulls his shirt collar over his nose and mouth. “Damn. I can break a spell, but I never heard of anybody figuring a way out of sex pollen.”
He heads for the door. Castiel drops the boots and follows. They lock it and ascend the stairs in silence.
“Can you do anything about it?”
Castiel shakes his head. “If I could, I would not have had to knock them out.”
“Super.” Bobby sighs and starts pulling books off the shelves. “Start readin’. Let’s get as much done as we can ‘fore the yelling starts.”
“I am surprised you did not soundproof it.”
“Never thought I’d need it. Always thought I’d be the one on the inside.”
“History would suggest otherwise.”
Bobby glares. “When I make the renovations, I’ll keep that in mind. Now shut up and make yourself useful.”
The yelling - and pleading, and moaning, and heavy breathing - starts up twenty minutes in. Bobby gets up and shuts all the doors he can think of.
Castiel goes and checks on them both once an hour. Bobby lets him be the one to do it. Purely because of the contamination factor, of course.
Five hours later the sun is sinking below the horizon, Castiel informs him that Dean is suffering intermittent convulsions, and Sam now has a temperature of one hundred and eight.
Bobby grits his teeth in frustration and blinks dry eyes.
“Still nothing.” He passes another book over to Castiel. “Everything I found so far, which is precious little, say there’s nothin’ for it but to let it run its course.”
Castiel nods. “I will go let Dean out then.”
Bobby gapes. “What?”
“We have not found an alternative.” Castiel shrugs. “If the curse is neither broken nor fulfilled, they will die. And soon.”
He fixes Bobby with his special brand of penetrating stare. “Heaven is not done with the Winchesters. Incestuous fornication seems the lesser evil.”
Bobby stares helplessly back. Castiel is right, there doesn't seem to be an alternative, but he can’t bring himself to say the words.
“If it helps at all,” Castiel says, “that is not a sentence I ever thought I would utter.”
Bobby raises his empty water glass, stares at it, puts it down again.
“Bobby Singer.” Castiel’s tone has changed, now commanding though compassionate. “I take this on myself. As an angel of the Lord, I am ordering you to let this happen.”
Bobby snorts.
“Nobody orders me around in my own house, boy.” He stands, shoving back his chair with unnecessary force. “You don’t need to baby me. Save that for Dean, afterwards.”
“I will.” Castiel spreads his hands. “I am not babying you. But I will fetch Dean. He is less likely to damage me. Also, I can gather up their discarded clothing, for washing, without fear of the pollen.”
“You never change clothes. Can you work a washing machine?”
“You are focusing on the trivial to avoid the larger issue here.”
“No shit.” Bobby sighs. “Laundry soap’s on the shelf above the washer. Lock ‘em in, leave ‘em some water, and for God’s sake, make sure you get any weapons out of there. They ain’t gonna be too happy when this wears off.”
“If it wears off,” Castiel says. “They still may not survive.”
“Ain’t you a ray of sunshine.” Bobby sighs. “I know. Let’s get this over with.”
The noise level fluctuates more now. He’s not sure what’s worse, the loud bits or the silences. During the silences, his brain keeps trying to wonder and worry about what’s going on down there.
There isn’t a bottle hiding at the back of the top kitchen cupboard after all. He’d been pretty sure he’d broken it out last time Rufus was around, but it was definitely worth a look.
What he really wants to do is go to the farthest corner of the yard and make a lot of noise himself - he’d been meaning to hammer some dents out of that Ford’s door panel - but his sense of duty intervenes. Sam’s gotten out of that room at least once before, god knows how. Besides, he’s heard anecdotes, but he’s never dealt directly with the aftermath of sex pollen before. He’s pretty sure this is going to fix matters, but if one of them goes into cardiac arrest or starts turning into something nasty, he’d best be around to deal with it. Not that he knows what the hell he’s doing anyway.
The soup pot’s still on the stove.
Soup. Right. He can do soup.
Things have been relatively quiet for a while and then there’s an almighty crash.
“Dean?” he calls down the stairs, but there’s no answering shout.
He ventures down, slowly.
There’s another crash.
“Oh, fuck! Jesus, Sam, yeah, your fucking - god, there…”
He beats a hasty retreat. Somewhere in his desk drawer there’s gotta be a pair of earplugs.
He fills one bowl, waves another at the angel. “Soup?”
“Yes please,” says Castiel. “Dean once told me to blow him.”
Bobby curses and begins mopping soup off his shirt.
“He was angry with me at the time. I therefore assumed that it was an unpleasant act.”
Bobby’s had variously strange and awkward conversations in his life, but this has got to take the cake. It’s worse than the one he’d had to have that summer that John dumped the boys with him and took off right before Dean hit puberty.
