In Nomine Patris (Dean/Bobby, 12,724 words, NC-17)
When I watched SPN with _emeraldgreen, I think the first thing I said when Bobby was on screen was that there needed to be more Dean/Bobby in fandom. So, here's my contribution to that. Endless love to _emeraldgreen for cheerleading on this one. ♥
In Nomine Patris
(Dean/Bobby, 12,724 words, NC-17, tiny warning for very mild dub-con)
Dean has issues and Bobby's caught smack-bang in the middle of them.
It's the tail end of summer, the golden sunlight rolling into bronze leaves on the trees. John won't be able to leave it too long before he gets the boys settled into a school somewhere, wherever he finds enough to warrant his presence for a month or so. Could be Washington, could be New Orleans.
It won't be Bobby's car yard, that's for sure.
Bobby's gonna miss them when they go. He's used to the noise of them, the smell of other bodies in the house. The dogs are uncomplicated company but they don't do the dishes with him after dinner like Dean does, they don't want to tell him about an interesting chapter in the book they just read like Sam does. They don't kick back in the silver-blue night and have a beer with him, talk over old times and dead men like John does.
That said, he's not gonna miss having to pry Dean out from under the cars he takes it upon himself to work on. Fifteen years old and the boy already thinks he's an expert. He can see Dean's long, skinny legs sticking out from under an old Buick as he crosses the yard. The radio's on some classic rock station and is belting out Black Sabbath. Bobby's not gonna miss finding all his radios retuned either.
"Dean," he says, once he's close enough, "that car is scrap. There's not one working part in ten. Let the poor thing rest in peace, would you?"
There's a clatter of metal and a sharp curse from Dean that Bobby knows would earn him a slap to the back of the head from John. It's oddly gratifying to Bobby that Dean feels relaxed enough in his presence to swear; the boy doesn't put a foot out of line when John's around.
Dean rolls out from under the car and looks up at him. His hair's been burnt summer-blond, and there are smudges of grease beneath his clear green eyes, over his full lower lip. He looks too young and soft to be wearing a scowl that ugly.
"You're givin' up way too early, man," Dean tells him sternly. "Gimme a couple of days and I'll have her purring."
Bobby stifles a smile as he steps back to give Dean room to stand up. Dean wipes his hands on his jeans, leaving grease-stains like abstract fingers over his legs.
"Maybe you're right but it'll have to wait for tonight. Your dad wants you out the back, wants to see you shooting while the light's still good."
There's no tone of dire warning in Bobby's voice, this isn't news that should make Dean's shoulders slump like that. He tries to catch a better look at Dean's face as Dean turns away.
"Hey, don't look like that about it! He's not planning on using you as target practice."
He wants a smile from Dean and it says something that he has to try, Dean's one of the easiest-going kids he knows. He gets a weak imitation of a smile and it's like he's taken a swig from the flask of holy water instead of the whiskey one. So he reaches out and lays a hand on Dean's shoulder. He almost expects Dean to jerk away and he's relieved when he doesn't.
"What's the problem, Dean?"
He feels a flutter go through Dean's body and he's struck by just how fragile the boy suddenly seems. All that training, the weapons practice and the long years of taking care of himself before he even hit double-figures, and Dean's still just a short kid with a pout right now.
"I screwed up yesterday," says Dean. "Dad said I wasn't trying but I was. I just… I wasn't quick enough and… so Dad says I have to keep practicing until he can be sure it won't happen again. He's still mad at me. 'Cos I screwed up."
One of these days Bobby's policy of non-interference is gonna get trampled on in his rush to knock John's head against the wall a few times. Sam, young as he is, shows enough sense not to take it to heart when he doesn't match up to John's crazy standards. Dean though… Bobby worries about Dean.
"You can only do your best, Dean. Your dad knows that. That's all he's asking for."
Dean looks up at him and there's a second, just a second as his eyes fix on Bobby, wide and shining, that Bobby feels a prickle of disquiet. And then Dean's mouth settles in a reluctant, wary smile and that's enough to make Bobby rest a little easier.
:::
The sharp crack of gunfire has been missing for a while. The sky's a washed-out cotton blue as evening comes on. Bobby resists the urge to peer out the window at John and Dean because if he sees John lecturing that poor kid he's not sure he'll hold off on giving John a lecture of his own.
Just when his feet are getting itchy and he's running out of things to do over this side of the room, the back door bangs open and John stomps in. The look on his face makes Bobby's heart sink. John braces himself against the sink and shakes his head, staring out at where Dean must be.
"I swear, Bobby, if that boy just paid a little more attention to what he was shooting at, and stopped looking to me to tell him he's got it right all the time…"
He trails off and Bobby joins him in the kitchen. He takes a beer from the cooler, opens it and sets it by John's hand. He gives John enough time to take a long swig, then says,
"Then what?"
John turns to him and shakes his head again. It's hard to tell whether the frustration outweighs the pride on his face.
"Then he'd be the best damn shot I've ever seen." He flicks another glance out the window then straightens up. "'M gonna take a shower. I've set him cleaning the guns but don't let him stay out there too long."
Bobby takes his place at the window. Dean's sitting in a huddle against the barn door, taking a gun to pieces. He's got another three guns to tackle yet and Bobby knows, as he goes out the door to help, that it's technically cheating but justifies it to himself with John's request that Dean didn't stay out too long. Between them the guns won't take any time at all.
The grass is dry and sparse beneath his feet as he crosses the field. He can see Gorby, his Labrador, chasing something along the fence posts, hears him barking as whatever it is escapes him. Dean looks up at Bobby's approach but doesn't stop what he's doing, his hands going through the motions with methodical precision.
"Thought I'd give you a hand, if that's all right."
"I've got it, thanks," says Dean. He's aiming for blank but it comes across as sullen. He lowers his head and mutters an apology.
Bobby ignores the apology and simply sits down beside him instead and takes up a rag.
"You'd be doing me a favour by getting in a bit quicker. Your little brother's been bending my ear about getting a look at some of the older books I've got stashed away. I could do with someone to distract him while I hide the nastier stuff."
It's the right kind of excuse, the kind of excuse Dean will accept as reasonable. Dean nods and doesn't say any more about it but hands over one of the guns. Bobby can't help noticing that Dean keeps John's gun to clean himself.
They sit in silence for a few minutes. It's comfortable. Gorby finds something else to chase and shuts up barking. From the open window of Sam's room, the strains of pop music drift down to them. Bobby shoots Dean a raised eyebrow at the sound of it and Dean's lip curls but he laughs.
"I don't know. That kid. I play him the best music I know and he still listens to trash first chance he gets," says Dean.
He sounds so like John it takes Bobby a moment to grin but it's not like Dean notices, he's too intent on taking his dad's gun to pieces. If he's efficient with the other guns, he's downright reverent with John's.
Bobby doesn't know why he pushes; it's not like him to push. But seeing Dean pout and scowl earlier had left clouds on the horizon and Bobby needs to know they've passed.
"So," he says, "training as bad as you were expecting?"
And oh God, does Bobby regret asking! Dean's face crumples like Bobby's just slugged him one and all the answer Bobby gets is the rise and fall of one shoulder in a jerky shrug. Dean catches his lower lip between his teeth, worrying it hard. Dusk shadows are moving over them and Bobby has to lean in to meet Dean's eyes.
"You did good, Dean. Your daddy said so himself."
There's that look again: big green eyes and softly parted lips. Bobby doesn't get chance to feel uneasy about it this time before Dean's lunged at him and got his mouth on his. Dean's in his lap, on his knees and straddling one of Bobby's thighs, and he's kissing him.
Bobby freezes. Dean's mouth is sweet and hungry, open and begging Bobby to be kissed back. It's been years since he was last kissed, been years since he's had a warm, willing body pressed so close. But it only takes a second before he remembers Dean and fifteen. Even if that didn't do it, John Winchester sure as hell would.
