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Bobby had no fewer than seventeen books lying open on his kitchen table and was somehow deeply immersed in three of them at once, when he heard a car coming up the driveway. The distinctive purr of the engine gave him an idea as to the owners, and with the slamming of doors and a familiar, angry voice snapping off commands, that idea was confirmed.
John Winchester stomped up the front steps and knocked a few times, not waiting for a response before pushing the door open and shoving his children inside ahead of him.
“John,” Bobby greeted him as he walked over, his tone neither friendly nor otherwise. It softened to the former as he addressed the boys. “Heya Dean, Sam.”
“Hi, Uncle Bobby,” six-year-old Sam mumbled.
Dean looked at him with those dark, expressive eyes, but said nothing.
“Bobby, I need a favor,” John announced, his tone managing to make it sound more like a command than a request.
“Of course they can stay,” Bobby replied without waiting to hear the request.
When John was in a mood like this, he could always anticipate him being fed up with being a father for the time being.
The man grunted in satisfaction, sending a sidelong glare in the direction of his older son. “Dean’s refusing to talk again. I can’t have him slowing me down like that. I think I might be onto something.”
Bobby looked at Dean with fresh concern. “He’s not talkin again? Well, what happened?”
He realized Sam’s presence and pointed the boy in the direction of the living room. “Sam, why don’t you go investigate the television? I believe Road Runner’s on around this time.”
“Sure!” the kid replied, eagerly scampering in that direction.
“Dean, you wanna join him or stay with us?” Bobby asked.
Dean shrugged and stayed where he was.
John dropped the boys’ duffle bag on the floor as he addressed Bobby’s earlier question. “He was helpin me on a hunt, and the ghost started a fire because that’s what this ghost does. We both got out fine, but he’s refused to speak ever since.”
Bobby nodded slowly. “A fire. Well, that makes sense.”
“Nothing about this makes sense,” John snapped. “He’s just bein stubborn.”
Bobby clenched his jaw and didn’t respond. He knew arguing would do no good, but the things he’d like to say to John sometimes…
He turned his attention back to Dean and frowned when he noticed some bruising on the boy’s neck, stepping forward and moving his shirt collar so he could see it better. “What happened here?”
Dean flinched away, and he immediately released the shirt, briefly placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder in an attempt to reassure him.
“He got a little banged up getting out of the burning building,” John replied, sending a meaningful look his son’s way. “He’s fine.”
Bobby sighed a little, but said nothing once again.
The other man took the opportunity to get out. “I don’t know when I’ll be back. Sammy, I’m leaving! Come say goodbye!”
The younger son reappeared a moment later, hurrying to embrace his father’s legs. “Bye, Dad.”
John stooped to pat the boy on the back. “Goodbye, Sammy. I’ll see you soon.”
Then, he turned and left without a word to Dean.
Sam looked up at Dean with wide, eager eyes. “Dean, the coyote just got run over by a bus!”
Dean offered the kid the hint of a smile.
“Come watch it with me!” the younger brother tugged eagerly on his arm, so he silently followed him into the next room.
Bobby smiled slightly as he watched the pair. “I’ll get something cookin for dinner.”
time-skip sponsored by the world juniors
While Sam devoured the mac'n'cheese in typical John-hadn’t-been-feeding-them- enough fashion, Dean made little progress on his plate, staring at it with a look in his eyes like he wanted to eat, but something was stopping him from actually doing it.
As Sammy cleared his plate and took it to the sink, dragging a chair with him so he could reach to wash it, Bobby leaned in to meet Dean’s empty gaze.
“Hey,” he said quietly. “I know you’re havin a rough go of it here, but can you try to eat, please?”
Dean just looked at him, his eyes almost expressionless and yet at the same time seeming to scream.
“Okay,” Bobby sighed, picking up the boy’s plate to clear it with his. “If you change your mind, ya know… come grab me or somethin.”
