Someday Never comes 2

[roxy]

Two weeks passed and on a rare, pleasantly warm October afternoon, they were sat comfortably on the side porch, soaking up sun and fresh air only slightly tinged with the smell of fuel. Bobby worked with Dean on the English lesson from one of the workbooks he'd bought for the boys because it didn't matter if school was simply a matter of when or whatever was convenient as per John Winchester, the boy had to learn something else besides how to clean a gun, or sharpen a knife or dress a god damn wound. Sam sat working diligently on his own assignment, his little face set in a pleased sort of concentration. Bobby wondered if he could talk John into letting the boys just stay with him, or Jim, through the school year. It was so plain to see that Sam loved learning and Dean neededit. Bobby watched Dean struggle through the paragraph he'd been given, and bit back a sigh. That boy needed to know he was more than just John's potential backup and Sam's baby-sitter. Bobby wished like hell he could give the kid some sort of sense of self-worth before shoving him back out on the road with John.

He was just about to collect up their work when the phone rang. He went into the kitchen to grab it, expecting that it was John finally calling with an update. He picked up, and for a long few minutes there was nothing but breathing on the line. "John?"

"Bobby, Bobby…I. Damn."

"Caleb? What the fuck's going on, son? Where's John, Dell?"

"Oh fuck, Bobby…Dell's…he's dead, he's. John shot him." The boy's voice broke, rose and fell like it hadn't since he was thirteen.

"Damn it, damn it, let me talk to John--"

Oh fuck…fuck…John's gone too. We. I mean he—the fucker took his head right off. John shot Dell, 'cause the werewolf was eating him, an'—an' then John shot the fuckin' were too, but…the mate, the goddamn mate backtracked, came up behind us--ripped John's head right off. Oh God, I fucked up, Bobby," Caleb wailed. "I fucked up, an' let it get behind us and now the boys don’t have no one and it's my fault—"

"Where the fuck are you, Caleb?"

"Wyoming, still here in Wyoming."

"Can you get back here—John's car okay to drive? You okay to drive?"

"Unh-hunh." The boy's breath hitched and caught and Bobby knew he was fighting hard to copy Bobby's seeming calm.

"All right. You get yourself out of there. Just—Caleb. Did you get the son-of a bitch?"

"Fucking blew a barn door in it, Bobby. Blew a hole you could walk through, right where its heart was. It's dead as shit and I put its ashes in a hole. It…" he laughed, a little wild and high. "They said it was a mountain lion done Dell and John in."

"They don't want to know the truth, son. Works in our favor sometimes. You come on in, y'hear? I'm sending a cleaner out to take care of John and Dell."



John Winchester had been a prickly, hard-ass sonofa-bitch, but Bobby'd heard through the grapevine, he'd been a good man to have at your back in the jungle, a good man to have at your back in a hunt, and he'd loved his wife and kids. He'd wanted revenge, more than that; he'd wanted other families to never have to suffer what he had. Bobby wiped his eyes. Damn shame he'd sacrificed his own family for it…Bobby took a deep, steadying breath, and walked out to the side porch.

Both the boys were staring at him, like they already knew. Bobby sat down on a step, staring out into the distance. "Boys—Dean, Sam—I don't know how—" He waved them close, and they sat next to him, Dean closest and Sam curled into Dean's side, his eyes wide and frightened. He curled an arm around them as best he could and looked down on Dean. Dean's lips trembled before he tightened them. He curled his small hand into a tight fist, and set it on Bobby's knee.

"Tell us," he said, and Bobby nodded, the sting of tears blocking out sight of the world for a hot second. help me out here, Karen—no way I can soft pedal this, not with these boys… He took a deep breath, and spit it out. "That was Caleb on the phone, boys. He called to tell us, your daddy's dead. He died a hero, don’t you doubt it."

Dean jerked, went pale as milk. He grabbed at Sam, who squeaked at Dean's sudden tight grip. He swayed in his seat and then, pulled himself upright and steady. He nodded, his freckles standing out like spatters of blood on linen, and silently pressed his face into the thick thatch of Sam's hair. For the first time that Bobby could remember, Dean actually looked like the eleven year old he was…

Sam, on the other hand wasn't nearly as quiet and resigned as Dean—quite the opposite, not that Bobby was surprised—

"You're lying!" Sam pushed Dean away. "No—my dad's not dead. You're wrong. You stop crying," he shouted at Dean. "Daddy's not dead!" and slugged him in the arm, kept punching until Dean moved away.