He does it slowly, gently, and it's as much about keeping his resolve as it is about letting Dean down easy, but he catches Dean's shoulders and eases him back. Bobby's out of breath and in the half-light Dean looks far more tempting than Bobby likes, but he wets his tingling lips and stays calm.
"Dean, son, you go on indoors. I'll finish the guns."
It's more of a relief than it should be when Dean stands up on shaky legs and walks back to the house. Bobby shifts where he sits and ignores the tremble in his hands when he gets back to doing the guns.
It's night good and proper when Bobby finally goes back inside. Only a few more weeks until John and his boys move on, he tells himself.
:::
As it happens, when Bobby parks up outside Jim Murphy's, he's only missed the Winchesters by a week or so. It's a shame because he hasn't seen John and those boys in over a year now and while it's one thing to get occasional phonecalls and word-of-mouth good news, it's another altogether to see them in their scarred, stitched-together flesh, see them in one piece.
He sits outside the church while Jim finishes up evening Mass. He hasn't been to a service since Gloria died, not unless you count creeping in to fill a canteen with an emergency supply of holy water. It's not that he doesn't believe, just that he and God don't have much to say to one another any more, and anything He does want to tell Bobby… well, He knows where to find him.
The town is quiet and peaceful. Green leaves shiver on the trees as a warm breeze moves down the street. Give it half an hour and the smell of dinner will be on the air.
Bobby stands back when the doors open and the congregation mills down onto the steps. It's mainly old folk and families. The neatly-turned out children, girls in pastel dresses and boys in midget-suits, act like a switch's been flicked; the quiet good behaviour goes to hell and they're charging down into the road, while their parents chat turn-by-turn with Jim.
"You give 'em a decent hellfire and brimstone sermon, Jim?" Bobby asks when at last it's just them and an empty church. "You know I'm a real fan of those."
Jim laughs and waves him into the garden.
"Nothing like a little damnation to make your Sunday dinner go down right," he calls over his shoulder as he disappears into the house.
By the time Bobby meets him round the back, Jim's tugged the dog collar off and has two bottles of beer in his hand. The chilled glass is slippery in Bobby's hand, just cold enough to make his skin sting a little. He settles down on the backdoor step next to Jim and they don't talk for a while. When you know the things they know, seen the cracks in the wall open up and let Hell spill black and ugly into life, then you get to appreciate moments like this: sitting next to someone who you can trust to have your back if trouble should come calling.
Finally, half-empty bottle hanging from his fingertips, Jim turns to look at Bobby and says,
"Don't often see you round these parts."
Bobby and Jim speak the same language. It's a non-confrontational language, full of the passive and indirect. Bobby can answer or not and Jim will understand.
"Picking up a book someone was holding over for me. Don't put much faith in the postal service."
Jim nods and brushes away a fly that lands on his knee.
"You're welcome to stay as long as you like. You know that."
"I'd've thought after a house full of Winchesters you'd be craving your own space, Jim." Bobby watches the fly zigzag out into the air until it's lost in the whipped-white clouds. "How's John doing?"
There's the scrape of glass on stone as Jim sets his bottle down on the step. He claps his hands together and leans forward, staring out across the garden. His eyes are distant. There's more grey in his hair than Bobby remembers there being last time he saw him, he's gone salt-and-pepper. He smiles slowly and nods.
"He's doing okay. Still meting out his own brand of justice."
John's a walking tragedy but the thought of him and his wild ways still makes Bobby grin anyway. John's a hard one to figure out but if anyone's gonna make a difference in this world, it's gonna be him.
"Yeah. I bet," says Bobby. "And how are those boys of his? Sam's gotta be… what now? Coming up to thirteen?"
"Oh yeah. And knee high to the Empire State building already. Won't be long and John'll get a crick in his neck tryin' to stare him down."
Sam's another one that brings a smile to Bobby's face. Crazy as John in his own way, gentlemanly and serious as you like, until he hits you with a burst of brattishness so fierce it's a wonder he's not bawling his eyes out and stomping his foot on the floor. He's gonna grow up to give John some trouble; Bobby's seen the signs of it already and he reckons John has too. The boy's too damn smart, too damn interested in how the world works. One day he's gonna figure out just how different the world John's got him living in is to the world most everyone else lives in.
Thinking of Sam brings Dean to mind and Bobby takes a long pull of his beer. He doesn't look at Jim and tries to make his voice casual. It shouldn't be hard, Bobby wrote the book on lying, but Dean still throws him a loop.
"And how about Dean? How's he getting on?"
It's in the silence that Bobby gets his answer. Jim picks his bottle up again and Bobby listens to him drink. If he listens carefully, he thinks he can hear the echo of his own befuddlement. He doesn't push Jim, just lets him finish drinking and set the bottle down once more.
"He's… well, you know boys. He's at that awkward stage."
Bobby looks at him and Jim fights looking back to him at first, but everyone knows Bobby's just about as harmless as they come, and he can't help meeting his gaze. Bobby meets his eyes and holds them.
"Yeah, he was at that stage last I saw him too."
Jim's face is blank and then relaxes into a smile. He lets out a breath and laughs, sounding lighter all of a sudden. He rubs his mouth with the back of his hand and he's still smiling as he looks back over the garden. He nods to himself.
"Another beer, Bobby? I reckon we both deserve it."
:::
Next time Bobby sees Dean, it's easy to believe it's all passed. Dean's just shy of nineteen. The softness of boyhood is replaced with the lazy grace of a well-blessed young man. He's out the front unpacking the car, calling out a friendly greeting to Bobby while Sam wanders blindly into the house, nose stuck in a book, and John limps past him to drop onto the couch.
Bobby takes the Winchester invasion in his stride. He's not really needed anyway. John's pretty beat up and Dean's fixed on playing mother hen, fetching glasses of water and painkillers for his dad, and hovering about him until he sees John take them. Sam seems to be in a sulk but is keeping out the way and ransacking Bobby's library.
"It's good of you to put us up," says Dean, first time they get chance to talk.
"Nonsense," Bobby says. He glances over at John who's still laid out on the couch. There are dark smudges beneath his eyes and Bobby doesn't much like the high colour in his cheeks but Dean's done a good job of bandaging him up. "How long's your dad been down?"
Dean rubs his hands up and down his arms like he's cold. And though winter's definitely here - the sky heavy and grey from dawn to dusk and the ground turned to a stretch of white frost - Dean's got his battered leather jacket on and Bobby's got the fire going.
"Since Tuesday. We were taking out this naga, type… thing, over in this little nowhere town outside of Minneapolis." Dean spreads his hands and there's an ugly redness to his palms, blisters like burns. "I managed to break its fangs out of its mouth but… Dad was acting as distraction. Y'know, in the 'right in your face' sense of the word. I couldn't get it done quick enough before…"
Dean wraps his arms around himself and doesn't look at Bobby. Instead, his gaze settles on his brother and a frown tightens his brow.
"Hey," he says, "reckon you're gonna stop growing any time soon, Sammy? There's more leg hanging outta the bottom of those jeans than there is in 'em. I'm gonna make you run naked until you fix on a height and I can get you some clothes that aren't gonna have to be ditched six months later."
That's the end of that conversation.
:::
By the end of the week they've found a comfortable, domestic routine. It's really just the two of them. With John still too weak to stand for long, Dean takes charge of Sam's training. He takes one look at the snow coming down and the jeans that aren't long enough in the leg and sets Sam practising his Latin.
Dean and Bobby take it in turns to prepare meals, but always seem to end up doing the dishes afterwards together. On the second night, Bobby realises Dean isn't sleeping in his bed but is keeping watch on John from the old armchair with the cushions with no stuffing. Bobby tells him he gets insomnia anyway and Dean relents. So then they take it in turns to check in on John too.
