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The first time Bobby laid eyes on the Winchester boys, he was covered in muck and ash, a sawed-off hanging loosely from his fingers and blood running freely from his mangled shoulder. He was leaning heavily on John, struggling to keep upright and cursing a blue streak in the elder Winchester’s ear as they stumbled along through the dark.
They’d been out for hours tracking a pair of werewolves on the outskirts of town, a hell of a hunt that had dragged on for far longer than it should have due to the shitty weather and a couple rookie mistakes. They’d managed to put the wolves down in the end, but Bobby was filthy and cranky and bleeding all over a man he was sick of the sight of.
“Easy, Singer,” John grunted, propelling him along with little sympathy. “Car’s up this way. Got a kit in the trunk—I’ll sew you up.”
Generous of him, considering it’d been John’s damn neck Bobby was saving when he got between it and the claws of one of the wolves. Damn idiot had gotten too close and left himself open while trying to reload and Bobby had to knock him out of the way, getting his shoulder ripped open for his trouble. John wasn’t half bad in a hunt—he had the instincts, had put down the first wolf without hesitation—but he was greener than Bobby had been led to believe, and it was obvious he hadn’t run into werewolves before.
There was a reason Bobby didn’t like babysitting the fresh meat, and Bill Harvelle damn well knew it, but he’d called in a favour to get Bobby on this hunt with Winchester. There’d be hell to pay the next time Bill called with questions about a hunt.
“Stop your whining,” John said, as Bobby grumbled. “We’re almost there.”
Bobby squinted, head swimming, and he could just make out the outline of a car through the trees ahead. Bobby’d left his truck on the other side of the woods so they could approach from either side and corner the wolves in the trees, which had worked a treat but left him without transportation of his own. He’d have to come back in the morning and pick up his truck before the rangers found it—assuming John didn’t let him bleed out in the meantime.
With more of John’s help than Bobby would’ve liked, they made it to the road, leaving a trail of Bobby’s blood in their footsteps.
That was when he saw them for the first time. Two pale faces peering out the window of John’s car, eyes big and noses pressed against the glass, watching their approach. Abruptly, Bobby stopped in his tracks, bringing John to a stumbling halt next to him.
“The hell,” Bobby croaked. “You brought some damn kids with you on a hunt?”
John bristled. “Motel was booked up,” he said, muscle jumping in his jaw.
Bobby thought back to the start of the hunt, when they’d been neck deep in questioning the locals and combing through police files. He’d had a motel room of his own—still did, theoretically, though he was supposed to have checked out some hours ago—but he certainly hadn’t seen any signs of kids then. What he had seen was John throwing money around, buying drinks at the bar and losing at pool with the locals, even tapping into Bobby’s wallet to cover his losing streak.
“Right,” Bobby said, dryly. “Tourist rush and all.”
John’s mouth tightened but he didn’t argue. He pushed away, leaving Bobby to take his own weight, and made for the trunk of his car. He rapped on the window as he passed, and the little faces ducked out of sight. Slowly, the window rolled down and a blond head stuck out.
“Dean, give me a hand,” John called. “And make sure Sammy doesn’t see.”
The kid yanked his head back in and jerkily rolled up the window. Bobby watched him wrangle with something—his brother, maybe—before the door popped open and the kid slipped out.
“Jesus,” Bobby muttered to himself.
He couldn’t have been more than seven or eight, though admittedly Bobby had never been all that good with kids’ ages. He was tiny, anyway, smaller than Bobby could believe, all scrawny limbs and clothes several sizes too big. The shirt might’ve even been John’s, trailing past his knees. He kept his head down and didn’t look Bobby in the eye as he skirted past him and scampered over to his dad.
“Singer, if you want to get patched up, get over here,” John said, pissy. “Dean, grab the med kit for me. And turn on one of those lanterns.”
The kid dived into the open trunk, rooting around through bags and weapons like he’d done it a thousand times. Bobby trudged over and dropped heavily against the bumper, blood loss making him dizzy. John wrestled the gun from his hand, emptied the rounds with practiced ease, and tossed it into the trunk, narrowly missing his kid, who didn’t even flinch.
