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Bobby drove away, glancing in his rearview mirror one last time at Sam waving, feeling bittersweet about leaving his boy in a place so far from home yet with so many opportunities. He was real proud of Sam for making it into college—heck, even a community college would have been incredible—no less Stanford University, the ivy on the Pacific.
Surprisingly—despite hunting all over the continental United States—a hunt had never taken Bobby to California. And ever since crossing the state line into Nevada, Bobby was leery. The states out here were just a little too sunny—and the people even more so—but he knew Sam would fit right in—that boy could adjust in a hurricane, and California was no wild, wild west so far as he could tell.
The two-day journey out to Palo Alto from Sioux Falls went by quickly, and before Bobby knew it, the car was unpacked, Sam’s dorm was ready to be slept in, and Bobby was hugging him goodbye. And if his eyes were just a little misty as he pulled away, who was here to tell on him?
Stanford. When Bobby heard the news that Sam got in, he was happier than he could put into words—a full ride at that. Yet there was more to be proud of when it came to Sam than even his academic aptitude. When he came to Bobby’s junkyard six years ago, he was an emotional wreck—withdrawn, antisocial, and deeply depressed. It had taken those entire six years of work—really hard, sludgy, emotional work—and even more years of therapy—before Sam became the man he was today.
Bobby had never heard of two brothers getting involved like that before John called him up that unforgettable day, but he couldn’t say he was entirely surprised to hear it. Those boys were raised in the most convoluted, mixed-up shithole of a childhood that he had ever seen—and Bobby’s sordid childhood was no abuse and trauma-free walk in the park. Hell, Bobby shot his abusive sonabitch father dead—a pretty high bar to pass so far as fucked up pasts come.
Bobby knew what pain was like as a kid and he felt for the Winchester boys. Since the first time he met Sam and Dean, over a decade ago now, all Bobby ever wanted to do was protect them.
Bobby didn’t particularly like John Winchester, but he couldn’t say he wasn’t glad John had saved his bacon last minute when he had been taken captive by a particularly gruesome vampire nest. John cut him free from the ropes the vamps were keeping him in, waiting to feed—toying with him, really. Bobby had watched as this unfamiliar man came in swinging with a machete, slicing the heads off four vampires like it was an everyday occurrence, then walking over, casual as can be and only a little winded, vamp blood sprayed all over his face, heads all over the ground behind him, and whacked the bloody machete through the burlap rope keeping Bobby’s hands tied.
It wasn’t long after that that he met Sam and Dean.
1990
John didn’t call ahead of time. He pulled up in that monstrous antique car, engine revving—Bobby heard it before he saw it. Bobby emerged from his home at the noise, eyebrows raising as he saw John Winchester emerge from the front of the car.
“John Winchester, you lucky bastard—good to see you alive.”
“You sound surprised,” John Winchester said, approaching Bobby. “It’s not so easy to get the jump on me. I was a marine, you know.”
Bobby was cut off from a response to that tidbit of information when he heard from somewhere near the car, “But I’m hungry, Dean.” Bobby looked behind John to see two squirrelly boys—threadbare t-shirts and worn shoes and just the hint of dirt on their faces. But what he noticed immediately, even before all that, was the way the younger boy was clinging to the older one’s arm, practically hanging off it, and how the older boy wasn’t stopping him—if anything he was leaning into the nagging boy.
“Bobby—this is Sam and Dean—my boys.” John gestured to each boy.
“Dad, Sammy’s hungry—we eating soon?” the older boy, Dean, said. Sam, the younger boy, looked up at Dean gratefully.
“It’s true. I could eat a whole zebra!” Sam said. He tugged excitedly at Dean’s t-shirt, surely stretching it out, but Dean didn’t seem to mind.
Dean snorted and ruffled the Sam’s hair. “Think you got that phrase a little mixed up there, kiddo.”
Before John could answer, or Sam could respond, Bobby said, “I got some food inside—I’m Bobby Singer by the way, real nice to meet you boys. No zebra, unfortunately, but I think I have a can of chili tucked away there.”
Sam squeaked, and Dean laughed again, pulling his brother close. “This kid loves chili, Mr. Singer.”