They sit together, drinking coffee and watching the dawn. As the hazy dot of light that's the sun slip slides into the bleak cloudscape, Bobby tells Dean in a rasping, hushed voice about the time he went ghost-hunting in Graceland and didn't find the King but an Elvis impersonator instead. By the time Sam stumbles down the stairs, bleary-eyed and incoherent, Dean's just finishing up a story of his own about a coven, which involves an improbable number of busty young women but makes Bobby laugh regardless.
John's a little better this morning. There's a fever waiting to happen but Bobby thinks that between him and Dean, they might just have sidestepped it. So he sends the boys off into town. He watches from the doorstep as Dean and Sam climb into the Impala, listens to the sudden blast of Metallica and waves them off.
It's too cold to be outdoors long so Bobby quickly abandons his plan to work in the car yard. Besides, it took him long enough to persuade Dean to get out of the house and away from playing nursemaid, he doesn't want John dying on his shift and making him look bad.
He needn't have worried. John's propped up on the couch, scribbling in his journal and looking more like himself than he has done since they arrived. He glances up at Bobby.
"The boys okay?"
Bobby nods and takes the seat across from him. He tries to study John without being too obvious about it. He takes in the faint flush to John's cheeks, the way he still can't move without discomfort. But his eyes are clear and the rattle in his breath is almost gone.
"The boys are fine. Sent 'em into town, see if they can't rustle up some Christmas cheer for themselves. How are you doing, John?"
The hand going to his forehead and a faint groan suggests John's not doing too well right now at all.
"Is it Christmas? Didn't even notice."
"Few days shy. And we wouldn't have noticed if the radio hadn't been advertising all kinds of crap to give to your friends and family. Still, thought the boys could take the day off in honour of the season. Dean hasn't wanted to be more than a foot away from you this whole time you've been sick."
This brings a smile to John's face, albeit a small rueful one. He tucks his pen into the journal and closes it. He sinks back onto the couch but Bobby can see him flexing his legs under the blanket, testing the strength of the muscles.
"I'd've preferred him to be using this down time for training. Don’t want him going soft while his old man's out of action. Tell me Sammy's been at work at least. One of us has got to be in fighting form."
It's a joke, just about. Bobby doesn't find it funny and he can see John doesn't expect him to, doesn't much care if he finds it funny either.
"Don't reckon there's much chance of Dean going soft."
Bobby tries to keep it friendly; God forbid anyone should have an opinion on how John Winchester brings up his boys. Still, John's a guest here and that seems to count for something to him because he stares at the ceiling and says,
"I know, I know. He's a good boy. A damn fine hunter. He's just…"
It hangs in the silence and Bobby doesn't do anything with it. He waits and hopes that John'll follow through.
"He's just not ready. This world's a brutal place, Bobby, and I need to know my boy's gonna be all right in it."
It's perhaps the most intimate thing John's ever said. Bobby knows not to expect any more than that. He knows he's lucky to have had even that much of an explanation from John. And it's a fairly good explanation, as they go. Bobby's never had kids but he's seen what this world can do to them. He doesn't blame John. John just can't see the downside of how he's training his boys to be.
"Your boys'll be-" he breaks off. He can't say they're going to be fine because he's not sure they are. "They'll be back soon."
He leans over and flicks the radio on so John can enjoy the inane Christmas jingles too. Never let it be said that Bobby's not a cruel old sonofabitch too in his own way.
:::
Dean and Sam arrive home in a rare spell of sunshine. Bobby hears the crunch of the Impala on the snow and opens the door to welcome them in. Sam climbs from the car, red-cheeked and beaming, clutching a milkshake in one hand and a brown paper bag in another. Dean reaches into the back seat and grabs a few carriers, holding them aloft triumphantly.
"What do you know?" he says. "We found some shops that stock clothes for boy-giants! Looks like Sammy won't be sporting the hobo-look for much longer!"
"We found something in your size too," says Sam as he presses the brown paper bag into Bobby's hand.
It's heavy and he recognises the shape instantly. Bobby's just crinkling the paper down to see the Jack Daniels label when Dean brushes past him.
"Merry Christmas," Dean says with a smile that's almost shy.
Then Dean's in the house with his brother and his dad, and Bobby can hear the noise they're making - family noise - and it takes Bobby a moment to stop staring at the bottle and to head back on indoors with them.
It's just starting to snow again.
:::
Christmas is over on December 19th. None of them are sorry it's over so soon. The boys have had their free morning in town, and when Dean takes Bobby aside to tell him that if the cops ask, there are no Osbournes living here Bobby knows they enjoyed themselves. And they have an afternoon of chattering and card games. Bobby whips all their asses at poker but his winnings are nothing more valuable than licorice snaps.
Once Sam's in bed and John's in a dead slumber again, Dean convinces Bobby to open his Christmas gift and they get a little drunk together. Dean can hold his liquor well. The only sign he's less than sober is the abrupt dip into the gutter his language takes. That and the near luminous light in his eyes. Sometimes, when Bobby looks at him, he almost thinks Dean's holding back tears. He doesn't know what he'd be crying about. Their conversation keeps to the sunnier side of Hell. Dean's laughing more often than speaking. But there's the way his eyes shine.
They've moved into the kitchen and Bobby's not missed the fact Dean's taken the chair that lets him keep John in his sightline. He's not missed the way Dean gets ready to respond at the slightest moan, groan or snore from John. God-knows how many shots of Jack Daniels later, Dean's still ready to go running to his dad at the first sign he's needed.
Both of their glasses are chipped; it's not often Bobby has company. He's always preferred his own company, right up until he became an approved sanctuary for Winchesters. And that's not to say he's not quietly looking forward to being able to stretch out on his own couch and go to sleep in the afternoon if he wants, but the Winchester family is a season he doesn't much mind.
Besides, it's nice to have a drinking buddy, even one that somehow makes him say what he's thinking.
“I guess telling you to quit worrying about your daddy ain’t gonna do any good? Y’know, I’ve seen him a lot worse beat up than this.”
Dean flushes, as if caught out, but lets out a soft huff of air like a laugh. He scrapes his fingers through his hair then his shoulders hunch over as he leans his elbows on the tabletop and stares at his glass.
“Really? ‘Cos he hasn’t been down this long since I was… God, must be since the Devil’s Gates in Clifton. I think I got all the poison out but…”
“You and I have both been checking that wound, Dean,” Bobby tells him, calm and patient under the heavy fog of alcohol. “It’s clean. You did a good job on it.” Dean flushes again at that but it’s different kind of heat in his cheeks and Bobby pauses a moment to consider it, before he realises the silence is stretching on. “’Sides, you gotta remember: you’re not always the one who gets first look at your Dad after a hunt. When he goes haring off after something, crossing statelines and leaving you boys somewhere safe, he’s gotta go where’s closest. And sometimes that’s me.”
There’s the splash of alcohol and Bobby wonders whether he should let Dean refill his glass, or whether he should push it away and cling on to what sobriety he has left. Should he salt the windows and doors? Not one of ‘em is in any condition to take on anything that should come calling. But even while he’s been thinking that through, he’s not only let Dean top his glass up but he’s picked the damn thing up and taken a drink too.
“I remember the time, only a coupla years back, when John went up against a wendigo. Bastard took a chunk out of his middle. John flamed it, o’course, but when he got to me didn’t think there was much I could do for him. Thought for sure I’d be calling you boys the next morning to tell you he’d passed.”
Dean is in the middle of trying to refill his glass and he misses suddenly. He curses, sharp under his breath, and drags his thumb through the puddle of whiskey on the tabletop. Bobby watches him suck his thumb into his mouth and frowns to himself. There’s something niggling at him, in spite of how warm and comfy he should feel. But when Dean looks up at him, sombre and wide-eyed, the feeling passes and Bobby grins at him.
“Instead, next morning, what do I find but John laid out on the couch, trying to clean off his hunting knife! Took him a while to get back on his feet but that’s the thing about your old man, Dean, he doesn’t stop coming. Not ever.”
“Like the Terminator,” Dean supplies and Bobby can’t help a laugh at that.