Eventually, the kid found the med kit, popping back up with a beat-up duffle clutched to his chest, green eyes enormous in his pinched face as he took in Bobby’s bloody shoulder. Bobby shrugged out of his coat with John’s rough help, wincing as a fresh wave of blood spilled down his front and splattered onto his boots.
Dean passed John a rag, hopefully clean, and John pressed it to Bobby’s shoulder to staunch the bleeding. Bobby tried to take over, fumbling as he tried to grip the rag, but John just batted his hand away. Under his grunted directions, Dean scrambled to his feet, balancing in the trunk and just making shoulder-height with the added boost. He took hold of the rag, replacing his dad’s hands with his own, small and trembling, but dutifully keeping pressure on the wound just as directed.
John reached for the duffle again, fishing out a familiar bottle. He twisted the cap off and took a swig for himself before turning to Bobby’s injury, the bastard. Bobby gritted his teeth against the burn as John sterilized the wound, pouring the alcohol freely over both Bobby’s shoulder and his kid’s small, bloodless fingers.
He was grateful when John shoved the rest of the bottle at him, barely giving him enough time to get his clumsy fingers around it before turning away. Bobby took several healthy pulls, feeling the sweat dripping from his face.
All the while, the kid was quiet as a church mouse. He watched John and Bobby intently with his brows furrowed the whole time, barely flinching at the blood staining his fingers or the alcohol splashed up his arms.
“Thanks, kid,” Bobby managed, figuring he ought to say something to the boy keeping him from bleeding out.
Dean jumped, grip faltering before he hastily recovered. He peered at Bobby distrustfully through greasy bangs but didn’t speak.
“You got much experience playing nurse?” Bobby tried.
Still nothing, except now the boy was glaring at him. Bobby sighed. John was still busy trying to thread a crooked needle with dental floss, back half-turned to them as he cursed under his breath. Out of the corner of his eye, Bobby saw a flash of movement in the rear window of the Impala, just over Dean’s shoulder.
“Not much of a talker, are ya?” Bobby needled, since the kid was stuck to his shoulder anyway. Dean hitched one of his own shoulders in a shrug. Since that was, sort of, a response, Bobby nodded towards the car. “That your brother in there?”
Dean tensed like he wanted to turn around and check, but he managed to restrain himself. “Sammy,” he muttered eventually. “He’s little.”
It could have been the blood loss getting to him, but Bobby almost felt like cheering in victory. Maybe this whole kid business wasn’t so hard after all.
“Little, huh,” he snorted. “What does that make you? You’re, what, six?”
Dean reared back, affronted. His chest puffed right out. “I’m eight,” he said importantly, like that was supposed to mean something big. “’M big enough to help Dad look after Sammy, ‘cause he’s only three. And I’m helping you, ain’t I?”
“Guess so,” Bobby said, more amused than he wanted to admit.
“Alright, Dean, that’s enough.” John finally turned back to them, needle at the ready.
Dean quickly shut his mouth and backed off, peeling the red-stained rag from Bobby’s shoulder carefully. Bobby winced, but the booze had made things just soft enough that it wasn’t the sharp pain it had been before. Fresh blood welled up in the torn ridges of his skin.
John moved in to stitch the wound, bracing an arm against Bobby to help keep him still. Not much interested in watching the gore of his shoulder, Bobby distracted himself by looking at Dean. The kid was watching his dad’s hands closely, face pinched in concentration, though he looked a little green around the gills. Bobby wondered how many times he’d seen his dad stitch himself up like this. He wondered if he’d ever helped.
Things were quiet for a while as John knit Bobby back together, the familiar pinch and pull of his skin fading into an undefined ache, spreading from his neck to his elbow. He’d be sore as hell for the next few days, and using that arm would be a bitch, but he’d live.
Just as John was tugging the last few stitches tight, the passenger door of the Impala creaked open.
“Dean?” a small voice said.
John’s hands stilled and Dean went rigid.