“Dean, however, seems to be enjoying it.”
Bobby slams the bowl down in front of him with enough force that its contents slosh over the side. “Cas?”
“Yes?”
“Shut up and eat your soup.”
He hadn’t thought he’d be able to sleep, but at four a.m. exhaustion gets the better of him.
He wakes up on the sofa to bright sunlight streaming in, and clattering noises in the kitchen.
“Do you even know how to cook?” he hollers.
Castiel appears in the doorway. The sounds of dish-washing persist, however.
“They did survive,” Castiel informs him. “I let them out an hour ago. I’m afraid they have eaten all the leftover soup.”
“Uh-huh.” Bobby sits up. “Figured they’d be dehydrated.”
“They have also had coffee and orange juice and bacon and eggs and toast and a lot of jam.”
“There better be some bacon left.”
“There is.”
“They’re still on speaking terms?”
Castiel considers. He appears to be choosing his words carefully.
“Not much speaking is happening. But I do not think this will drive them apart.”
Bobby nods. He should have figured that, too.
Dean shifts a little uncomfortably in his chair when Bobby walks into the kitchen. He meets Bobby’s eyes though.
“Didn’t plan to visit this month,” he says, “but thanks for the hospitality.”
“You okay?” Bobby looks over at Sam, who’s stacking the last dishes in the rack.
“Fine,” Dean says. “Feel pretty damn awesome, actually, now I got some food in me.”
“Sam?” Bobby says.
“Yeah,” Sam mumbles.
There’s an uncomfortable silence.
“Well,” Dean says. “We oughta hit the road. Places to see, things to kill.”
“You sure?” Bobby eyes Sam again. “You can rest up here if you need to.”
Sam wrings out the dish cloth and drapes it over the faucet.
“Thanks, but no. We should get going.”
“Right.”
They’ll be okay. They always are. And his house is still standing. Really, it’s a win-win.
“You, uh.” Sam’s doing his best to hide behind his hair, but his ears and the back of his neck are flaming red. “We cleaned up but, um. You might need to check your inventory.”
“What Sam’s trying to say is, we’ll replace your stock of holy oil,” Dean says.
Sam groans. Bobby squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“For an emergency shelter, I gotta say it’s kind of underequipped,” Dean says. “No condoms, either. Safety first, Bobby.”
Bobby throws him an incredulous stare. “It’s a supernatural bomb shelter, you oversexed moron! Wasn’t expecting…” his wave incorporates Sam and Dean in an attempt to convey the completely fucked up nature of this particular event.
“Should a small remnant of humanity survive an apocalypse, contraception would hardly be in its best interest,” Castiel says.
Dean looks at him with horrified fascination. “So, it’d be up to Bobby to repopulate the world?”
“Not by himself, of course.” Castiel looks puzzled. “A woman would be required.”
“Can it,” Bobby growls. “I’ve put up with enough from you idiots this weekend to last a lifetime.”
“Sorry, of course.” Sam grabs Dean’s elbow to pull him towards the door, then lets go of him with a pained look. “We’ll get out of your hair. Thanks for, um. Everything. Bobby, we’ll call when we get some stuff sorted out, okay?”
“Yeah, see you,” Dean calls, sounding far too amused. Bobby waves wordlessly as Sam tries to hustle Dean out without actually touching him.
He sinks down in a chair and pulls off his cap.
“Heaven better be damn appreciative,” he grunts.
“My car!”
Air rushes in to fill the space where Castiel had been standing, just as Dean crashes back in to the room.
“He was trying to save your sorry ass,” Bobby points out. “Won’t take you long to fix her up.”
“My ass isn’t really feeling thankful right now,” Dean spits.
Bobby can’t help himself from thinking, for a brief second, what Dean’s ass must be feeling. He groans and closes his eyes.
“Dean,” he hears, hissed from the doorway, and then, “Sorry again, Bobby, we’ll, uh, we’ll… yeah,” and the front door closes.
There’s another whoosh of air. He opens his eyes.
Castiel is seated opposite him.
He brought the good stuff.
“Heaven’s appreciation,” he says, and passes it over.
“Amen to that,” Bobby says, and goes to fetch the glasses.
~2650 words, rated R for language and concepts. Many thanks to madame_meretrix for a rapid-fire beta job.
get outta the kitchen
Bobby’s making soup on a Saturday when he hears the Impala pull up outside.
At least, he’s pretty sure it’s the Impala, from the sounds of her engine, but damned if he’s ever heard Dean screech the brakes that badly. And was that…?