“Just like,” he says. He looks through the door to John, sleeping, closest to peace Bobby thinks he’ll ever find on this living earth. “And we’re damn lucky to have a hunter like him in this world. Need a few more like him, that’s for sure. Little less crazy, but-“
He trails off. He swallows hard then takes another long drink, savouring the burn that cuts through the drunken numbness for a second before seeping into it.
“Dad’s one of a kind.”
“Well, his kind don't make it a habit to live too long.”
At Dean’s hissed intake of breath, Bobby knows he shouldn’t have said it. Truth be told, he knew he shouldn’t be saying it even as the words were coming out of his mouth. One thing he can’t stand about getting drunk is he never knows whether the experience is gonna stick to happy stupidity or is gonna take a turn for the maudlin.
When he looks up, he’s just in time to catch a flash of naked distress on Dean’s face before it’s gone. There’s a sleepy smile in its place so quick Bobby almost has to wonder if his eyes are playing tricks on him. He rubs a hand across his face and blinks back the drunkenness.
“You should know better than to listen to me ramble-“ he starts to say, but stops as Dean stands up.
“Shut up, old man,” he says, gentle and amused.
He watches, addled, as Dean stretches languidly, arms coming up over his head, a strip of lightly-muscled, tanned skin at his belly appearing as his t-shirt rides up. His mouth is dry and the alcohol’s not helping. He frowns when Dean settles between his legs but it doesn’t occur to him to think about moving.
It’s a long time since he saw Dean this close. He can see the splash of freckles across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. There’s a baby scar at the edge of his eyebrow. His lips are moist, probably burning with whiskey. There’s something of a challenge in the directness of his gaze, golden-green eyes hooking Bobby’s and not letting go. Bobby’s so close he can catch the smell of his skin, warm and boyish. But Dean’s not a boy, not anymore. Those excuses he used back then don’t apply.
Dean’s touch is light but steady as his hand moves up the inside of Bobby’s thigh, settling at his flies. As Dean tugs his flies down and reaches in, Bobby’s finds his breath startled from his lungs.
“What in the name of God do you call this?”
His tone is mild because he’s not angry so much as confused. He’s confused what a boy who looks like Dean thinks he’s doing hitting on a middle-aged hermit with a baseball cap stuck to his scalp, and he’s confused why he’s not panicking like he knows he’s should, and he’s even confused why he should be panicking because Dean’s just about the prettiest thing Bobby’s seen this side of twenty years.
“Didn't your parents ever give you this talk, Bobby?"
It feels strange, having Dean's face between his legs, his hand on his cock, his mouth so close Bobby can feel his breath on his bare skin. But it's good too. He can't deny it. It's better than good. He hadn't realised how much he'd missed being touched like this until Dean's lips are wrapping themselves around his cock and a shudder goes through his whole body.
He tries to shift in his chair because his bones won't let him just sit still but Dean's hold on him is strong and desperate. Why the hell would he be trying to escape from this? There's an answer somewhere, floating around amidst the whiskey clouds in his brain. Dean knows what it is, but as his mouth closes about Bobby's cock, hot and hungry, Bobby can't for the life of him figure out what it is.
Dean is a noisy cocksucker, the wet sound of his mouth working is fine and dirty. But he’s good. He’s brilliant. He’s not gentle or kittenish, not coy. The softness of his lips is a perfect counterbalance to the demanding press and slide of his tongue. He’s done it before. There’s no doubt about that. He’s got Bobby falling to pieces too quickly for this to be something Dean’s not done a hundred times before. He tries not to think of Dean on his knees in restroom and back alleys, sucking the cocks of truckers and hunters. He tries not to wonder if a blowjob is as far as it ever goes. Even the whiskey can’t make him think of Dean being fucked, the helpless noises he’d make, the stretch and flex of his muscles as he took it.
His breathing’s coming harsh and uneven, catching in his chest. Dean’s lips slide along the length of him, his head bobbing between Bobby’s spread legs. He lifts a hand to touch the cropped hair that shines blond in the electric light but he can’t. He can’t touch Dean like that. He knows this is wrong because he’s grateful that Dean’s not looking at him. He doesn’t have to look Dean - John’s pretty eighteen-year old son - in the eye while he fucks his face with sloppy thrusts.
It doesn’t last long. Bobby’s not had this since Gloria died and though Dean can try to drag it out as long as he likes, drawing back until his wet lips are just resting on the spit-slick head of Bobby’s cock then sinking back down, he can’t change the fact that Bobby’s watching his dick disappear into Dean’s perfect pink mouth and he can’t take too much more of it.
Dean’s careful to catch every drop when Bobby comes. He chokes a little but he swallows it down then reaches across the table for his drink. He slops some of the whiskey over the table as he drags the glass over. Bobby tries to catch his breath while Dean takes a long drink, washing away the taste of Bobby’s come. Then Dean lets go of the glass and looks at him, all swollen-lipped and mussed. Beautiful.
There’s something about the intensity of his look, an expectant light in his eye. Bobby’s meant to say something now. Dean’s waiting for something. All Bobby can do is lay a callused hand on his cheek, give him a clumsy pat.
"What was that all about?" he asks.
A slow smile curves Dean’s lips and he rises to his feet. He rolls his shoulders and takes his glass up again, drains it dry in one mouthful.
"I was giving you some comfort, old man," he says.
"You sure you ain't got that on backwards?"
Bobby doesn’t know what possesses him to say it but it stops Dean still for a second. He shoots him a look, narrow-eyed and wary then he puts his empty glass down, only just avoiding dropping it completely.
“Night, Bobby,” is all he says.
Bobby watches him go. He watches him pass the couch and hesitate, start to reach out a hand to where his dad’s still snoring away then think better of the move, and go on his way. Bobby does his pants back up then refills his glass.
He thinks that perhaps he should call Jim Murphy to wish him Happy Christmas.
:::
The next morning is muffled with snow. A flurry’s just dying out when Bobby staggers from his bed to the window. He’s got the vaguest of memories about climbing the stairs and dropping into his bed. But that’s not what last night really wants him to think of. He can’t sidestep it because it’s right there, every time he tries to think about anything that happened before the very moment he jerked to consciousness: he let John Winchester’s son get down on the floor and give him a blowjob. In the kitchen. Where John could have woken up and seen. His eighteen-year old son. With Bobby’s cock in his mouth.
Bobby wants to blame Dean. He wants to rail at him for taking advantage of Bobby when Bobby was too weak and too drunk to turn down temptation. It sounds like nonsense even as he thinks it. Young men with smiles like that and eyes like that and easy-going sensuality like that don’t take advantage of middle-aged widowers with nothing to their name but a pile of books and a yard of old cars. Whatever Bobby told himself last night, he’s the adult. He’s the one who should have put a stop to it.
Through the frost-edged pane of glass in his window, Bobby looks out at the field. Dean’s out there, running a groove through the snow. Bobby knows it’s him, even though he’s wearing one of Sam’s hoodies. He runs laps over and over and over. He doesn’t look up and see Bobby, ignores Gorby as he keeps pace alongside him. Just keeps on running.
Just down the corridor, Sam slams the bathroom door shut and the pipes in the house creak as he turns the shower on. The house is awake. Bobby can’t hide in his room much longer.
:::
There’s no music to face. John’s awake and on his feet. When Sam finally gets out of the bathroom, scrubbed clean and glowing, he leans out of the back door and calls Dean in for breakfast. John and Dean sit at the kitchen table (and Dean doesn’t seem to bat an eyelid at sitting there with his Dad, like it doesn’t occur to him) and plan out the route for where John’s taking them next, while Sam grumbles about starting his third new school this year.
And when Dean brings Bobby a cup of coffee, he’s as if nothing’s happened. Friendly, complaining about Sam using up all the hot water, promising they’ll be out from under Bobby’s feet soon.