Sam refused to believe them; he refused Dean and Bobby's company. Bobby's heart broke for the both of them: Sam, for believing so stubbornly in John's invincibility, Dean, for being so totally abandoned by his little brother when he needed him so. Even so, Dean understood Sam in a way Bobby found hard to believe. It was extraordinary, he thought, that young boy understood how terrified Sam was and how much Sam needed him to be the strong one. Bobby saw Dean put his own terror aside; saw that there was always nothing but love in the boy's face. It didn't seem possible, but that was Dean.

All the rest of that day, Sam sat on the porch waiting, until the chill of the evening drove him inside and then, he curled himself in a ball and slept against the kitchen door. In the morning, he was out the porch again, his pet blanket wrapped around him, and his eyes narrowed at the horizon. Bobby sent food out for him with Dean, he sent breakfast, lunch, and finally dinner, before Sam ate a bit. He let Dean sit next to him after that, let him edge gradually closer, until he was leaning into Dean, drowsing as the sun set again. That night, Bobby heard him crying, on and off, for hours. He heard Dean assuring him over and over that he was safe, that he'd take care of Sam, that he'd never, ever, ever leave him, not ever….



Dean knew that what had happened was his fault. It was because he could never be good enough, and he'd robbed his dad of that confidence—the confidence that Dean had his back and he didn't need to worry. If Dad worried about them, it divided his concentration and that was dangerous. And that's why…that's why it happened. Because Dad had lost his trust in Dean. He kept his eye on Sam as Sam wandered around the porch and dirt driveway, trailing after Bobby's big Rottweiler. He kept it together, because Sam needed him. But inside he knew…he was a failure. Bobby knew, or he'd see it soon enough and send Dean away. When he did, he'd beg him to keep Sammy—it was safe here, and he needed to know that Sam was safe. When he was sure of that, than whatever happened to him just didn't matter.



Dean heard the slow footsteps coming up the stairs to the attic, and few seconds later he heard a knock at the storage room door, the place Sam and he had kind of taken to thinking of as their own whenever they stayed at Bobby's. He opened to find Bobby twisting a faded, old Napa cap in his hands, with a look that screamed he wanted to be talking about anything but what he said next.

"Dean, I wanted to tell you, Caleb called; he's bringing your dad's car home. I thought I better tell you and let you give Sam a head's up, before…you know."

Dean imagined that car pulling up and Sam thinking Dad was behind the wheel…"Let me go tell Sammy. We can wait for the car together."

They were sitting in the bed of a junked truck when the Impala finally rolled down the drive, sun flaring off the chrome that traced her sleek lines, her grill sneering forever at any monster that tried to get at her. They waited until the car rolled to a full stop, and then they jumped down and went to thank Caleb for bringing her home. Dean thought it was weird that the car looked no different…seemed like there should be some difference, some sign that…that their dad wasn't ever going to be driving her again.

Caleb stepped out the car and froze when he caught sight of them. He dropped his eyes when he caught Dean looking at him, and Dean couldn't have that. It wasn't Caleb's fault…he'd done it all right, had followed Dad's orders right to the last. That's what being a hunter was all about. Dean drew himself up tall as he could and pushed forward, held his hand out to Caleb and said, "My brother and I appreciate you bringing Dad's car back." Dean tilted his head back to look at Caleb, and after a bit of fidgeting, Caleb finally met Dean's eyes, took his hand. It wrapped around Dean's, swallowed up his small hand, and Dean wondered at how hot and rough it was, just like his dad's.

"Your dad was the bravest man I ever met. I hope that someday, I can be half as good as him, Dean. You and Sam, you gotta know that I would have died in his place if I could, no doubt about that."

Dean nodded, felt his eyes water up, and shame made his face burn, until he saw the tears running down Caleb's face. Sam wrapped himself even tighter around Dean's waist, getting between Caleb and Dean when Caleb reached out to wrap his arms around Dean. Dean rolled his eyes--even under the weight of sadness and guilt, Sam's acting up made him smile.