He’s still holding the vegetable knife when he skids to a stop on the front porch, staring at the Impala, which, yes, has her bumper crunched against said porch.
He only has a second to think that one of the Winchester boys must be dying - again - if they’re driving like that, before the driver’s door opens and Castiel climbs awkwardly out.
“That is harder than Dean makes it look,” Castiel says. “I am sorry about your house.”
Bobby hardly hears him, too fixated on the bodies slumped in the back seat.
“Are they…?”
He’s been answering phones half the morning; that’s why his voice is so strained.
“Unconscious.”
Almost every muscle in Bobby’s body relaxes. Fortunately, the knife he drops as a result embeds itself in the porch, not his foot.
“I talked to Dean a few days ago. He told me they were heading to somewhere near Des Moines to investigate the deaths of numerous young men, and other strange happenings. He thought it might be a witch. Or witches.”
“They called you when they hit trouble?” Bobby frowns. “And you took your sweet time getting there?”
Castiel is shaking his head. “They did not call me. I wanted to ask Sam a question, and they were not answering their phones. When I found them, it was immediately apparent there was a problem.”
“Well, yeah.” Bobby starts down the steps. “Takes a lot to knock out a Winchester. Y’know what hit 'em?”
“Technically, I did,” Castiel says. He holds up his hands against Bobby’s glare and continues, “Nothing else was working.”
“Working?”
“They were cursed. I could not separate them.”
Castiel opens the back door and Sam’s head flops out. There’s a bruise on his neck and blood trickling from his lip.
Bobby frowns. “You knocked them out to stop them beating the crap out of each other?”
Castiel clears his throat. “Not exactly.”
He hooks his arms under Sam’s and pulls. Sam’s torso emerges from the car and Bobby gets a look at his shirt, torn open, buttons missing. He notes the unzipped jeans, and takes a better look at the bruise on Sam’s neck…
“What did you say they were up against?” he asks, but he’s pretty sure he already knows, and this is going to take more than soup.
Bobby’s holding Sam’s legs as they maneuver up the steps and through the hall. The kid’s burning up; Bobby can feel it even through the thick denim.
They lay him out on the sofa and Bobby checks his pulse. Way too fast. His breathing’s rapid and shallow, too. Strands of hair stick to his sweat-dampened forehead.
“How long’s it been?”
“I am not sure.” Castiel frowns. “It took me a little over four hours to get them here. However, they may have been affected much earlier but managed to fight it.”
“Why didn’t you just zap them over?”
“I considered it, but I was not certain how it might affect them. Transporting is a strain on the body and Dean’s vitals are already dangerously unstable.”
“Sam’s ain’t too hot neither.” Bobby grimaces. “Get Dean in here. I’ll get some ice.”
Castiel heads out to the car to haul in Dean. Bobby raids the linen closet for a pile of old towels and heads for the kitchen. The soup pot’s in use, but there’s still the roasting pan; he fills it with ice and water and returns to Sam.
“How long’ll they be out?” he asks, when Castiel comes back in, Dean slung over one shoulder.
“Maybe another half hour. I would not want to do it to them again; it might do more damage.”
Bobby nods, wrapping another cold wet towel around Sam. “Better put him in my room. The door locks. We’ll put Sam downstairs.”
“In the panic room?”
“Yeah.” Bobby shrugs. “It’s the best I got. We’ll have to hope he’s not up to breaking out this time around.”
“I do not think that will be a problem.”
Bobby glances at Castiel. The angel’s voice had sounded odd, but he looks like his usual, unflappable self.
“Yeah, I guess he’s not good for much, what with his brain cooking in his skull.” He drops the remainder of the towels in the roasting pan and picks it up. “Let’s get Dean settled, get some ice on him too.”
Bobby’s door can be locked from the outside, but the windows are still a viable escape route.
“Your bed is very solid. Do you have restraints?”
Bobby gives him an incredulous look.
“We should probably tie Dean to it.”
“There’s a set in the basement. Guess we don’t need to strap Sam down.” Bobby sighs. “I need a drink.”
He deeply regrets not having replenished the whiskey supply after Crowley’s last visit. Admittedly, that had only been two days ago.
After securing Dean to the bed frame, they get Sam laid out on his old cot in the panic room. The towels are already warm. Bobby dunks them back in the ice water and slaps them on Sam’s naked chest.
“Should we take the rest of his clothing off?”
“Nah.” Bobby considers. “Well, maybe his boots.”
Castiel loosens the laces and pulls them off. A small shower of fine dust grains spills from Sam’s left boot. They sparkle in the sunlight from the vent as they drift lazily to the floor. The air, which by rights should smell like Sam’s wet socks, is suddenly scented with vanilla and cedar.