The rest of the evening was quiet. Bobby returned to his books, Sam got to work on one of the gas station coloring books Bobby kept around for him, and Dean sat nearby, nodding approval when his brother showed him his work, but otherwise just staring into oblivion.
Finally, Bobby sent them each to take a bath and go to bed. A few minutes after he heard the bedroom door close behind Dean, he walked up to check on them and bid them goodnight.
He found Sam kneeling beside his bed, praying, and Dean sitting on the edge of his, still just staring into nothing.
After getting the younger brother settled and on his way to sleep, Bobby moved over to Dean’s side of the room, crouching down so his face was level with the boy’s.
He studied those empty, screaming eyes for a long moment and felt his heart ache for the child and twist in guilt knowing there was nothing he could do to fix what he was facing.
“You gonna be okay tonight, Kid?” he asked finally.
Dean swallowed hard and nodded slightly. The pain in his eyes said the exact opposite.
Bobby exhaled heavily. “Okay. Get some sleep, then. If ya need me, you know where to find me.”
Dean obediently swung his legs up onto the bed and lay down on his side. It had been phrased as an order, and that boy never defied an order. Bobby wondered briefly if he’d told him to eat instead of asking him, if he might have done it. Somehow, he didn’t like that the answer was probably yes.
“Goodnight, Boys,” the hunter sighed softly, flicked off the lights, and left the room. He left the door open. Dean would close it if he wanted it closed, but usually, they preferred to be able to see across the hall to Bobby’s own sleeping quarters.
He tossed and turned that night, sometimes dozing off, but never for more than twenty minutes at a time. When he did, he was plagued with dreams of fiery ghosts lurking around the house, creeping towards the boys’ room, of Dean fighting them off by himself.
Around 3:30 in the morning, he heard the slightest movement across the hall. With nerves standing on end and heart pounding, he slid silently from his bed and crept to the door. In the dim glow offered by the nightlight on the boys’ wall, he saw Dean, his back to the door, pulling a fresh set of clothes out of the duffle like he intended to change into them.
What on earth was he doing?
Quickly and silently, Bobby pulled on some jeans and threw a flannel over his t-shirt. A second check on Dean found the boy sorting through the things in the duffel, like he was separating Sam’s belongings from his own.
His back was still to the door, so Bobby crept past and carefully descended the stairs. He didn’t know what the kid was doing, but if he didn’t know better, he’d think he was leaving.
Once downstairs, the hunter walked to the place by the door where both children had taken off their shoes, stooping and picking up one of Dean’s worn out sneakers.
Not without his left shoe, he wasn’t.
He chose a spot against the wall, right next to the stairs. It was in a position where he could see the path from stairs to door, but not one Dean would immediately notice when he came down, seeing as he’d have to turn all the way around to do it.
Then, he waited, while the second hand on the kitchen clock made its way around the circle sixteen times.
The duffle was slung over Dean’s shoulder when he finally crept downstairs. He did a quick once over of the room, missing Bobby, and continued on his way to the mudmat. He slid his right sneaker onto his foot, then looked around, brow knit in confusion when he noticed that the other shoe wasn’t there.
That was when Bobby straightened up and stepped out, flipping on the kitchen light and crossing to where Dean was still kneeling on the linoleum floor.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked gently.
Dean swung around sharply, the initial panic in his eyes subsiding a little when he took in Bobby, and the sneaker in his hand.
Bobby leaned down and lifted the duffle bag from the boy’s shoulder, setting it aside before bending over so that he was once again at Dean’s level.
“Alright, look, Kid,” he said simply. “I know you don’t wanna talk right now. That’s okay. But someway, somehow, I need you to tell me what’s goin on with you so that I know how I can help.”
The screaming in the boy’s eyes became a little more clear. They were telling him their owner didn’t think anyone could help him.
The hunter sighed, straightening up and nodding to the kitchen table. “Sit down.”
As usual, Dean obeyed the command.