“Sammy, don’t come out!” Dean hissed, cheeks blooming red. He scrambled to the other side of the trunk and learned over, presumably to give his brother a dirty look. “I told you I’d be right back!”
“It’s dark,” said the small, miserable voice.
John tied off the stitches, an unhappy set to his mouth. “Dean, I thought I told you to keep him away. He shouldn’t have to see this.”
“Yes, sir,” Dean said. “I got him.”
He jumped out of the trunk, landing lightly on his toes, and hurried around to the side of the car. Bobby could just about see the tops of the boys’ heads as Dean shoved his brother back in the cab and climbed in after him, pulling the door shut. Through the rear window, Bobby watched as Dean pulled Sammy into the backseat, pushing and prodding him along.
“Who usually watches ‘em during hunts?” Bobby asked. “At the motel.”
“None of your damn business.” John pushed him out of the way so he could throw the med kit back in the trunk and slam it shut. “You want a ride to your truck or what?”
Considering Bobby had few other options, he decided to play nice and drop it.
John jerked his head towards the passenger side. “Try not to get blood on the seats.”
The boys were asleep or pretending to be during the short drive, buried under some coats and a blanket that smelled like smoke. Bobby managed to get his first glimpse of Sammy, even smaller than Dean and still with the toddler roundness to him, though he was skinny. Dean had him in his own skinny arms, barely big enough to hold him, though Sammy looked comfortable enough.
John didn’t speak the whole ride, so neither did Bobby, except to point him in the right direction. When they pulled up behind Bobby’s old clunker and he climbed out, though, he hesitated. John was stiff and cold behind the wheel, barely looking at him, but Bobby could feel eyes on him all the same.
“Listen, I live about a few hours’ drive from here,” Bobby found himself saying. “Sioux Falls. You got my number from Bill. If you’re ever in the area—”
“Thanks for your help on the hunt,” John interrupted, voice clipped. “But we got it from here.”
“Suit yourself,” Bobby said, and closed the door behind him.
John drove off before Bobby made it more than a few steps, kicking up dust behind him. Bobby watched him go. His shoulder throbbed.
*
The second time Bobby saw the Winchester boys, they were standing in his kitchen, looking shrunken and out of place.
John had been and gone in a whirlwind, barely stopping long enough for Bobby to open his front door and verify it wasn’t the legions of hell trying to bust through, the amount of racket there’d been. John had mentioned something about a black dog in between ordering Dean to look after Sammy and telling Bobby not to talk about hunts in front of his youngest, so Bobby assumed he’d found himself a monster and needed someone to watch the boys that wouldn’t ask too many questions.
That Bobby had been turned into little more than a babysitter was galling. It wasn’t really what he’d been picturing when he made the half-assed invitation to John those five months ago, but he couldn’t exactly argue with the empty air.
The boys didn’t look fazed by the speed with which their father had abandoned them. Sammy was huddled safely under Dean’s protective arm, peering around Bobby’s house with interest, a ratty backpack held close to his chest. In contrast, Dean was stiff and coiled tight, glaring openly.
Bobby sighed. “I don’t got much to entertain you,” he warned. “Some storybooks somewhere, I think. Your daddy didn’t happen to mention when he’d be back, did he?”
“I’m hungry,” Sammy said. “Do you have mac and cheese?”
“Shut up, Sammy,” Dean hissed, shaking Sammy’s shoulder. His brother pouted up at him.
“But I’m hungry! You said when Dad left—”
Dean was quickly turning red, back of his neck glowing. Not particularly eager to deal with a tantrum from either one of them, Bobby stepped in. “I think I can manage mac and cheese,” he said. “’Bout time I made some lunch anyway. Go on, sit down.”
It’d been a minute since Bobby had made mac and cheese for himself, but he had a box in one of the cupboards and it was simple enough to follow the directions printed on the back. The boys whispered back and forth at the table behind him, but he politely ignored it. He was trying not to think about how weird it was to have children in his house, in Karen’s house, so instead channeled all his attention to the noodles boiling.