It’s enough to make Bobby wonder if maybe he’s going mad. He’s grateful for it though. He’s grateful that Dean’s an expert at ignoring events of enormous significance, just like John, and he’s grateful when the Winchesters pack up and go, disappear out into the wild white yonder.
part II
In Nomine Patris
(Dean/Bobby, 12,724 words, NC-17, tiny warning for very mild dub-con)
Dean has issues and Bobby's caught smack-bang in the middle of them.
It's the tail end of summer, the golden sunlight rolling into bronze leaves on the trees. John won't be able to leave it too long before he gets the boys settled into a school somewhere, wherever he finds enough to warrant his presence for a month or so. Could be Washington, could be New Orleans.
It won't be Bobby's car yard, that's for sure.
Bobby's gonna miss them when they go. He's used to the noise of them, the smell of other bodies in the house. The dogs are uncomplicated company but they don't do the dishes with him after dinner like Dean does, they don't want to tell him about an interesting chapter in the book they just read like Sam does. They don't kick back in the silver-blue night and have a beer with him, talk over old times and dead men like John does.
That said, he's not gonna miss having to pry Dean out from under the cars he takes it upon himself to work on. Fifteen years old and the boy already thinks he's an expert. He can see Dean's long, skinny legs sticking out from under an old Buick as he crosses the yard. The radio's on some classic rock station and is belting out Black Sabbath. Bobby's not gonna miss finding all his radios retuned either.
"Dean," he says, once he's close enough, "that car is scrap. There's not one working part in ten. Let the poor thing rest in peace, would you?"
There's a clatter of metal and a sharp curse from Dean that Bobby knows would earn him a slap to the back of the head from John. It's oddly gratifying to Bobby that Dean feels relaxed enough in his presence to swear; the boy doesn't put a foot out of line when John's around.
Dean rolls out from under the car and looks up at him. His hair's been burnt summer-blond, and there are smudges of grease beneath his clear green eyes, over his full lower lip. He looks too young and soft to be wearing a scowl that ugly.
"You're givin' up way too early, man," Dean tells him sternly. "Gimme a couple of days and I'll have her purring."
Bobby stifles a smile as he steps back to give Dean room to stand up. Dean wipes his hands on his jeans, leaving grease-stains like abstract fingers over his legs.
"Maybe you're right but it'll have to wait for tonight. Your dad wants you out the back, wants to see you shooting while the light's still good."
There's no tone of dire warning in Bobby's voice, this isn't news that should make Dean's shoulders slump like that. He tries to catch a better look at Dean's face as Dean turns away.
"Hey, don't look like that about it! He's not planning on using you as target practice."
He wants a smile from Dean and it says something that he has to try, Dean's one of the easiest-going kids he knows. He gets a weak imitation of a smile and it's like he's taken a swig from the flask of holy water instead of the whiskey one. So he reaches out and lays a hand on Dean's shoulder. He almost expects Dean to jerk away and he's relieved when he doesn't.
"What's the problem, Dean?"
He feels a flutter go through Dean's body and he's struck by just how fragile the boy suddenly seems. All that training, the weapons practice and the long years of taking care of himself before he even hit double-figures, and Dean's still just a short kid with a pout right now.
"I screwed up yesterday," says Dean. "Dad said I wasn't trying but I was. I just… I wasn't quick enough and… so Dad says I have to keep practicing until he can be sure it won't happen again. He's still mad at me. 'Cos I screwed up."
One of these days Bobby's policy of non-interference is gonna get trampled on in his rush to knock John's head against the wall a few times. Sam, young as he is, shows enough sense not to take it to heart when he doesn't match up to John's crazy standards. Dean though… Bobby worries about Dean.
"You can only do your best, Dean. Your dad knows that. That's all he's asking for."
Dean looks up at him and there's a second, just a second as his eyes fix on Bobby, wide and shining, that Bobby feels a prickle of disquiet. And then Dean's mouth settles in a reluctant, wary smile and that's enough to make Bobby rest a little easier.
:::
The sharp crack of gunfire has been missing for a while. The sky's a washed-out cotton blue as evening comes on. Bobby resists the urge to peer out the window at John and Dean because if he sees John lecturing that poor kid he's not sure he'll hold off on giving John a lecture of his own.
Just when his feet are getting itchy and he's running out of things to do over this side of the room, the back door bangs open and John stomps in. The look on his face makes Bobby's heart sink. John braces himself against the sink and shakes his head, staring out at where Dean must be.
"I swear, Bobby, if that boy just paid a little more attention to what he was shooting at, and stopped looking to me to tell him he's got it right all the time…"
He trails off and Bobby joins him in the kitchen. He takes a beer from the cooler, opens it and sets it by John's hand. He gives John enough time to take a long swig, then says,
"Then what?"
John turns to him and shakes his head again. It's hard to tell whether the frustration outweighs the pride on his face.
"Then he'd be the best damn shot I've ever seen." He flicks another glance out the window then straightens up. "'M gonna take a shower. I've set him cleaning the guns but don't let him stay out there too long."
Bobby takes his place at the window. Dean's sitting in a huddle against the barn door, taking a gun to pieces. He's got another three guns to tackle yet and Bobby knows, as he goes out the door to help, that it's technically cheating but justifies it to himself with John's request that Dean didn't stay out too long. Between them the guns won't take any time at all.
The grass is dry and sparse beneath his feet as he crosses the field. He can see Gorby, his Labrador, chasing something along the fence posts, hears him barking as whatever it is escapes him. Dean looks up at Bobby's approach but doesn't stop what he's doing, his hands going through the motions with methodical precision.
"Thought I'd give you a hand, if that's all right."
"I've got it, thanks," says Dean. He's aiming for blank but it comes across as sullen. He lowers his head and mutters an apology.
Bobby ignores the apology and simply sits down beside him instead and takes up a rag.
"You'd be doing me a favour by getting in a bit quicker. Your little brother's been bending my ear about getting a look at some of the older books I've got stashed away. I could do with someone to distract him while I hide the nastier stuff."
It's the right kind of excuse, the kind of excuse Dean will accept as reasonable. Dean nods and doesn't say any more about it but hands over one of the guns. Bobby can't help noticing that Dean keeps John's gun to clean himself.
They sit in silence for a few minutes. It's comfortable. Gorby finds something else to chase and shuts up barking. From the open window of Sam's room, the strains of pop music drift down to them. Bobby shoots Dean a raised eyebrow at the sound of it and Dean's lip curls but he laughs.
"I don't know. That kid. I play him the best music I know and he still listens to trash first chance he gets," says Dean.
He sounds so like John it takes Bobby a moment to grin but it's not like Dean notices, he's too intent on taking his dad's gun to pieces. If he's efficient with the other guns, he's downright reverent with John's.
Bobby doesn't know why he pushes; it's not like him to push. But seeing Dean pout and scowl earlier had left clouds on the horizon and Bobby needs to know they've passed.
"So," he says, "training as bad as you were expecting?"
And oh God, does Bobby regret asking! Dean's face crumples like Bobby's just slugged him one and all the answer Bobby gets is the rise and fall of one shoulder in a jerky shrug. Dean catches his lower lip between his teeth, worrying it hard. Dusk shadows are moving over them and Bobby has to lean in to meet Dean's eyes.
"You did good, Dean. Your daddy said so himself."
There's that look again: big green eyes and softly parted lips. Bobby doesn't get chance to feel uneasy about it this time before Dean's lunged at him and got his mouth on his. Dean's in his lap, on his knees and straddling one of Bobby's thighs, and he's kissing him.
Bobby freezes. Dean's mouth is sweet and hungry, open and begging Bobby to be kissed back. It's been years since he was last kissed, been years since he's had a warm, willing body pressed so close. But it only takes a second before he remembers Dean and fifteen. Even if that didn't do it, John Winchester sure as hell would.
He does it slowly, gently, and it's as much about keeping his resolve as it is about letting Dean down easy, but he catches Dean's shoulders and eases him back. Bobby's out of breath and in the half-light Dean looks far more tempting than Bobby likes, but he wets his tingling lips and stays calm.
