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“It’s not healthy, John. Is no way raising kids.”
Bobby was at it again.
John sighed and carefully placed his bowie on the table. He really needed a new sharpening stone.
“None of your business. Leave it.” He said, his voice low and a bit foreboding, like he always tended to be when the subject of the conversation turned towards his questionable parenting.
But Bobby could be persistent son of a bitch when he wanted to. And at this very moment, he wanted to.
“Look at them!” Bobby hissed, nudging with his shoulder at the carpet next room, where two little backs were pressed together, creating an indistinguishable form. The similar gray shirts the boys were wearing didn’t help his uneasiness either. It was a bit uncanny. And Bobby didn’t like uncanny.
A silent childish chatter and the occasional giggle could be heard coming somewhere from the grayish blob.
“They are growing almost feral. Their own world, their own language. You should really let them sniff the flowers of the outside from time to time. Especially Sam. He probably thinks that the back sit of a car is what’s a room should look like.”
John knew that. He knew exactly what he was doing, he was also aware of how it looked like. But he knew the risks. Moreover - he knew there were risks he couldn’t yet measure, which was even worse.
“Next year, Bobby. Not now. Not… yet.” He said, silent and still. “And who the hell appointed you as my parental counselor? What would you know. You have none of your own.” He was bitter now. And he could be malicious when bitter. He knew that about himself, too.
Bobby was still learning that new specimen of a hunter named John Winchester, and decided to let the hurtful remark slide past him. He was very good at averting his attention. He did it from a very young age. Until. Well. Time will tell.
“Well suit yourself, mister know-it-all. But let me tell you, this, here, stinks like a whole new kind of Genie. Doubled, gift-wrapped and bow-tied. Be careful, John, you are playing with fire.”
John glanced at the man in front of him, somewhat pissed.
That was a breach of any etiquette, even by his own low, low standards.
Yet he knew what Bobby meant. He knew where things could roll. Where it could all wind-up. He took a deep breath to calm his blood rush and locked his stare right on Bobby’s, making the man’s retinas itch from the intensity of it.
“They need to survive, Bobby. And I will sacrifice everything, everything for that. Fuck stability and home and job and a, a foreseeable, ‘normal’ future. To hell with society, and all those stuck-up sonsofbitches and their norms and their gun regulation and ‘decent’ child welfare. All that. Hell, fuck my own sanity with it, too." He hissed. And to make his point even clearer, he shifted, closing on Bobby’s personal space.
Bobby tensed.
But then, to Bobby’s surprise, John pointed at the oblivious, two-headed gray mass nearby, baring his teeth.
“But also theirs.” he added, stressing each syllable as if it was a unique, new to the world letter of the alphabet. Feral.
“First I want them to stay alive. Sanity comes second; welfare comes third. End of story. Capiche?”
Bobby’s skin crawled.
“Capiche.” He retorted, low and gravely. Submitting.
John had that effect on people sometimes. Bobby didn’t like that. In fact, he already had a list of Things I Don’t Like About John Winchester in one of his diaries, getting longer with each visit from the hunter.
Bobby retreated, doing his best to defuse the tension.
There was nothing else to add.
For now.
The gray form separated for a moment, but only to shift a bit. From where Bobby was watching, it looked just as before - not right.