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It isn’t out of the ordinary for Jim to look after Sam and Dean. It becomes less and less frequent once Dean’s a teenager and can watch after Sam. But enough to where he feels some inkling of care for them.
When they’re with him, he’s still a Pastor, he answers all of Sam’s questions about God and religion as a whole. And from what he’s confessed to Jim in the moments they are alone at his church, he prays regularly- prays for the safety of his brother and his father. Especially his brother, Jim notes to himself every single time.
And a part of him wonders exactly why. He’s sat back enough time to watch the two interact to know they’re close. A part of him thinks that it’s too close when he finds Sam curling up around Dean in the mornings, waking them both up for the day before he heads out.
He only recalls bringing it up with John once when he comes to pick them up. By that time, Dean’s 14 and Sam’s 10, it’s the middle of summer and it’s a humid one compared to the usual. He wakes the two up on the last day before John arrives and he finds them curled up together. Their shirts are discarded haphazardly across the floor as if they had been stripped off through the night. And he finds Dean curling around Sam’s back, clutching onto his brother so intimately that one would surely mistake them for young lovers.
It has his stomach curling uncomfortably and he’s certain that Dean and John both know it’s wrong. He also knows that the boys haven’t been raised in the best circumstances and he’s certain that John didn’t have time to specify or hover and ensure his boys weren’t acting up. It’s obvious with the way they’re entrusted to him and Bobby Singer usually. He cannot fault either of them, really. He reminds himself that judgement is punishable.
When the man arrives, he stands aside and silently watches the way he greets them.
Dean runs like an eager child despite being the oldest. He throws himself into John’s arms almost immediately. He’s just starting to grow and comes up to only his shoulder- barely. And he nuzzles close, squeezing him with all his might.
John grins, something genuine and soft and he lets his eyes flutter closed.
Sam stands by and he just simply scrunches his nose up and rolls his eyes, keeping his arms crossed. And it seems like this isn’t abnormal and Sam is just simply waiting his turn in greeting their dad.
His eyes flick back to the scene and John rubs a hand up and down his back before settling low. It makes his stomach lurch almost immediately at the sight. Something about it feels far too intimate and alarm bells are immediately chiming in his head at the sight. He knows well enough to know that a man shouldn’t embrace his son like that.
And Jim waits patiently and bites his tongue. He ushers the boys to their separate rooms to pack up their belongings and waits until they’re well distracted to pull John aside into the backyard where he’s lighting up a cigarette.
“I thought you were quitting?” he questions casually.
John shrugs his shoulders a bit. “Mm, it takes the edge off after a hard hunt,” he says flippantly.
Jim knows they’re not really friends. They’re associates at best and this conversation is normal. But to have this conversation that Jim wants to have, he has to push past that boundary and prod at more.
“Dean’s growing up fast,” he decides to go that route.
That seems to catch John’s attention and he immediately catches the way his shoulders tense up and he clenches his jaw on the exhale, a cloud of smoke surrounding him for a moment before turning to face Jim. There’s a dark look in his eye that he’s usually seen on a hunt. That precise focus, calculating and cold.
“Yeah… I guess he is. He’s growing up real fast- reminds me of Mary sometimes,” he tells him. And that in itself is enough to make Jim’s skin crawl a bit. It takes all his self control to keep his features impassive, to avoid striking a nerve especially when John is watching him so closely, searching for any miniscule reaction, ready for an argument or fight.
Jim isn’t quite sure what to say about that. A part of him thinks begrudgingly that John says it on purpose to shut him up, or to start an argument.
He understands being keyed up after a hunt and knows it takes hours, sometimes days to truly relax afterwards. And he imagines it’s worse for John, the man’s constantly on the move, constantly dragging the kids right along with him.
Maybe he shouldn’t be bringing this up. But he pushes through and speaks despite his instincts telling him to not stoke the fire.
“I can tell you got something to say, Jim,” John interrupts his train of thought. “Out with it, the boys are gonna be ready to head out in a minute here,” he says, taking one final drag of his cigarette before dropping it into the grass and stomping it out, turning to face him fully.
Jim sighs. “This morning- and other mornings, I keep finding Sam in Dean’s room,” he finally says. John’s brows knit together curiously and he tilts his head a bit at that. “Did ya?” He asks, something in his tone saying that he doesn’t quite believe it. And he’s reminded exactly why he doesn’t have many friends. He also wonders how he ever managed to work side by side with him before.