"Dean, son, you go on indoors. I'll finish the guns."
It's more of a relief than it should be when Dean stands up on shaky legs and walks back to the house. Bobby shifts where he sits and ignores the tremble in his hands when he gets back to doing the guns.
It's night good and proper when Bobby finally goes back inside. Only a few more weeks until John and his boys move on, he tells himself.
:::
As it happens, when Bobby parks up outside Jim Murphy's, he's only missed the Winchesters by a week or so. It's a shame because he hasn't seen John and those boys in over a year now and while it's one thing to get occasional phonecalls and word-of-mouth good news, it's another altogether to see them in their scarred, stitched-together flesh, see them in one piece.
He sits outside the church while Jim finishes up evening Mass. He hasn't been to a service since Gloria died, not unless you count creeping in to fill a canteen with an emergency supply of holy water. It's not that he doesn't believe, just that he and God don't have much to say to one another any more, and anything He does want to tell Bobby… well, He knows where to find him.
The town is quiet and peaceful. Green leaves shiver on the trees as a warm breeze moves down the street. Give it half an hour and the smell of dinner will be on the air.
Bobby stands back when the doors open and the congregation mills down onto the steps. It's mainly old folk and families. The neatly-turned out children, girls in pastel dresses and boys in midget-suits, act like a switch's been flicked; the quiet good behaviour goes to hell and they're charging down into the road, while their parents chat turn-by-turn with Jim.
"You give 'em a decent hellfire and brimstone sermon, Jim?" Bobby asks when at last it's just them and an empty church. "You know I'm a real fan of those."
Jim laughs and waves him into the garden.
"Nothing like a little damnation to make your Sunday dinner go down right," he calls over his shoulder as he disappears into the house.
By the time Bobby meets him round the back, Jim's tugged the dog collar off and has two bottles of beer in his hand. The chilled glass is slippery in Bobby's hand, just cold enough to make his skin sting a little. He settles down on the backdoor step next to Jim and they don't talk for a while. When you know the things they know, seen the cracks in the wall open up and let Hell spill black and ugly into life, then you get to appreciate moments like this: sitting next to someone who you can trust to have your back if trouble should come calling.
Finally, half-empty bottle hanging from his fingertips, Jim turns to look at Bobby and says,
"Don't often see you round these parts."
Bobby and Jim speak the same language. It's a non-confrontational language, full of the passive and indirect. Bobby can answer or not and Jim will understand.
"Picking up a book someone was holding over for me. Don't put much faith in the postal service."
Jim nods and brushes away a fly that lands on his knee.
"You're welcome to stay as long as you like. You know that."
"I'd've thought after a house full of Winchesters you'd be craving your own space, Jim." Bobby watches the fly zigzag out into the air until it's lost in the whipped-white clouds. "How's John doing?"
There's the scrape of glass on stone as Jim sets his bottle down on the step. He claps his hands together and leans forward, staring out across the garden. His eyes are distant. There's more grey in his hair than Bobby remembers there being last time he saw him, he's gone salt-and-pepper. He smiles slowly and nods.
"He's doing okay. Still meting out his own brand of justice."
John's a walking tragedy but the thought of him and his wild ways still makes Bobby grin anyway. John's a hard one to figure out but if anyone's gonna make a difference in this world, it's gonna be him.
"Yeah. I bet," says Bobby. "And how are those boys of his? Sam's gotta be… what now? Coming up to thirteen?"
"Oh yeah. And knee high to the Empire State building already. Won't be long and John'll get a crick in his neck tryin' to stare him down."
Sam's another one that brings a smile to Bobby's face. Crazy as John in his own way, gentlemanly and serious as you like, until he hits you with a burst of brattishness so fierce it's a wonder he's not bawling his eyes out and stomping his foot on the floor. He's gonna grow up to give John some trouble; Bobby's seen the signs of it already and he reckons John has too. The boy's too damn smart, too damn interested in how the world works. One day he's gonna figure out just how different the world John's got him living in is to the world most everyone else lives in.
Thinking of Sam brings Dean to mind and Bobby takes a long pull of his beer. He doesn't look at Jim and tries to make his voice casual. It shouldn't be hard, Bobby wrote the book on lying, but Dean still throws him a loop.
"And how about Dean? How's he getting on?"
It's in the silence that Bobby gets his answer. Jim picks his bottle up again and Bobby listens to him drink. If he listens carefully, he thinks he can hear the echo of his own befuddlement. He doesn't push Jim, just lets him finish drinking and set the bottle down once more.
"He's… well, you know boys. He's at that awkward stage."
Bobby looks at him and Jim fights looking back to him at first, but everyone knows Bobby's just about as harmless as they come, and he can't help meeting his gaze. Bobby meets his eyes and holds them.
"Yeah, he was at that stage last I saw him too."
Jim's face is blank and then relaxes into a smile. He lets out a breath and laughs, sounding lighter all of a sudden. He rubs his mouth with the back of his hand and he's still smiling as he looks back over the garden. He nods to himself.
"Another beer, Bobby? I reckon we both deserve it."
:::
Next time Bobby sees Dean, it's easy to believe it's all passed. Dean's just shy of nineteen. The softness of boyhood is replaced with the lazy grace of a well-blessed young man. He's out the front unpacking the car, calling out a friendly greeting to Bobby while Sam wanders blindly into the house, nose stuck in a book, and John limps past him to drop onto the couch.
Bobby takes the Winchester invasion in his stride. He's not really needed anyway. John's pretty beat up and Dean's fixed on playing mother hen, fetching glasses of water and painkillers for his dad, and hovering about him until he sees John take them. Sam seems to be in a sulk but is keeping out the way and ransacking Bobby's library.
"It's good of you to put us up," says Dean, first time they get chance to talk.
"Nonsense," Bobby says. He glances over at John who's still laid out on the couch. There are dark smudges beneath his eyes and Bobby doesn't much like the high colour in his cheeks but Dean's done a good job of bandaging him up. "How long's your dad been down?"
Dean rubs his hands up and down his arms like he's cold. And though winter's definitely here - the sky heavy and grey from dawn to dusk and the ground turned to a stretch of white frost - Dean's got his battered leather jacket on and Bobby's got the fire going.
"Since Tuesday. We were taking out this naga, type… thing, over in this little nowhere town outside of Minneapolis." Dean spreads his hands and there's an ugly redness to his palms, blisters like burns. "I managed to break its fangs out of its mouth but… Dad was acting as distraction. Y'know, in the 'right in your face' sense of the word. I couldn't get it done quick enough before…"
Dean wraps his arms around himself and doesn't look at Bobby. Instead, his gaze settles on his brother and a frown tightens his brow.
"Hey," he says, "reckon you're gonna stop growing any time soon, Sammy? There's more leg hanging outta the bottom of those jeans than there is in 'em. I'm gonna make you run naked until you fix on a height and I can get you some clothes that aren't gonna have to be ditched six months later."
That's the end of that conversation.
:::
By the end of the week they've found a comfortable, domestic routine. It's really just the two of them. With John still too weak to stand for long, Dean takes charge of Sam's training. He takes one look at the snow coming down and the jeans that aren't long enough in the leg and sets Sam practising his Latin.
Dean and Bobby take it in turns to prepare meals, but always seem to end up doing the dishes afterwards together. On the second night, Bobby realises Dean isn't sleeping in his bed but is keeping watch on John from the old armchair with the cushions with no stuffing. Bobby tells him he gets insomnia anyway and Dean relents. So then they take it in turns to check in on John too.
They sit together, drinking coffee and watching the dawn. As the hazy dot of light that's the sun slip slides into the bleak cloudscape, Bobby tells Dean in a rasping, hushed voice about the time he went ghost-hunting in Graceland and didn't find the King but an Elvis impersonator instead. By the time Sam stumbles down the stairs, bleary-eyed and incoherent, Dean's just finishing up a story of his own about a coven, which involves an improbable number of busty young women but makes Bobby laugh regardless.