“Oh, hell, no.” Bobby’s stomach drops. “I thought it was a lust spell! Them, I can deal with.” A horrible thought strikes him. “Castiel? Don’t breathe! Get back.”
“I can drink Dean under the table,” Castiel reminds him. “Influences do not affect me as they do mortals.”
“Small mercies.” Bobby pulls his shirt collar over his nose and mouth. “Damn. I can break a spell, but I never heard of anybody figuring a way out of sex pollen.”
He heads for the door. Castiel drops the boots and follows. They lock it and ascend the stairs in silence.
“Can you do anything about it?”
Castiel shakes his head. “If I could, I would not have had to knock them out.”
“Super.” Bobby sighs and starts pulling books off the shelves. “Start readin’. Let’s get as much done as we can ‘fore the yelling starts.”
“I am surprised you did not soundproof it.”
“Never thought I’d need it. Always thought I’d be the one on the inside.”
“History would suggest otherwise.”
Bobby glares. “When I make the renovations, I’ll keep that in mind. Now shut up and make yourself useful.”
The yelling - and pleading, and moaning, and heavy breathing - starts up twenty minutes in. Bobby gets up and shuts all the doors he can think of.
Castiel goes and checks on them both once an hour. Bobby lets him be the one to do it. Purely because of the contamination factor, of course.
Five hours later the sun is sinking below the horizon, Castiel informs him that Dean is suffering intermittent convulsions, and Sam now has a temperature of one hundred and eight.
Bobby grits his teeth in frustration and blinks dry eyes.
“Still nothing.” He passes another book over to Castiel. “Everything I found so far, which is precious little, say there’s nothin’ for it but to let it run its course.”
Castiel nods. “I will go let Dean out then.”
Bobby gapes. “What?”
“We have not found an alternative.” Castiel shrugs. “If the curse is neither broken nor fulfilled, they will die. And soon.”
He fixes Bobby with his special brand of penetrating stare. “Heaven is not done with the Winchesters. Incestuous fornication seems the lesser evil.”
Bobby stares helplessly back. Castiel is right, there doesn't seem to be an alternative, but he can’t bring himself to say the words.
“If it helps at all,” Castiel says, “that is not a sentence I ever thought I would utter.”
Bobby raises his empty water glass, stares at it, puts it down again.
“Bobby Singer.” Castiel’s tone has changed, now commanding though compassionate. “I take this on myself. As an angel of the Lord, I am ordering you to let this happen.”
Bobby snorts.
“Nobody orders me around in my own house, boy.” He stands, shoving back his chair with unnecessary force. “You don’t need to baby me. Save that for Dean, afterwards.”
“I will.” Castiel spreads his hands. “I am not babying you. But I will fetch Dean. He is less likely to damage me. Also, I can gather up their discarded clothing, for washing, without fear of the pollen.”
“You never change clothes. Can you work a washing machine?”
“You are focusing on the trivial to avoid the larger issue here.”
“No shit.” Bobby sighs. “Laundry soap’s on the shelf above the washer. Lock ‘em in, leave ‘em some water, and for God’s sake, make sure you get any weapons out of there. They ain’t gonna be too happy when this wears off.”
“If it wears off,” Castiel says. “They still may not survive.”
“Ain’t you a ray of sunshine.” Bobby sighs. “I know. Let’s get this over with.”
The noise level fluctuates more now. He’s not sure what’s worse, the loud bits or the silences. During the silences, his brain keeps trying to wonder and worry about what’s going on down there.
There isn’t a bottle hiding at the back of the top kitchen cupboard after all. He’d been pretty sure he’d broken it out last time Rufus was around, but it was definitely worth a look.
What he really wants to do is go to the farthest corner of the yard and make a lot of noise himself - he’d been meaning to hammer some dents out of that Ford’s door panel - but his sense of duty intervenes. Sam’s gotten out of that room at least once before, god knows how. Besides, he’s heard anecdotes, but he’s never dealt directly with the aftermath of sex pollen before. He’s pretty sure this is going to fix matters, but if one of them goes into cardiac arrest or starts turning into something nasty, he’d best be around to deal with it. Not that he knows what the hell he’s doing anyway.
The soup pot’s still on the stove.
Soup. Right. He can do soup.
Things have been relatively quiet for a while and then there’s an almighty crash.
“Dean?” he calls down the stairs, but there’s no answering shout.
He ventures down, slowly.
There’s another crash.
“Oh, fuck! Jesus, Sam, yeah, your fucking - god, there…”
He beats a hasty retreat. Somewhere in his desk drawer there’s gotta be a pair of earplugs.