“It’s my favorite!” Sam confirmed. “But I only like the way Dean makes it with the beans and onions. Do you make it like my brother?”
“Sam,” John said warningly.
“It’s alright, John,” said Bobby. “Call me Bobby, boys. Mr. Singer makes me sound respectable, and god knows if that was ever true. Why don’t you guys come on in and tell me what brings you all the way up here, and I’ll get the chili started—with beans and onions you said?”
The Winchesters stayed awhile.
Bobby observed John’s boys closely. He didn’t approve of raising kids into the life, but there wasn’t much Bobby could do here. It was a horrible thing that happened to John’s wife, but to bring two small boys up on the road like John was was barbaric.
However, during the next few weeks, Bobby realized that the Winchester boys were friendly, sweet, charming—overtly helpful, even, and damn smart kids—but there was something that bothered him about them, and it took a week or two to put his finger on what it was.
As much as John and Bobby asked Dean to help them fix a car, or research, or train, or even run an errand in town for one of them, his little brother was never far behind. Sam followed Dean from place to place. And Dean never complained—in fact, the few times when Bobby noticed Sam left the room or was not in view, Dean would start to fidget and even repeatedly glance around. It took Bobby a few times to realize he was looking out for Sam to see if he had returned. Dean even left a few times to search if Sam took too long. It should have been cute—it was, in a way—but something about it seemed unhealthy.
“Dean has a little shadow, huh?” Bobby asked John one night after the boys went to bed and the two men sat on the porch sipping whiskey. “Dean doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, never seen your boys so much as argue.”
John grunted, took a sip from the tumbler, looking out into the night. “They get along,” he said, as if that explained everything.
“That’s lucky,” Bobby said. “It’s a rare thing for two siblings to like each other, no less never fight.”
John shrugged, not in much of a talking mood when drinking, Bobby noticed. John, maudlin and a man lost in grief, apparently didn’t have much else to say on the subject, and neither, as a result, did Bobby.
On their last night in the house, Bobby leaned in to check on John’s boys, where they slept in the guest room. Bobby had two twins in there for when the odd hunters needed to crash. Dean and Sam had grown on him over the past few weeks, as much as Bobby didn’t like children much. They were good kids, well-behaved and funny to boot.
However, the dark shadows around their eyes that never seemed to disappear, and the way they never seemed to be farther than a room away from one another at any given time, niggled at Bobby’s heartstrings. Bobby knew the look, as he himself had seen it in the mirror growing up when his dad used to hit his mom, and Bobby would be up all night worried, stressed. Even if he slept, Bobby felt the repercussions of his parents’ abusive relationship all throughout his childhood up until the day his father died.
It was the look of a kid who had seen too much, slept too little, and ate not enough. They were two boys who had already been through too much, moved too much from place to place with no stability—from what Bobby gathered, their average stay time in a town was until a hunt was over and no longer. But John, a relatively new friend, would not be receptive to that opinion, Bobby knew. So he kept his mouth shut—for now—and observed.
Now, looking in on John’s boys while their father snored loudly in a whiskey-coma on the couch downstairs, Bobby let his eyes adjust to the light. He expected to see a boy in each bed, fast asleep—
Instead, only one bed was occupied—Sam was on his back fast asleep, cute little nose upturned and mouth dropped open—slightest bit of drool coming out. His hands rested on his brother’s head, fingers gently clutched in Dean’s hair—
Dean was face down on top of his brother, in between Sam’s legs and head resting on Sam’s belly, arms wrapped around his little brother. He looked younger than his eleven years with a face slack with sleep, less like the exhausted pre-teen that had taken over his home the last month and more like a kid.
Bobby, suddenly, felt inexplicably sad looking at the two Winchester boys, entwined so desperately around one another in the tiny bed. After watching the way Dean was with Sam the last month, Bobby realized Dean was the one Sam turned to as an authority figure—for food—for advice—when he was hurt—when he had a question. Sam rarely spoke with John, rarely deferred to his father for anything. Dean was Sam’s proxy parent. Just the thought hurt Bobby. That was too much pressure on a kid Dean’s age.