“Can we have mar-mallows?” Sammy asked his brother, louder than before.
“No,” Dean snapped. “That’s weird.”
“But you did it before!”
“Shh! Next time you can have the stupid marshmallows, okay?”
Bobby tried to remember the last time he’d even laid eyes on a marshmallow and came up blank. He wondered if it was worth it to make a grocery run, but figured John probably wouldn’t be gone long enough to warrant it. Black dogs were nasty, but John shouldn’t have too much trouble, so long as he kept his wits about him.
Sammy happily perked up when Bobby slid two bowls of cheesy noodles in front of them, hunching over and starting to shovel food into his mouth. More than a few bites ended up straight in his lap, though he didn’t seem to notice. Dean was less enthused, poking moodily at his lunch without any effort to actually eat it.
Bobby settled at the table across from them with his own bowl, then figured they might be thirsty, so he got up again to grab a couple cans of Coke from the fridge. Sammy all but squealed in delight, making grabby hands before Bobby even made it back to his seat. He snorted and rolled the can over to the kid.
Sammy fumbled with the tab, tongue stuck out in concentration, but he didn’t quite have the coordination to manage it. With a growl, Dean snagged it from him and popped the tab with ease before handing it back.
With Sammy suitably occupied, Bobby took a sip of his own drink and decided to ask, voice easy, “Your daddy do this often? Leave you with strangers while he works?”
Pointedly, Dean stuck a heaping spoon of noodles in his mouth, slurping loudly. He kept it up, too, cheeks bulging until his spoon was scraping the empty bowl. Sam wasn’t far behind him, the pair of them eating like ravenous dogs, with the table manners to boot.
Gulping down the last of his soda, Sammy sat back and burped. He smacked his lips. “Do you have cartoons?”
“Tube’s through there,” Bobby said, pointing towards the living room. Sammy was off like a shot, dropping in front of the television to fiddle with the buttons. Dean didn’t follow. He stayed at the table, sliding down in his seat until only his eyes peeked over the edge, and he watched as Bobby took the dishes and filled the sink.
“I don’t need your help,” Dean finally declared to Bobby’s back. Bobby kept scrubbing at the bowls and didn’t turn around. “I can look after Sam myself.”
“I remember,” Bobby said. “You’re eight.”
“Almost nine,” Dean grumbled. “In January.”
Since it was September, Bobby was pretty sure that meant the kid was still only eight, but he didn’t say so. Instead, he nodded sagely. “Right. Big enough to look after your brother. But since you’re here, how about I give you a hand? Just ‘til your dad gets back.”
Dean grunted noncommittally.
“If you don’t want to watch cartoons with your brother, I could set you up outside,” Bobby offered. “Think I got a baseball around here somewhere.”
*
“Whatcha doin’?”
Bobby suddenly found himself blinking at the back of Sammy’s messy hair. The kid was leaning over the arm of Bobby’s chair, wobbling precariously on his tiptoes. Not wanting the kid to face-plant into the already fragile book he’d been poring over, Bobby put his free hand on his back to steady him.
“Working,” Bobby said, shifting the book in his lap so it wouldn’t be knocked to the floor. “Get your nose out of that, kid, come on.”
Sammy teetered back onto his feet, looking far too curious for Bobby’s peace of mind. “What kinda work?” He tilted his head and squinted at the book, frowning.
Bobby spared a moment to be relieved that the kid had picked a pretty good time to interrupt, all things considered. He wasn’t sure how well he could read, but at least there weren’t any disturbing illustrations lying open to give him nightmares.
“Uh, the research kind,” Bobby said, trying to covertly shuffle his page of notes out of sight. John had told him to keep all monster talk away from Sammy, and he didn’t want to tempt the boy into asking any difficult questions. “What happened to your cartoon?”
Sammy heaved a sigh. “I’m bored. Where’s Dean?”
“He’s right outside, or he should be. You wanna go join ‘im?”