Caleb gave Sam an odd look before reaching out and ruffling his hair. "Take care of your brother, I gotta talk to Bobby," he said and headed into the house.



Sam stood in the drive, staring at the car, his pet blanket wrapped 'round and 'round him. It was quiet, so quiet Dean could hear himself breathing, hear his own heartbeat. He leaned against the Impala's chilly metal flank, pressed the heel of his hand against his chest and remembered…

Sleeping in the backseat, Mom and Dad's voices a gentle rumble coming from the front seat. If he opened his eyes, he could watch the stars run away from them in the rear window.

Driving around and around the neighborhood, baby Sammy in his arms, crying and kicking his little legs angrily, Dean and Dad both singing One toke Over The Line, trying to get Sammy to sleep or at least stop crying so hard.

Dean sitting in the front seat, eating an ice-cream cone and listening to Dad describe a baseball game he'd seen when he was Dean's age.

Sam, a light, warm, weight leaning against him, snoring a little and the rock and roll motion of the car trying to make him fall sleep too—"Dean."

He felt a tug on his sleeve and looked down. Sam was staring up at him. "Can we sit inside, please?" He raised his arms, and Dean huffed and puffed—struggled to lift Sam up and carry him into the car and not trip on his long legs, or step on the edge of his darn blanket and brain his brother and him both. It was a relief to get Sam into the car without knocking his brains out.

They curled up together in the back seat, Sam straddling Dean so he could lay flat against his chest, heartbeat to heartbeat, Sam's head tucked under Dean's chin. Dean pulled the blanket around them both, and pretended Dad was in the front and they were rolling down the road. Feeling snug, warm and above all, safe, with the scent of the only home they really knew all around them, they fell sound asleep.



It didn't take Bobby long to decide that no way in hell was he giving those boys up. He had a chance to give them something, a more stable life—some kind of normal, such as it was. He gave some thought to finding Mary's family, or anyone from John's and dropped it. He contacted a hunter friend instead, arranged for Sam and Dean to have impeccable papers—it wasn't really that hard to do. Dean and Samuel Singer were slated to start school after the winter break, having been sent to live with their uncle Bobby when it was found that their parents neglected them. That story would cover a lack of school transcripts, and a lot of background. Bobby told Dean the backstory and Dean hated the idea.

"Tell you what Dean, you can take that story and work it. See if it don't make things easier for ya. Chicks fall like a ton of bricks for a good sob story."

Dean could see the wisdom in that, gave Bobby a lop-sided grin while Sam rolled his eyes and made a face. Sam didn't care about chicks, or sob stories--Sam was just thrilled to be going to a real school, getting real school supplies, and a new, never been worn before, coat and boots. He was a little miffed that his blanket wasn't allowed to go with him but Dean convinced him it wasn't cool for a third grader to carry a blanket around—but not to worry, it'd be waiting for him every day after school.



It was late in the evening, Bobby sat at the kitchen table, a glass in front of him, another set across from him where the empty chair mocked him. Iron Butterfly played quietly in the background, and the air still stank like burning herbs under the smell of air freshener. "Feel like I'm fifteen again, damn it, hiding my weed…" he muttered. "You should have been here to toke up with me, you cantankerous sonofa bitch."

He heard the careful padding of small bare feet and a second later Dean was at his elbow. "Boy, what are you doing outa bed? You know what time it is?" Bobby groused, glancing over the table to make sure everything was put away.

Dean looked him in the eye, not the least bit shy or repentant. "Uncle Bobby, I been thinking so hard I can't get to sleep—the thing is, I don’t want to forget what Dad knew. I still want to learn all the things he knew. Do you think I could?"

Bobby sighed. He'd been planning on giving the boys as normal a life as he could. There was no way he wanted those boys neck deep the way John had been leading them to be. But Dean had a point…Bobby couldn't leave them defenseless. He'd just have to make a middle ground somehow. "Sure, Dean. We'll do it. We'll try, anyway."

