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A quarter past eleven, Bobby Singer stood on his front porch with a drink in hand and watched the beautiful black ’67 Impala rumble up the darkened driveway with the sparkling stars overhead. More and more that damn car was coming around his place at all hours of the night, and more and more he felt it in his heart how this would be the time he’d confront the old bastard. Only the second the tires skidded to a halt and two boys, ages nine and five, flew from the back towards him, he knew. He knew he wouldn’t say a damn thing. Not as long as those two boys were around.
“Singer,” grunted the gruff voice as the hardened father of those two sweet young boys meandered up the porch a moment later.
“Winchester,” Bobby replied dryly, tipping his head towards him. “How long this time?”
“Just the weekend,” the man answered with a shrug. “It’s a fairly cut-and-dry salt-and-burn.”
“You said that last time.” And the time before that. And the time before that. Hell, the jackass probably said it every damn time if Bobby were honest. “Ended up with the brats for two weeks.” And what a fun two weeks that had been . . . until the boys went back to their father. It was getting harder each time to give them back, knowing what the boys would be sent back to.
“Things happen.”
“Yeah, they do,” he stated coldly. “How long you gonna keep doing this? Droppin’ those boys off with me while you’re off God knows where huntin’? Till your boys can’t even remember you?”
John scoffed at him before he turned and shouted, “Dean!” His eyes snapped to the young boy at Bobby’s side who had flinched at the sound of his own name. It damn near broke his heart. “Do everything Bobby says. Got it?” He leveled a drill sergeant worthy glare onto the boy.
“Yes, sir,” murmured the nine-year-old, his dull green eyes falling to the ground.
“Good boy.” John took a few steps towards his boys, taking time to ruffle their hair. However, instead of being full of warmth and affection, it seemed more reflexive, more for show than anything. “I expect you not to disappoint me again, son.”
Bobby inhaled sharply through his nose, his eyes narrowing. Fucking Winchester! That damn bastard reminded him of his own stupid father. How a nine-year-old could be a disappointment to anyone was utter horseshit.
“Get in the house, boys. Your dad and me need to talk.” He watched John glance at him in surprise, which he could understand. John expected everyone to obey him, no questions asked. His children most especially were. The broken father gave his sons the okay to do as they were told, so Bobby waited until he heard the door close behind them before the baseball-capped man spoke. “You tryin’ to make them hate you, Winchester?”
“What?” John scoffed, shaking his head when Bobby didn’t respond. “No. I’m trying to get them to learn respect. Discipline. Following orders, Singer.”
“Yeah, well, them boys of yours—they ain’t dogs.”
“No. They’re not. They’re Hunters. Or they will be once they’re old enough.”
“Oh, Christ, come off it!” Bobby took off his hat and slapped it against the side of his house angrily. “Let them have some sense of a childhood for fuck’s sake, Winchester.”
“A childhood?” hissed John, taking a threatening step towards him. “They can have that after we kill the thing that—”
“That’s what you’ve been doing all these times?” Bobby interrupted. “Your boys need you!”
“No. What they need is the thing that killed their mom dead.”
“Them . . . or you?”
John’s nostrils flared before he pulled out some wadded money and slapped it into Bobby’s hand. “Talk to me when you got kids of your own, Singer! Otherwise, shut the hell up. Understand?” He didn’t wait for Bobby to respond before he turned on his heels and stormed back to his car. “I’ll pick them up Sunday.”
“Yeah, if you’re still alive that is,” Bobby threw back angrily.
John didn’t respond, though. He merely slid into his car and slammed the door shut before he tore down the driveway, kicking up all sorts of rock and dust.
Bobby clenched his jaw angrily and shook his head. That damn fool didn’t know what he was missing. He turned around and headed back into his house. A wry smile found its way to his lips as he caught the boys on the sofa waiting patiently for him.
“All right, boys. You know the drill,” he remarked.
Dean was the first to hop off the chair in the kitchen with his little brother trailing him not far behind. Bobby followed the two boys quietly into his study. He leaned against the doorjamb and waited, watching them softly talk to one another as they picked their bedtime book. It had become a tradition for them. Something that he unfortunately had missed when the boys weren’t around.
He didn’t have children’s books still. He knew he should have at least gotten a couple since the odds were favorable that John would drop them off with him again. But he didn’t know shit about raising kids or what sorts of things normal kids liked. Not really at least. So, he let the boys chose a book on lore. He’d read them a chapter, choosing a more factual, dry section of it that didn’t instill nightmares. Or at least he hoped wouldn’t. The boys seemed to have more than their share of that already unfortunately.
Glancing down a few minutes later when Dean walked towards him with a book in hand, he caught the title. It was a book on angels of all things. He supposed it would work. At least he hoped it’d go better than the chapter on wendigos he had read to them last time they were here.
“That one?” he asked, jerking his head at the book.
Dean nodded hesitantly before he held it out.
“All right. Well, go brush your teeth. I’ll come up and read it in a few.”
“Promise?” Dean softly murmured, his sad green eyes meeting Bobby’s.
Bobby raised a brow at him. “Have I ever lied to you?”
The nine-year-old shook his head, biting his bottom lip.
“Exactly. Now, go do as I said.” He chuckled softly when both Dean and his little brother hugged his legs briefly before they rushed up the stairs. John Winchester might not have seen anything past his own nose these days, but his loss was Bobby’s gain. He’d protect those boys as long as he lived, and he’d love them even longer. His boys.