“Yes,” he deadpans, hands curling into fists at his sides, reminding himself to have patience. “I know they’re close, but with Dean at his age and- everything that entails being a teenage boy, they should not be that close, John,” he pauses and watches his features closely for a moment. And he isn’t surprised to see that his expression is completely impasse and unreadable.
He stuffs his hands into the pockets and he sighed. “Look, I know you think ‘cause you’re a man of god and you babysit them, you can add your two-sense in,” he starts, walking closer until they’re only a couple inches apart. He recognizes the intimidation tactic and only bristles in response, standing his ground.
“But I got it covered, Dean knows how to behave,” he says. And Jim for a moment wants to press the matter and ask. “Well, what about Sam?” He’s the one who constantly climbed into Dean’s bed. But with the steel in John’s voice, he knows there’s no room for arguing and Jim doesn’t exactly want to go to his service today with a black eye.
Before he can say anything though, footsteps echo through the kitchen until Dean pokes his head out of the back door. His caramel blond hair glints honey gold in the bright summer sun and it falls into his eyes just a bit. “Dad, come on, I got the car packed up and Sammy’s ready to go,” he beckons easily.
And something seems to snap through John. His eyes flick over to Dean and his eyes soften noticeably so.
Jim knew Mary Campbell, remembers one of the last times her and her father had come to him for help on a hunt. He remembers having this same disgusted feeling, bile rising in the back of his throat seeing the way a father looks at his child so intimately and lovingly.
It’s like looking into a mirror. And Jim knows the look of sin, when someone is fighting off temptation. Both John and Samuel have that exact look. Dark and hungry, hunter and predator at their core as they look upon their tempting fruit. But so loving underneath it all.
It’s overwhelming to witness. And much like he did in the past, he turns a blind eye to it. It is not his sin to bear, not his problem to solve.
He watches as John smiles at his sun, the way Dean brightens underneath it- like a sunflower perking up in front of their sun. “That’s gotta be record time for ya, De,” he says with a hint of teasing, moving to close the gap.
His arm wraps around Dean’s shoulders and pulls him close. It’s faux casualness, enough that he’s sure Dean won’t think anything of. But Jim is no fool, and he sees the way John’s fingers curl around the fabric of his shirt- it’s possessive in a way that it shouldn’t.
“You boys behave,” Jim manages to call out to Dean as they’re turning to leave. Dean pauses when he hears that and he turns to look at Jim. “No promises, father,” he responds with all bravado and charm, grinning playfully and winking.
John huffs a bit and reaches a hand up from his shoulder to push his face forward, to look away from Jim. Dean only laughs like they’re just messing around. “Stop being cute,” he huffs at him as if he’s disgruntled. And Dean laughs more, leaning into him easily as they navigate through the house.
Their voices taper off and Jim is left with the sinking feeling- the realization that Dean is where he wants to be by his father’s side.
————-
Bobby doesn’t exactly like John Winchester. Hell, he’ll even go as far as to say that he hated the man. And there’s only two things about him that he can stand whenever they’re forced to work together one way or another.
One: He is damn good at his job, good instincts like he was born for this job as a hunter. And maybe it’s because he’s got war ingrained in his bones since Vietnam, it followed him back home to Kansas and pushes him forward.
Two: his sons. Dean and Sam are sweet boys, they always have been. Rough around the edges, sure. But he can’t expect anything less for two boys that live out of an Impala with their dad as their Drill Sergeant. He holds fond memories of them- of the two boys gathering around to watch tv or some old shitty black and white movie with him.
Despite it all, how fond he is of the two, watching over them when he can. He still wishes they find more- something outside of all of this.
He’s not too surprised when he finds out that it’s Sam who leaves. It makes sense, with how smart he is, he’s always been destined for more. He half expects Dean to follow Sam with the way they’ve always been attached at the hip.
But when Dean shows up at his door in 2003 with his injured Dad on his arm, he understands perfectly why he’s sticking around. It hits him in the gut as he looks at Dean who’s visibly pleading. “Look, you’re in the middle of fucking nowhere Bobby, but you were closer than the next motel,” he insists, a tinge of desperation in irritation in his tone while John is a useless lump, groaning low in pain, leaning heavily on the younger boy.
And Bobby has no choice but to agree. “Balls,” he mutters and he steps aside and lets them in. “Fuck you too, Bobby,” John mutters, knowing the disgruntled tone is aimed at him more than it’s aimed at Dean in that moment.