Dean nodded, and handed Bobby a blood-stained journal, held shut by a thin strip of leather. Notes were poking out of the sides; the cover was cracked and bent…"Me and Sammy found this in the car. It was Dad's. We thought you should have it. Hold it for us, for a while?"

"I'd be proud to hang onto that for you boys. When you want it back, when you're ready for it, it's here."

Dean nodded, and went off back to bed, and Bobby cleaned up and shuffled off to his own bedroom.



Bobby sat paralyzed at the side of the bed, John's journal open on his lap.

Sam…John had notes about Sam in his journal. Vague, stumbling, mostly conjecture and not much fact, but still… all signs pointed to something Bobby had never heard of—that there seemed to be a possibility that Sam was infected—marked by the thing, the demon, that had killed his mother. In the journal, John spoke plenty about not telling the boy, and reading around the coded words the man liked to use made the hair on Bobby's neck stand right up. Because they seemed to indicate that John felt there might come a time he would have to prepare himself to put the boy down. Something deep inside Bobby burned, and he wished that John was here in front of him so's he could make him eat the damn book, page by fucking page. He'd always known Winchester was ten kinds of fucked-up crazy but this proved it. How a man who suspected his baby son might be in trouble wasn't concentrating every bit of his brain and heart on that—instead of revenge—

Bobby took a deep breath and put the book down. Well. John's plan was crap. He was gonna do some deep research, look into this shit—if it was possible for such a thing to be true, there'd be a record of it--somewhere. He scrubbed his face hard, and let that breath out in one long exhale. Until Karen, he'd have immediately said John was crazy as a shit house rat. . Nowadays…well. Nowadays he just couldn't take a damn thing for granted. If it turned out John was right, than the boy should know—in order to protect himself, he should know all of it. Sure, he was too young now, but as soon as he was old enough, he'd have to have every bit of information possible—Dean too. Maybe he should tell Dean first, explain to him what risk Sam was under because as God was his witness, between the two of them, there was no way Sam would ever have to suffer this…thing. Besides, Bobby had something on his side that John didn't. And that was some god damn common sense.

He put the thing in a lock box, and shoved it back under his bed. Got up to make sure the boys were all right.

He watched their little chests rise and fall. Dean looked content in his sleep…his dad's mission must have weighed heavily on his mind. The two of them were wrapped around each other like ivy, could hardly tell where one left off and the other began. He sighed. He was going to have to get real beds for them, not just sleeping bags and a nest of old quilts…real curtains too, instead of sheets tacked across the windows…he glanced around the junk-filled room, back to the little corner they'd cleared out for the boys. Might as well get rid of all the useless crap, he thought and make them a proper place to live. He smiled. Karen, she would have liked this a lot. She would have loved having these boys as hers, no doubt about that….



Bobby found that having two boys underfoot all day long, day in and day out, getting into stuff and ruining his peace and quiet, was just about the best thing that ever happened to his ass. They kept him on his toes, kept him out of the bottle and memories of Karen and…what had happened there. She had been the love of his life, and it was only now, that John's boys were his, that the old house was beginning to fill with light again.

The storage room became a proper room—there was plenty of space for two boys up there under the eaves. They had a lively couple of weekends emptying the weird detritus that had migrated up there. Two twin beds were moved into the brand new space, and the walls were painted a masculine blue, the narrow windows hung with white and yellow curtains. A pair of dressers had been unearthed in the pile of junk in one of his sheds, and they'd also found, from God knows where, a pair of lamps shaped liked cowboy boots that were ugly as sin but Sam had fallen instantly in love with them. Bobby would have been a little happier if Sam hadn't also opted for pink linens, but it was what he insisted on, and Dean explained that his Dad had forbid it but it was Sam's favorite color and yeah, it was embarrassing as hell but what the heck, he was just a little kid who didn't know any better so could he please have pink, and by the way, no way in hell did he want pink. Dean's choice was a bright red bed set featuring racing cars Bobby bought from the Wal-Mart and he was over the moon with joy about them.

Bobby was pleased, but also kind of heartsick, that it took so little to make those boys so happy.
Part three

Comments

[yellowbulma.livejournal.com]

Aww Bobby is a great dad!! =3

[roxymissrose.livejournal.com]

*BEAMS*

I really had fun writing Bobby as Dad. :)