John's a little better this morning. There's a fever waiting to happen but Bobby thinks that between him and Dean, they might just have sidestepped it. So he sends the boys off into town. He watches from the doorstep as Dean and Sam climb into the Impala, listens to the sudden blast of Metallica and waves them off.
It's too cold to be outdoors long so Bobby quickly abandons his plan to work in the car yard. Besides, it took him long enough to persuade Dean to get out of the house and away from playing nursemaid, he doesn't want John dying on his shift and making him look bad.
He needn't have worried. John's propped up on the couch, scribbling in his journal and looking more like himself than he has done since they arrived. He glances up at Bobby.
"The boys okay?"
Bobby nods and takes the seat across from him. He tries to study John without being too obvious about it. He takes in the faint flush to John's cheeks, the way he still can't move without discomfort. But his eyes are clear and the rattle in his breath is almost gone.
"The boys are fine. Sent 'em into town, see if they can't rustle up some Christmas cheer for themselves. How are you doing, John?"
The hand going to his forehead and a faint groan suggests John's not doing too well right now at all.
"Is it Christmas? Didn't even notice."
"Few days shy. And we wouldn't have noticed if the radio hadn't been advertising all kinds of crap to give to your friends and family. Still, thought the boys could take the day off in honour of the season. Dean hasn't wanted to be more than a foot away from you this whole time you've been sick."
This brings a smile to John's face, albeit a small rueful one. He tucks his pen into the journal and closes it. He sinks back onto the couch but Bobby can see him flexing his legs under the blanket, testing the strength of the muscles.
"I'd've preferred him to be using this down time for training. Don’t want him going soft while his old man's out of action. Tell me Sammy's been at work at least. One of us has got to be in fighting form."
It's a joke, just about. Bobby doesn't find it funny and he can see John doesn't expect him to, doesn't much care if he finds it funny either.
"Don't reckon there's much chance of Dean going soft."
Bobby tries to keep it friendly; God forbid anyone should have an opinion on how John Winchester brings up his boys. Still, John's a guest here and that seems to count for something to him because he stares at the ceiling and says,
"I know, I know. He's a good boy. A damn fine hunter. He's just…"
It hangs in the silence and Bobby doesn't do anything with it. He waits and hopes that John'll follow through.
"He's just not ready. This world's a brutal place, Bobby, and I need to know my boy's gonna be all right in it."
It's perhaps the most intimate thing John's ever said. Bobby knows not to expect any more than that. He knows he's lucky to have had even that much of an explanation from John. And it's a fairly good explanation, as they go. Bobby's never had kids but he's seen what this world can do to them. He doesn't blame John. John just can't see the downside of how he's training his boys to be.
"Your boys'll be-" he breaks off. He can't say they're going to be fine because he's not sure they are. "They'll be back soon."
He leans over and flicks the radio on so John can enjoy the inane Christmas jingles too. Never let it be said that Bobby's not a cruel old sonofabitch too in his own way.
:::
Dean and Sam arrive home in a rare spell of sunshine. Bobby hears the crunch of the Impala on the snow and opens the door to welcome them in. Sam climbs from the car, red-cheeked and beaming, clutching a milkshake in one hand and a brown paper bag in another. Dean reaches into the back seat and grabs a few carriers, holding them aloft triumphantly.
"What do you know?" he says. "We found some shops that stock clothes for boy-giants! Looks like Sammy won't be sporting the hobo-look for much longer!"
"We found something in your size too," says Sam as he presses the brown paper bag into Bobby's hand.
It's heavy and he recognises the shape instantly. Bobby's just crinkling the paper down to see the Jack Daniels label when Dean brushes past him.
"Merry Christmas," Dean says with a smile that's almost shy.
Then Dean's in the house with his brother and his dad, and Bobby can hear the noise they're making - family noise - and it takes Bobby a moment to stop staring at the bottle and to head back on indoors with them.
It's just starting to snow again.
:::
Christmas is over on December 19th. None of them are sorry it's over so soon. The boys have had their free morning in town, and when Dean takes Bobby aside to tell him that if the cops ask, there are no Osbournes living here Bobby knows they enjoyed themselves. And they have an afternoon of chattering and card games. Bobby whips all their asses at poker but his winnings are nothing more valuable than licorice snaps.
Once Sam's in bed and John's in a dead slumber again, Dean convinces Bobby to open his Christmas gift and they get a little drunk together. Dean can hold his liquor well. The only sign he's less than sober is the abrupt dip into the gutter his language takes. That and the near luminous light in his eyes. Sometimes, when Bobby looks at him, he almost thinks Dean's holding back tears. He doesn't know what he'd be crying about. Their conversation keeps to the sunnier side of Hell. Dean's laughing more often than speaking. But there's the way his eyes shine.
They've moved into the kitchen and Bobby's not missed the fact Dean's taken the chair that lets him keep John in his sightline. He's not missed the way Dean gets ready to respond at the slightest moan, groan or snore from John. God-knows how many shots of Jack Daniels later, Dean's still ready to go running to his dad at the first sign he's needed.
Both of their glasses are chipped; it's not often Bobby has company. He's always preferred his own company, right up until he became an approved sanctuary for Winchesters. And that's not to say he's not quietly looking forward to being able to stretch out on his own couch and go to sleep in the afternoon if he wants, but the Winchester family is a season he doesn't much mind.
Besides, it's nice to have a drinking buddy, even one that somehow makes him say what he's thinking.
“I guess telling you to quit worrying about your daddy ain’t gonna do any good? Y’know, I’ve seen him a lot worse beat up than this.”
Dean flushes, as if caught out, but lets out a soft huff of air like a laugh. He scrapes his fingers through his hair then his shoulders hunch over as he leans his elbows on the tabletop and stares at his glass.
“Really? ‘Cos he hasn’t been down this long since I was… God, must be since the Devil’s Gates in Clifton. I think I got all the poison out but…”
“You and I have both been checking that wound, Dean,” Bobby tells him, calm and patient under the heavy fog of alcohol. “It’s clean. You did a good job on it.” Dean flushes again at that but it’s different kind of heat in his cheeks and Bobby pauses a moment to consider it, before he realises the silence is stretching on. “’Sides, you gotta remember: you’re not always the one who gets first look at your Dad after a hunt. When he goes haring off after something, crossing statelines and leaving you boys somewhere safe, he’s gotta go where’s closest. And sometimes that’s me.”
There’s the splash of alcohol and Bobby wonders whether he should let Dean refill his glass, or whether he should push it away and cling on to what sobriety he has left. Should he salt the windows and doors? Not one of ‘em is in any condition to take on anything that should come calling. But even while he’s been thinking that through, he’s not only let Dean top his glass up but he’s picked the damn thing up and taken a drink too.
“I remember the time, only a coupla years back, when John went up against a wendigo. Bastard took a chunk out of his middle. John flamed it, o’course, but when he got to me didn’t think there was much I could do for him. Thought for sure I’d be calling you boys the next morning to tell you he’d passed.”
Dean is in the middle of trying to refill his glass and he misses suddenly. He curses, sharp under his breath, and drags his thumb through the puddle of whiskey on the tabletop. Bobby watches him suck his thumb into his mouth and frowns to himself. There’s something niggling at him, in spite of how warm and comfy he should feel. But when Dean looks up at him, sombre and wide-eyed, the feeling passes and Bobby grins at him.
“Instead, next morning, what do I find but John laid out on the couch, trying to clean off his hunting knife! Took him a while to get back on his feet but that’s the thing about your old man, Dean, he doesn’t stop coming. Not ever.”
“Like the Terminator,” Dean supplies and Bobby can’t help a laugh at that.