Dean gets as far as the living room before he’s gently sitting John down. Bobby huffs to himself quietly and watches Dean move around with a hint of frantic energy and desperation, disappearing to the bathroom and returning only moments later with a first aid kit in hand.
He gets to work, getting his dad out of his layers with his undershirt rolled up. It’s a pretty gruesome sight, the steady stream of blood and torn up skin that looks like gruesome bright red ribbons.
And while Bobby has seen worse, something about it makes his stomach lurch and he has to turn his head away- like he can’t bear to watch the way Dean frets over John like some responsible wife.
It’s become more apparent in Dean’s adulthood, how John treats him.
He slips into the kitchen and cracks open his half-drunk bottle of bourbon, needing a drink to survive the guests. He busies himself with that and eventually comes back into the living room when he grows tired of John’s groaning. Ha hands over a bottle of whiskey, shoving it into the older man’s hand. “Here, drink some of that to quit your bitching,” he gripes.
John grumbles. “Asshole,” he mutters and takes a gulp from it. He holds it out to Dean and Dean just bats it away, too focused on his task, finishing off the stitches. All while John just lays there strewn across the couch. “You both owe me a new couch,” Bobby eventually says. “What the hell got you this time?” He eventually asks when it seems like Dean’s sealed the stitches. He can see the boy’s hands are stained with blood and muck and he’s got this far away look in his eyes.
“It was a Rugaru,” John says and he reaches out almost blindly for Dean and his hand resting atop of his head, petting him like he was petting a dog. It surprises Dean enough, makes him jolt. And Bobby wishes he didn’t notice, wishes to turn away. He almost hopes that Dean pulls away and scoffs at him like a regular young adult should- like he’s seen him do before in the face of affection from others.
But he doesn’t. Dean almost leans into it, bumping further up into his hand like a dpg searching for affection. It makes something uneasy settle in his gut, because everything in him is telling him that something’s off. Something’s not quite right and he’s not sure what to do about it.
“I was supposed to take care of it, but dad had to save my ass,” Dean eventually says and he sounds so damn sad about it,
Bobby can only let out a little hmm in response. “Dean drew ‘em out like we were aiming for,” John speaks up to say, his hand still moving through dark blonde strands, petting Dean to keep him placated. Bobby’s brows furrow at that and he knows almost immediately what that means. It makes his stomach lurch uncomfortably. “You sure you ain’t bleeding there, Dean?” His question snaps Dean out of it and he turns his attention to Bobby. But before he can answer, John is there and speaking over him. “He’s fine, just a little shaken up,” he says simply and Dean huffs a bit, but doesn’t say anything further. His shoulders just slump and he’s docile, like a puppet who’s just gotten their strings cut.
Bobby isn’t a fool and knows that John is a bad sonuva bitch, who’s protective of his boys when he chooses to be. It comes and goes, as unpredictable as winter snow in South Dakota here. And right now, he’s caught up in that fight instinct, adrenaline still pumping after a hunt.
He’s admittedly a bit thankful he had given him the whiskey when it did, because it’s the only thing that’s probably keeping him from getting snippy and starting an argument.
Maybe he’s also being nice ‘cause he’s got his boy sitting at his feet like an obedient dog.
He eventually says his goodnight to them, figuring there’s no use with small talk when the two of them are clearly trying to wind down from the hunt. He leaves just as John holds out the half-drunk bottle of whiskey to Dean. The younger boy takes it and gulps back a bit and is wincing as Bobby turns his back
He eventually drifts off into an uneasy doze. And it’s a couple hours later when he makes his way to the bathroom and he hears creaking for a moment in the living room. The dull thrum of the tv is buzzing but it does little to cover up the breaths that fill the air. He walks closer, half asleep and curious. Because surely the two had retired to one of the guest bedrooms.
“You- you saved me, gotta thank you,” Dean’s voice is barely above a whisper but choked out and tight with emotions he hasn’t exactly heard in him before. He listens despite his instincts telling him to back away. “De, c’mon, you gotta sleep, countin’ on you to do the driving tomorrow,” John sounds so close to slurring, words blending together, the mix of exhaustion and whiskey settling into his bones.
“I will, I will,” Dean answers and he sounds more like himself for a moment, playful.