Bobby did the same, then leaned in so the connection between their gazes remained close. “I know why you’re so freaked out, Dean,” he told him seriously. “I know what fire reminds you of. I know how scary it must have been to be back inside a burning building. But what I don’t know is how you think runnin off in the middle of the night is going to help.”
Dean looked upstairs meaningfully, then back at Bobby.
“Sam?”
A little nod.
“Sam what?”
Dean’s lips tightened, like he didn’t know how to express what he was thinking.
Sometimes, when Dean didn’t wanna talk, he didn’t wanna communicate period. But other times, it was just the words. He actively looked for other ways to say what was on his mind. It seemed this was one of those times.
Bobby reached over to the messy pile where he’d consolidated the night’s research materials, shuffling through it til he found a blank piece of paper and a pen and holding them out to the boy.
“You up to showing me?”
After only a brief hesitation, Dean took the two items, quickly drawing three figures on the paper, then looking up at him to see if he understood.
Bobby considered the scaled sizing of the three stick men before asking, “You, Sammy, and you dad?”
There was that little nod again.
A hesitation, before, with a hand that trembled a little, the boy drew some flames off to the side.
“Fire.”
Another silent confirmation, then he chose the mid-sized figure… himself… and drew two eyes and a mouth, then an x over the mouth.
“The fire made you stop talking.”
Dean moved onto John’s face. Two eyes, an intense frown, and two angry eyebrows.
“Your dad gets angry when you stop talking.”
The boy’s face was becoming more and more tense as the story continued, but he pressed ahead anyway, his pen finding Sammy’s face and giving him a frown and a few tears running from two wide eyes.
“It makes Sam sad when your dad gets angry.”
That nod was repeated once more, then Dean hesitated, like he was debating whether or not he should go on.
“It’s alright, Dean,” Bobby told him quietly. “You can tell me.”
Another second of silent debate, before the boy slowly moved the pen back to the paper, to the representation of himself.
He promptly scribbled it out, not waiting for Bobby to translate before returning to his younger brother’s figure and drawing a smile over the frown he’d just put in. Then, he did the same to his father, set the pen down, and fixed his gaze on the table.
Bobby stared at the completed story for a long moment before feeling his heart break into a thousand pieces.
“You think if you leave, Sam won’t be sad and your dad won’t be angry.”
Dean didn’t move this time, didn’t lift his gaze, but Bobby knew that was exactly what he was saying.
The man leaned forward and reached across the little table, gently gripping Dean’s shoulder. “Listen to me, Son,” he said softly, “you do not need to go away for anyone to be happy. Alright? I need you to get that out of your head right now.”
Dean didn’t look up.
“I mean, it Dean,” he reinforced, releasing his shoulder but continuing to lean forward. “You are about all your brother has sometimes. He needs you more than he needs anybody, and there is no way on earth you should think losin you would make him happier.” He hesitated before adding, “And as for your daddy? He’s an angry man. If he’s not angry at you, he’ll be angry at something else. That’s just the way he is.”
The boy was still staring at the table, but Bobby could still see in his eyes a raging battle between what he’d come to believe and what he was being told now.
“You’re safe here, alright?” he pressed gently. “I know you’re hurtin, and that’s okay. No one’s gonna get mad at you for hurtin so long as you’re here.”
That was the final straw for Dean. His face broke, and he started to cry.
He scrambled off his chair and bolted in the direction of the stairs, but Bobby was faster, on his feet as well and directly in between the boy and his hiding place before he knew what was happening.
Instead of running somewhere he could cry without anyone seeing, he ran straight into Bobby’s waiting hug. Once he was there, it became clear he couldn’t make himself pull away.
Averse to touch as Dean usually was, it seemed that was almost because he was terrified of how badly he needed it, and now he clung to Bobby, face pressed into his shirt, silently crying.
Bobby looked down at the boy he was holding, his eyes finding the bruising peaking out on his neck once more.
He didn’t think that had happened in the fire.
He could kill John Winchester.
But at least for now, Dean wasn’t going anywhere.