He fills one bowl, waves another at the angel. “Soup?”
“Yes please,” says Castiel. “Dean once told me to blow him.”
Bobby curses and begins mopping soup off his shirt.
“He was angry with me at the time. I therefore assumed that it was an unpleasant act.”
Bobby’s had variously strange and awkward conversations in his life, but this has got to take the cake. It’s worse than the one he’d had to have that summer that John dumped the boys with him and took off right before Dean hit puberty.
“Dean, however, seems to be enjoying it.”
Bobby slams the bowl down in front of him with enough force that its contents slosh over the side. “Cas?”
“Yes?”
“Shut up and eat your soup.”
He hadn’t thought he’d be able to sleep, but at four a.m. exhaustion gets the better of him.
He wakes up on the sofa to bright sunlight streaming in, and clattering noises in the kitchen.
“Do you even know how to cook?” he hollers.
Castiel appears in the doorway. The sounds of dish-washing persist, however.
“They did survive,” Castiel informs him. “I let them out an hour ago. I’m afraid they have eaten all the leftover soup.”
“Uh-huh.” Bobby sits up. “Figured they’d be dehydrated.”
“They have also had coffee and orange juice and bacon and eggs and toast and a lot of jam.”
“There better be some bacon left.”
“There is.”
“They’re still on speaking terms?”
Castiel considers. He appears to be choosing his words carefully.
“Not much speaking is happening. But I do not think this will drive them apart.”
Bobby nods. He should have figured that, too.
Dean shifts a little uncomfortably in his chair when Bobby walks into the kitchen. He meets Bobby’s eyes though.
“Didn’t plan to visit this month,” he says, “but thanks for the hospitality.”
“You okay?” Bobby looks over at Sam, who’s stacking the last dishes in the rack.
“Fine,” Dean says. “Feel pretty damn awesome, actually, now I got some food in me.”
“Sam?” Bobby says.
“Yeah,” Sam mumbles.
There’s an uncomfortable silence.
“Well,” Dean says. “We oughta hit the road. Places to see, things to kill.”
“You sure?” Bobby eyes Sam again. “You can rest up here if you need to.”
Sam wrings out the dish cloth and drapes it over the faucet.
“Thanks, but no. We should get going.”
“Right.”
They’ll be okay. They always are. And his house is still standing. Really, it’s a win-win.
“You, uh.” Sam’s doing his best to hide behind his hair, but his ears and the back of his neck are flaming red. “We cleaned up but, um. You might need to check your inventory.”
“What Sam’s trying to say is, we’ll replace your stock of holy oil,” Dean says.
Sam groans. Bobby squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“For an emergency shelter, I gotta say it’s kind of underequipped,” Dean says. “No condoms, either. Safety first, Bobby.”
Bobby throws him an incredulous stare. “It’s a supernatural bomb shelter, you oversexed moron! Wasn’t expecting…” his wave incorporates Sam and Dean in an attempt to convey the completely fucked up nature of this particular event.
“Should a small remnant of humanity survive an apocalypse, contraception would hardly be in its best interest,” Castiel says.
Dean looks at him with horrified fascination. “So, it’d be up to Bobby to repopulate the world?”
“Not by himself, of course.” Castiel looks puzzled. “A woman would be required.”
“Can it,” Bobby growls. “I’ve put up with enough from you idiots this weekend to last a lifetime.”
“Sorry, of course.” Sam grabs Dean’s elbow to pull him towards the door, then lets go of him with a pained look. “We’ll get out of your hair. Thanks for, um. Everything. Bobby, we’ll call when we get some stuff sorted out, okay?”
“Yeah, see you,” Dean calls, sounding far too amused. Bobby waves wordlessly as Sam tries to hustle Dean out without actually touching him.
He sinks down in a chair and pulls off his cap.
“Heaven better be damn appreciative,” he grunts.
“My car!”
Air rushes in to fill the space where Castiel had been standing, just as Dean crashes back in to the room.
“He was trying to save your sorry ass,” Bobby points out. “Won’t take you long to fix her up.”
“My ass isn’t really feeling thankful right now,” Dean spits.
Bobby can’t help himself from thinking, for a brief second, what Dean’s ass must be feeling. He groans and closes his eyes.
“Dean,” he hears, hissed from the doorway, and then, “Sorry again, Bobby, we’ll, uh, we’ll… yeah,” and the front door closes.
There’s another whoosh of air. He opens his eyes.
Castiel is seated opposite him.
He brought the good stuff.
“Heaven’s appreciation,” he says, and passes it over.
“Amen to that,” Bobby says, and goes to fetch the glasses.