Then there’s more shifting and creaking and he hears the distinct sound of a fucking zipper and belt buckle clanking as it’s undone. He turns and flees quickly when the realization hits him full force.
“Look’it you,” he hears John rasp out, appreciative and warm. And almost unconsciously, Bobby feels himself taking a step closer down the hall. It feels like invading a moment just meant between them. But a sick part of him is curious- curious to know exactly what this is.
That feeling that something’s never been quite right with them- it hits him like a truck. He knows John’s never been quite right, wasn’t right when he came back from Vietnam and his wires were definitely crossed and fucked when the fire had happened.
It’s trickled down into Dean apparently. The oldest boy who’s been loyal, always fond when he speaks about John despite how heavy his absence always weighed on him. It all makes sense now that he realizes how close the two have always been, how Dean’s idolization hadn’t ceased even in adulthood.
The slick, wet sounds of sucking are impossible to mute, even under the buzz of late, middle-of-the-night tv. They echo and it makes him a bit dizzy.
The sound of John’s groans is what brings him back down, what makes him realize just exactly what he’s listening to.
“Perfect- fuck- you know just how to take care of your old man.” Bobby realizes he can almost hear it loud and clear with how close he’s gotten, tucked away in the dark hall, away from the static blue glare lighting the living room.
His stomach lurches immediately at that and he wants to puke right then and there.
He forgets himself for a moment and how quiet the house is when he nearly trips over himself to escape back to his bedroom. He manages to make it back to his bathroom just in hurl. His foot hitting the one loose floorboard on the path back down the hall. It squeaks and groans loud and he’s almost certain that he’s heard.
Did that even matter? He thinks maybe John doesn’t give a shit anymore. Maybe that it’s impossible to keep up any pretense of normalcy. Without Sam, the two of them are surely a match. What John wants, Dean wants. Dean always spoke about wanting to be partners with his dad when he was older, Bobby finds himself remembering suddenly. Those stars that shone in those big green eyes had his heart twinging, feeling heavy and sad because despite it all, Dean loved his dad. He still loves him, more than anyone could ever love him probably.
It all clicks into place and he still feels that heavy sadness there all mixing with disgust and anger because it only confirms that John will never be quite right and neither will his oldest.
He can’t sleep a wink, it’s just tossing and turning for him until sunlight bleeds in through the curtains. His mind conjures all the conversations him and Dean had through the years, especially when John used to drop them off. When he had been young and innocent, filled with grand stories of his heroic father. How he never said a bad word about him- even snapped at Sam a few times when he would start going off about how tired he was of all of this. He remembers having to mediate more than a few fights between them.
“Shut your mouth, Sammy. You don’t get it, you never will,” He remembers Dean snapping at Sam one of the final times they two of them had stopped by Bobby’s along the route to the next town.
He wonders if they had ever recovered from that fight.
Probably not.
He only finally stirs and drags himself out of bed when he hears a radio and movements amongst the weak floorboards in the kitchen. He makes his way down the hall, uncertain in his own damn house, wondering what he’s going to be walking in on.
He finds the two of them lingering close together. And for a moment, he wants to puke right then and there- or punch John until he knocks some sense back into him. Though he knows the latter is probably damn near impossible.
He lingers close to Dean and talks to him almost casually like their partners- friends almost. It’s the most agreeable John’s ever been when it comes to working with someone else. Last time Bobby saw him acting like this was with that one woman, Tara. And it makes him bristle a bit more at the implications. Pretty blondes seem to be his type after all, he realizes with bile rising in the back of his throat.
He doesn’t realize he’s staring exactly until Dean looks over his shoulder. He’s all smiles, the heavy, sad kicked puppy energy dissipated, “Hey, Bobby, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he teases, taking a sip of coffee, moving to plop down at the kitchen table.
Bobby rolls his eyes a bit. “Surprised you two are still here, running on military time and all,” he grumbles and makes his way across the kitchen to start on his own cup of coffee.
“Like Dean tells me, lighten up, soldier,” John says with a clap on the shoulder. Bobby turns his attention to John and he feels his eyes hardening. “That’s rich coming from the drill sergeant himself,” Bobby says with a snort, rolling his eyes.
He can’t exactly say he’s friends with John. They’ve worked together on enough hunts and know each other well and the only thing in common is the boys. And even with them, they rarely find a middle ground. But the only reason he bites his tongue is the boy with dirty blond hair and bright green eyes staring between them, sipping at his coffee. “It’s safe to say that nearly dying last night got through his thick skull,” he chimes in, shrugging.