Considering, Sammy hummed. “No,” he decided. “Dean’s no fun to play with. He’s mad.” He folded his arms on top of the arm of Bobby’s chair and dropped his head onto them, such a forlorn look on his face that Bobby wanted to laugh.
“Oh, yeah?” Bobby said, closing his book. “You think he’s mad ‘cause your dad left you two here?”
Sammy nodded emphatically.
“And what about you? You’re not mad?”
Sammy shrugged. “I got Dean. Even when he’s grumpy.”
Bobby snorted. “Right. Well, if you’re done watching cartoons and you don’t want play with your brother, what do you wanna do? What do you usually do when your dad’s gone?”
“I dunno,” Sammy said, face scrunched. “Dean reads stories. Oh! Or we draw pictures. Can I draw a picture for Dean?”
Bobby had never been an artistic man, but he had plenty of papers lying around, full of notes on monsters, fellow hunters, and reels of phone numbers. He also had a room upstairs packed with boxes full of Karen’s old crap that he hadn’t been able to bring himself to part with. There was probably something in there for the kid to use. Karen hadn’t been much of an artist either, but she’d babysat for her sister a couple times back in the old days, and kids loved that kind of crap.
“Think we can find somethin’,” Bobby said. “And I’m sure your brother would appreciate a picture to cheer him up. C’mon, let’s go see.”
Bobby heaved himself out of his chair and threw his book on the desk, hopefully out of the way. He glanced out the window to check on Dean, still where Bobby’d left him earlier, sullenly bouncing a baseball off the fence, though he looked marginally less miserable than he had before.
Sammy was already racing up the stairs ahead of him, so Bobby quickly followed him to the spare room. The room was cramped and dusty, empty except for the boxes and the camp bed tucked in the corner. Bobby had intended to make it into a proper guest room, once upon a time, but it had never worked out that way. Too many boxes, too much stuff. Not enough visitors.
Sammy didn’t seem to mind the mess, watching eagerly as Bobby sifted through box after box. They finally hit gold several boxes in, finding a pack of unbroken crayons and a handful of markers. Sammy’s face lit right up at the sight of them.
As Sammy sprawled out on the floor, hard at work, Bobby figured now was as good a time as any to pick through the detritus. He picked a box at random and dropped it next to him on the camp bed. He found Karen’s old romance books, pages yellow and curling, and some of her old papers inside. He started sorting through, making piles at his feet.
“Mr. Bobby,” Sammy piped up some time later, after Bobby had moved on to digging through stacks of old clothes. “How do you spell ‘Impala’?”
Sammy finished his masterpiece around the time Bobby was ready to call it quits, sick of the sight of all the boxes. Sammy proudly waved his drawing in Bobby’s direction to get his attention.
“I drew the car,” Sammy said happily.
“I see that,” Bobby said dryly. “Is that you and Dean in the window there?”
“Yeah! ‘Scept I drawed too small so our heads are stuck together.”
“You did a good job, kid. I bet your brother’ll get a kick out of it. How ‘bout you go show him?”
Sammy hopped to his feet, drawing clutched safely to his chest, but hesitated. “Mr. Bobby, can I draw more pictures later? I can draw one for Dad, and one for you?”
Bobby blinked, caught off guard. “Well, sure,” he said. “You can draw as much as you like.”
“Okay! I’m gonna go tell Dean!”
Bobby watched Sammy bolt for the door, and then heard him thud loudly down the stairs, calling for his brother. Bobby was left in the dusty spare room he usually tried to avoid, surrounded by Karen’s things. He’d packed everything in here shortly after she died and hadn’t seen most of it since, determined to forget the room existed entirely.
Now, years later, Bobby bent down to pick up the mess Sammy had left—scattered paper, marker lids, stray crayons. He threw it all on top of one of the piles he’d made, things he’d decided to keep. He’d have to find room downstairs, somewhere the boys could reach.
The other pile was bigger. He’d have to add to it as he went through the rest of the boxes, finding more of Karen’s things that he didn’t mind parting with. She’d hated clutter, anyway. And she’d want him to finally clear out the room, make it into a proper guest room. Just in case.