He didn’t have all the details of their lives yet, but he vowed to himself then and there that he would take care of them in whatever way he could. He would be there for the boys in case John couldn’t. Bobby already sensed that John could barely take care of himself.
Bobby would never abandon the Winchester boys—they needed someone they could turn to if John ever—
Well, they needed someone else.
Present Day
For the following five years after meeting Dean and Sam Winchester, the boys visited frequently. Bobby had come to care for them both like sons.
When he got the phone call from John, explaining what happened, Bobby felt that familiar sorrow open up in his chest—the same feeling he had when he saw the boys entwined that very first visit.
That Dean could do something like that to Sam didn’t shock Bobby—in fact, it made sense in a way few things in his life did. Sam was young and vulnerable, true, but so was Dean. John had let Dean become Sam’s everything and vice versa.
It still devastated Bobby.
Bobby came to pick up Sam from the motel—and what a long, horrible drive that was. Both ways, truly—
When he had seen Dean, face puffy with bruises and blood, eyes swollen and cheeks tear-streaked, as miserable as anything Bobby had ever seen in his life, his heart broke all over again.
If there was anything he could have done to prevent this, he would have. But Bobby also knew sometimes horrible things happened and there was no use wondering what-ifs—contemplation would only bring more agony. Just like when he killed his father, as Bobby had to live with the consequences of his guilt and relief over that, so would these boys with what they had done to one another. What they had become to one another.
Sam was inconsolable those first few months. Bobby had to force him out of his room—he tried to keep Sam busy with tasks, with research for the hunters that often called in, with school work. But nothing seemed to help.
Bobby didn’t know and would never know what it felt like to fall in love with your brother and then lose him, but he didn’t blame Sam for how he was after the separation occurred.
If it was hard for Bobby to watch, it must have been pretty horrible for Sam to experience.
Bobby didn’t know if Sam would ever see Dean again—the boy rarely brought Dean up anymore—unlike the first few years where he would bring his brother up in conversation repeatedly, sometimes intentionally, other times like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. When that happened, he would clam up and go hide behind a book or in his room for a while.
Bobby got Sam a therapist and psychiatrist. From there, it took years but he was eventually an—at least somewhat—healthy, well-adjusted teen boy—he made friends in school, even went on a few dates.
It wasn’t until one night years after taking him in that Bobby realized Sam hadn’t gotten over it, he had just learned to hide. Sam hadn’t mentioned Dean to Bobby in years when he came home drunk from his senior prom. Bobby was pissed, but he also was relieved Sam was living life as a normal teen, making normal, stupid decisions.
Bobby helped Sam up the stairs, tucked in the pathetically drunk eighteen-year-old under his covers like he was seven again and had just eaten Bobby’s chili for the first time—although Bobby was never the one tucking him in when Sam was seven—and was about to run to get a glass of water for the boy when Sam reached out, eyes closed, and grabbed Bobby’s wrist.
“Dean,” Sam moaned. It was anguished, and Bobby’s heart stopped for a moment. Bobby paused, hardly daring to breathe. “Bobby, why did he have to go—why didn’t he find me again—why—I miss him so much it hurts all the time—why—”
Bobby was horrified to see that Sam started crying, letting go of Bobby’s wrist to bury his face in the pillow. “Sam, c’mon, you idjit, you’re drunk as a skunk—just go to sleep now.”
Sam whimpered his brother’s name, shuffled around a bit, and Bobby waited a few long minutes until at last, Sam fell into a deep, deep sleep that only the very tired and very drunk could achieve.
And now, only three months after that night, Bobby was driving away from Sam at Stanford. He hoped he had done the boy right, hoped Sam would find happiness in his adult life in ways he couldn’t as a kid. He even hoped that he would find his brother again, if that was what the kid wanted.
He was about three hours outside San Jose when his cell phone rang—massive, ridiculous piece of junk but useful when in a bind on a hunt—
Bobby pulled over on the side of the road and picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Bobby?” And Bobby would know that voice anywhere—only talked to the man about once a year these days, but he did take in his kid.
“John.”
“How is he?”
“He’s at Stanford. Dropped him off today, actually.”
“He’s good, then.”
“I sure hope so.”