“Just like,” he says. He looks through the door to John, sleeping, closest to peace Bobby thinks he’ll ever find on this living earth. “And we’re damn lucky to have a hunter like him in this world. Need a few more like him, that’s for sure. Little less crazy, but-“
He trails off. He swallows hard then takes another long drink, savouring the burn that cuts through the drunken numbness for a second before seeping into it.
“Dad’s one of a kind.”
“Well, his kind don't make it a habit to live too long.”
At Dean’s hissed intake of breath, Bobby knows he shouldn’t have said it. Truth be told, he knew he shouldn’t be saying it even as the words were coming out of his mouth. One thing he can’t stand about getting drunk is he never knows whether the experience is gonna stick to happy stupidity or is gonna take a turn for the maudlin.
When he looks up, he’s just in time to catch a flash of naked distress on Dean’s face before it’s gone. There’s a sleepy smile in its place so quick Bobby almost has to wonder if his eyes are playing tricks on him. He rubs a hand across his face and blinks back the drunkenness.
“You should know better than to listen to me ramble-“ he starts to say, but stops as Dean stands up.
“Shut up, old man,” he says, gentle and amused.
He watches, addled, as Dean stretches languidly, arms coming up over his head, a strip of lightly-muscled, tanned skin at his belly appearing as his t-shirt rides up. His mouth is dry and the alcohol’s not helping. He frowns when Dean settles between his legs but it doesn’t occur to him to think about moving.
It’s a long time since he saw Dean this close. He can see the splash of freckles across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. There’s a baby scar at the edge of his eyebrow. His lips are moist, probably burning with whiskey. There’s something of a challenge in the directness of his gaze, golden-green eyes hooking Bobby’s and not letting go. Bobby’s so close he can catch the smell of his skin, warm and boyish. But Dean’s not a boy, not anymore. Those excuses he used back then don’t apply.
Dean’s touch is light but steady as his hand moves up the inside of Bobby’s thigh, settling at his flies. As Dean tugs his flies down and reaches in, Bobby’s finds his breath startled from his lungs.
“What in the name of God do you call this?”
His tone is mild because he’s not angry so much as confused. He’s confused what a boy who looks like Dean thinks he’s doing hitting on a middle-aged hermit with a baseball cap stuck to his scalp, and he’s confused why he’s not panicking like he knows he’s should, and he’s even confused why he should be panicking because Dean’s just about the prettiest thing Bobby’s seen this side of twenty years.
“Didn't your parents ever give you this talk, Bobby?"
It feels strange, having Dean's face between his legs, his hand on his cock, his mouth so close Bobby can feel his breath on his bare skin. But it's good too. He can't deny it. It's better than good. He hadn't realised how much he'd missed being touched like this until Dean's lips are wrapping themselves around his cock and a shudder goes through his whole body.
He tries to shift in his chair because his bones won't let him just sit still but Dean's hold on him is strong and desperate. Why the hell would he be trying to escape from this? There's an answer somewhere, floating around amidst the whiskey clouds in his brain. Dean knows what it is, but as his mouth closes about Bobby's cock, hot and hungry, Bobby can't for the life of him figure out what it is.
Dean is a noisy cocksucker, the wet sound of his mouth working is fine and dirty. But he’s good. He’s brilliant. He’s not gentle or kittenish, not coy. The softness of his lips is a perfect counterbalance to the demanding press and slide of his tongue. He’s done it before. There’s no doubt about that. He’s got Bobby falling to pieces too quickly for this to be something Dean’s not done a hundred times before. He tries not to think of Dean on his knees in restroom and back alleys, sucking the cocks of truckers and hunters. He tries not to wonder if a blowjob is as far as it ever goes. Even the whiskey can’t make him think of Dean being fucked, the helpless noises he’d make, the stretch and flex of his muscles as he took it.
His breathing’s coming harsh and uneven, catching in his chest. Dean’s lips slide along the length of him, his head bobbing between Bobby’s spread legs. He lifts a hand to touch the cropped hair that shines blond in the electric light but he can’t. He can’t touch Dean like that. He knows this is wrong because he’s grateful that Dean’s not looking at him. He doesn’t have to look Dean - John’s pretty eighteen-year old son - in the eye while he fucks his face with sloppy thrusts.
It doesn’t last long. Bobby’s not had this since Gloria died and though Dean can try to drag it out as long as he likes, drawing back until his wet lips are just resting on the spit-slick head of Bobby’s cock then sinking back down, he can’t change the fact that Bobby’s watching his dick disappear into Dean’s perfect pink mouth and he can’t take too much more of it.
Dean’s careful to catch every drop when Bobby comes. He chokes a little but he swallows it down then reaches across the table for his drink. He slops some of the whiskey over the table as he drags the glass over. Bobby tries to catch his breath while Dean takes a long drink, washing away the taste of Bobby’s come. Then Dean lets go of the glass and looks at him, all swollen-lipped and mussed. Beautiful.
There’s something about the intensity of his look, an expectant light in his eye. Bobby’s meant to say something now. Dean’s waiting for something. All Bobby can do is lay a callused hand on his cheek, give him a clumsy pat.
"What was that all about?" he asks.
A slow smile curves Dean’s lips and he rises to his feet. He rolls his shoulders and takes his glass up again, drains it dry in one mouthful.
"I was giving you some comfort, old man," he says.
"You sure you ain't got that on backwards?"
Bobby doesn’t know what possesses him to say it but it stops Dean still for a second. He shoots him a look, narrow-eyed and wary then he puts his empty glass down, only just avoiding dropping it completely.
“Night, Bobby,” is all he says.
Bobby watches him go. He watches him pass the couch and hesitate, start to reach out a hand to where his dad’s still snoring away then think better of the move, and go on his way. Bobby does his pants back up then refills his glass.
He thinks that perhaps he should call Jim Murphy to wish him Happy Christmas.
:::
The next morning is muffled with snow. A flurry’s just dying out when Bobby staggers from his bed to the window. He’s got the vaguest of memories about climbing the stairs and dropping into his bed. But that’s not what last night really wants him to think of. He can’t sidestep it because it’s right there, every time he tries to think about anything that happened before the very moment he jerked to consciousness: he let John Winchester’s son get down on the floor and give him a blowjob. In the kitchen. Where John could have woken up and seen. His eighteen-year old son. With Bobby’s cock in his mouth.
Bobby wants to blame Dean. He wants to rail at him for taking advantage of Bobby when Bobby was too weak and too drunk to turn down temptation. It sounds like nonsense even as he thinks it. Young men with smiles like that and eyes like that and easy-going sensuality like that don’t take advantage of middle-aged widowers with nothing to their name but a pile of books and a yard of old cars. Whatever Bobby told himself last night, he’s the adult. He’s the one who should have put a stop to it.
Through the frost-edged pane of glass in his window, Bobby looks out at the field. Dean’s out there, running a groove through the snow. Bobby knows it’s him, even though he’s wearing one of Sam’s hoodies. He runs laps over and over and over. He doesn’t look up and see Bobby, ignores Gorby as he keeps pace alongside him. Just keeps on running.
Just down the corridor, Sam slams the bathroom door shut and the pipes in the house creak as he turns the shower on. The house is awake. Bobby can’t hide in his room much longer.
:::
There’s no music to face. John’s awake and on his feet. When Sam finally gets out of the bathroom, scrubbed clean and glowing, he leans out of the back door and calls Dean in for breakfast. John and Dean sit at the kitchen table (and Dean doesn’t seem to bat an eyelid at sitting there with his Dad, like it doesn’t occur to him) and plan out the route for where John’s taking them next, while Sam grumbles about starting his third new school this year.
And when Dean brings Bobby a cup of coffee, he’s as if nothing’s happened. Friendly, complaining about Sam using up all the hot water, promising they’ll be out from under Bobby’s feet soon.
It’s enough to make Bobby wonder if maybe he’s going mad. He’s grateful for it though. He’s grateful that Dean’s an expert at ignoring events of enormous significance, just like John, and he’s grateful when the Winchesters pack up and go, disappear out into the wild white yonder.
part II