John moves gingerly to sit down at the kitchen table and grunts a bit. “Don’t sound too smug, boy,” he huffs at him, giving him a look. Dean chuckles a bit, hiding it in the rim of his mug, shrugging. “Wouldn’t dream of it, pops,” he says.
Bobby eventually settles and they get through a breakfast of cereal before John is shifting and getting up slowly, talking about getting a move on. Dean follows and is the one loading up the car and checking everything over for them while John lingers in the house.
The hairs on the back of his neck stand up in attention, knowing John’s lingering close, circling him like he’s ready to start something. Bobby’s attention shifts to him and he raises a brow. “You got something to say?” Bobby asks.
John sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face and he takes a step closer. “Look, you’re not really silent, moving through this old house of yours,” he says bluntly, an uneasy, almost tired look crossing his features as he takes a step closer. Bobby is stock still and simply blinks, feeling that familiar bile burning in the back of his throat. His hands tremble ever so slightly, that anger from the previous night returning tenfold. “Don’t think this is a conversation you wanna be having, John,” Bobby says, sucking in a deep breath. John sighs heavily. “No, not at all, Bobby,” he answers simply, not even trying to deny it.
“Just want to remind you, he’s my boy at the end of the day,” he deadpans. “And it ain’t your business.” There’s no guilt- no apologies or anything like that in his voice. Just steely conviction, unwavering. It’s the same damn story every time he’s tried to overstep before. A cruel reminder that it doesn’t matter what he says. He’s their Dad- they’re not Bobby’s boys. It burns him up and there’s a knowing glint in his dark eyes.
Bobby sighs a bit and steels himself, meeting his gaze with his own venomous glare. “Right. Your boy, ‘cause you’re father of the fucking year,” he spits. “Don’t bring that shit into my house again,” he practically growls, all teeth and vitriol. And John grins, that infuriating smirk that has an edge of cruelty to it. “Trust me. The only reason we ended up here is ‘cause of Dean. He likes visiting you,” he drawls, something close to condescending in his tone. It’s mixed with exasperation as well, a hint of irritation too.
“Now, he’s welcome whenever he wants,” Bobby finds himself saying against his better judgement. “You, not so much,” he sneers.
And in the blink of an eye, John is closing in on him, quick as a whip like he’s still in his 30s. He grips Bobby’s collar with one hand, the other curling into a fist. “Good thing he’s not leaving my sight any time soon,”’ he practically growls with all the teeth of a wild animal. Bobby’s ready to sock him in the jaw, knock a few teeth loose maybe.
But then the sound of footsteps and Dean does the job in snapping them both out of it. “Dad, come on, we gotta get a move on,” he’s calling out to John from the living room. John’s hand goes slack and he immediately lets go of Bobby just in time for Dean to pop his head into the kitchen. He eyes their close proximity. “You two about to hug or something?” He asks, raising a brow. John is the first one to let out a chuckle. “Just thanking Bobby for being such a good host as always,” he lies, patting Bobby’s shoulder before stepping back.
Bobby can tell from his peripheral vision that Dean doesn’t exactly look convinced, but he smiles regardless. “Well, stop being a sap and let’s go,” he beckons and comes closer, tugging on his wrist a bit.
John chuckles and nods, fondness replacing that anger that had just been there. He shifts to sling an arm around Dean then and Dean just peeks over to Bobby, giving him a wave. “Thanks for letting us stop in, was worried sick about him dying on me,” he tells him earnestly.
Bobby swallows back all the curses he wants to spew at John. And all he can do is nod. “Don’t mention it, kid,” he says, turning his attention back to his coffee on the counter, letting them leave, the slam of the door echoing throughout the old house.
The mental picture his brain conjures up of last night, of how John will probably be the moment he gets him far away from here. It sends a tremor through him and he sighs, reaching for what’s left of the bourbon, mixing it heavily with his coffee, hoping it’ll wash away the mental images he has of a boy who’s like a son to him down on his knees gagging for his real daddy.
And when he sees Dean again, years later, those mental images come back with a vengeance and he’s almost thankful John’s gone. Even if it’s clear he took a piece of Dean with him and the boy’s clearly not the same sunny, bright eyed boy he once was. The almost haunted look that plagues him makes it easier to swallow it down. Almost