Next Year in Jerusalem - SN fic - PG
Title: Next Year in Jerusalem
Fandom: “Supernatural”
Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun.
Warnings: spoilers for “A Very Supernatural Christmas”
Pairings: mentions of past Bobby/OFC
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 870
Point of view: third
Dedication:
pheebs1for reading over this
It was a couple weeks before Christmas of ’91 when John stopped by with the boys. It’d been a while since their last visit and John said this one’d be short; he’d just run low on some necessities and Bobby was closest.
Bobby let the boys have the run of the place; they were good kids, wouldn’t mess up his system too bad, and kept themselves outta trouble. When John needed his help looking for something in the back, Bobby felt secure enough leaving ’em alone.
He came back to Sam flipping through a book older than most languages, and swiftly, gently, pulled it from the boy’s grasp. “No, Sam,” he said, trying to keep the gruffness outta his voice.
Sam looked up at him, eyes big and sorrowful. “Sorry, Uncle Bobby,” he whispered. “Don’t tell Dad I broke the rules?”
“I never told you not to,” Bobby said. “So, I think we can keep it to ourselves.”
With one last longing glance at the book, Sam trotted over to where his brother was rifling through Bobby’s record collection.
Later that night, Bobby heard someone rustling around his den, so he slunk in, already knowing it’d be one of John’s boys. And there Sam was, with that same book, eyes wide, devouring up knowledge even most grown men couldn’t handle.
“Samuel Winchester,” Bobby barked out, finding it hard to believe the quiet kid could’a disobeyed him.
Sam stared up at him, silent for a moment. Then, “Uncle Bobby, is this book tellin’ the truth?”
Bobby raised an eyebrow. “That depends. Why do you wanna know?” Far as he knew, John still hadn’t told the boy about hunting.
Sam ducked his head, gently shutting the book and holding it out like an offering. “Dad’s gone a lot… sometimes, I get worried. Maybe if he had some sorta protection, he could come back sooner.”
Bobby watched him for a second, reaching out to reclaim his book. “Tomorrow, we’ll see what can be whipped up. Now, get on back to bed and I won’t mention this to your daddy.”
“Yes’re, Uncle Bobby,” Sam said and hopped up, raced to the room he and Dean had been given.
Bobby watched him go and shook his head. John was a fool, thinking he could keep the truth from a sharp boy like Sam. Not his place, though.
In the morning, Sam kept looking at Bobby with hopeful eyes. John took Dean out for a run, leaving Sam in Bobby’s care; “When we get back,” he said, “be ready to head out, Sammy.”
Left alone with Sam, Bobby found his resistance to those big, puppy eyes fading. “Alright,” he finally said. “Let’s look for somethin’ that’ll do your daddy some good.”
He set to Sam work flipping through the least-disturbing volumes he owned, ones that he hoped wouldn’t set the boy to thinking about the dark and lurking monsters. He’d been pondering what Sam might be looking for-a charm, maybe, something small that not many things would know about. Strong, though. Bobby Singer didn’t do things halfway, and a man like John, with storm clouds following in his wake, needed some help.
And then he found it, just a small scrap of paper tucked away between the pages of a book he hadn’t thought about since Loraine’s passing: an incongruous amulet she’d been preparing, for the baby in her womb. Bobby brushed the faded letters with his fingertips, remembering the scent of her hair, how she felt pressed against him, the sound of their baby’s heartbeat loud in his ear.
“This’ll do, Sam,” he said.
It would take longer than Sam had, getting Loraine’s amulet ready, but Bobby promised that when it was ready, he’d send it Sam’s way.
It took over a week to gather everything, and then it was just a few simple words. Loraine was a good spell-writer, one of the best in the world; he followed her instructions, penned two decades before, to the letter.
When it worked, he almost felt her kiss his lips and almost heard her whisper, Like a charm.
He drove the four hours to John and his boys, dropping off his parcel. Sam grinned up at him, wider than the world, and breathed, “Thank you, Uncle Bobby,” turning it around in his palm. “It’ll protect him?”
Bobby nodded. “It’s strong, Sam. Special. So long as your daddy takes good care of it, he’ll be fine.”
Sam hugged him and Bobby ruffled his hair. “Gotta get goin’, kid,” he said. “Promised the dogs I’d be back in time for supper.”
It was a good three months after the New Year before Bobby saw them again, and he paused for a moment, watching John and the boys come up the drive. Something gold glinted on Dean’s torso.
But Bobby ignored his shock in favor of greeting some of the few people he could stand, and never did get around to asking Sam why he gave that protection to his brother.
It was years after, when Hell came calling and then crawled back soulless, whimpering and flinching, when John’s younger boy stood tall and proud, with Dean breathing and gasping behind him, gold glinting on his chest, that Bobby finally understood.