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Bobby once thought watching two children was damn hard, turns out looking after two teenagers is a lot harder. Dean is a bear with a sore head these days, anytime Bobby sees him. Always sulking or complaining about their dad leaving them and not needing a babysitter. Bobby wishes he would stop his belly aching and just deal already. Sam, to his credit, is a quieter teen, his head stuck in some school or lore book more times than not. He seems hell bent on ignoring Dean’s complains about their dad, rolling his eyes more than once as he sinks lower into the couch, dipping his head closer to his book.
“Dean, can ya quit it?” Bobby finally snaps, patience wearing thin, “Go and do something useful rather than bending our ears.”
Dean, to his credit, doesn’t argue, the seventeen year old heading out of the house to find something to keep his hands busy. Breaking some scrap cars up for Bobby, most likely. Bobby shakes his head as he watches him go.
Sometimes, just sometimes, the boy reminds him of John. Its not often, but its there. When Dean’s temper tethers on the edge from even the smallest things, when Sam clams up when disagreements get more heated than he’s comfortable with. John is a powder keg about to explode, anger sizzling below the surface at every chat back, at every word that might be disrespect. Sam has taken to pushing him to his limits, pulling every one of the man’s nerves until he’s seething and ready to throw his ass to the curb. Or that’s how Dean explains it anyway, Sam won’t disclose anything about it, jaw working and face blank when their father is brought up.
“Sam, come help me with these dishes, will ya?” Bobby calls to the teen, turning back to the sink when the thirteen-year-old jumps up without complaint to help out, his book carefully bookmarked and abandoned, “Dry while I wash?”
Sam nods, grabbing up the dishtowel and settling himself against the countertop to do as he’s told, “Course.”
Bobby eyes the kid, passing him a freshly washed dish to dry, “You been awful quiet, Sam, anything you want ta talk about?”
Sam shrugs, nonchalantly, very much a teenager, “No, everything’s fine. Just use to being left on my own, ‘s all.”
Bobby raises his eyebrows, “ya prefer the quiet?”
Sam shakes his head, “I don’t. Just Dean never wants to get stuck with me. And now that I’m old enough to be left on my own, Dad doesn’t like taking me with them.”
“Dean’s just trying ta prove himself to your dad, kid,” Bobby explains, watching the kids face drop as he as he mentions his father, hell Bobby just wants John to get off this boy’s case.
“Dad is never happy with anything,” Sam answers, putting down a plate a little bit too hard, breaking his straight-faced façade a little, “they both treat me like a little kid.”
“You are a kid, Sam. Trust me, being an adult is hardly sunshine and rainbows,” Bobby reminds him, smirking when Sam huffs out a small laugh, happy to see some joy in the boy, “give it time, kid.”
Sam shrugs again, “Don’t want to anyway.”
Bobby can tell that that isn’t the whole truth, but it isn’t a lie either. Sam has a need to prove himself to John too, just shows it in a less obvious way than Dean. He hides his yearning for approval behind a fake acceptance that Dean will always be a better hunter than he is. Not that the boy has had much of a shot at it. Sam would rather be branded the black sheep then break himself up to fit into the impossible expectations John sets for him.
Bobby doesn’t say anything to his words, changing the subject to the urban legend book to push the tension out of Sam’s shoulders. Letting the boy finally feel like he doesn’t have to hold a defensive stance, not here, not under his roof.
“Sam, training,” Dean’s voice breaks through the conversation and up goes Sam’s walls again.
Bobby bumps his shoulder against the boy, “duty calls?” Lightening the mood.
Sam dries the last dish, throwing Bobby a genuine smile, “Thanks Bobby,” he throws the cloth on the side to answer his brothers call.
Bobby watches him go, sighing deeply. Kids. They damn near break your heart.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Bobby doesn’t even know what the hell happened.
The boys were out training, Dean, as he always says, is by far old enough to keep an eye on Sam shooting. Bobby won’t get into an argument with the boy about it, not like he’s not got his own shit to do.
But obviously, something happened, because Bobby hears the door slam open from the other room.
“Just get off my back, Dean,” Sam snaps, throwing something down to the floor, “You sound just like dad, but that’s what you want isn’t it?”
“Why have you started being like this? Everything’s gotta be a damn drama, poor Sammy can’t take criticism,” Dean’s voice fires back, aggravation clear in his voice.
Bobby doesn’t get up from his desk, the two are by far old enough to hash out their own differences without him getting involved. Sam isn’t exactly a kid anymore and the likelihood is Dean will go off on his little strop when he’s blown off enough steam.
Or that’s what he thought anyway.
“Criticism is all I get from you both,” Sam shouts, he sounds almost on edge of tears, Bobby pushes his chair back to abandon his work to go and see what this is all about when: “Screw this family. All I want is to get away from you!”
Bang!
Bobby is up faster than he’s moved since he was twenty years younger, stopping dead in the doorway.
Dean meets his eyes as he enters the room, turning away from him, breathing heavily and kicking a table with enough force to shatter its leg and let the contents fall to the floor. Sam is on the floor not far from him, one hand holding himself up and the other cupping his mouth, he’s watching Dean closely, cautiously. Like he knew better than to make the wrong move again.
As soon as the boy processes Bobby’s arrival, he’s on his feet again before Bobby can even ask him if he is okay. Sam looks more worried that Dean is going to get in trouble than the track of blood falling from his bust lip.
When the hell did this become the norm for these kids?
“What in the hell is going on,” Bobby demands, his voice sharp, mainly directed at Dean who is breathing deeply to get his temper in check, still facing away from them.
“Bobby, it’s not-“
“Sam, go and get some peas on that or it’ll bruise,” Bobby cuts the kid off, not looking at him, still looking at the older Winchester, “I need to talk to Dean.”
“Bobby-“
“Now, Sam,” Bobby repeats, finally looking at the younger Winchester.
His cheek is red where Dean has struck him, his lip busted open proper. Bobby tightens his jaw. Sam’s eyes are wide as though ready to run upstairs and pack their shit when inevitably kicks them both out for this, “I’ll come help ya in a minute.”
Sam nods and does as he’s told, shutting the hall door behind him as though knowing Bobby will want some privacy for this conversation.
Bobby turns to Dean, silently, waiting for the boy to explain himself. The tension in the room is thick, poisoned, as Bobby waits and waits.
This isn’t like Dean. Bobby knows that much or he hopes he does. He doesn’t want to believe it is. He knows Dean will beat himself up for this for long after the bruise on Sam’s face fades. But he can also tell this isn’t the first time this has happened. Sam didn’t look shocked or hurt or betrayed.
He looked fearful that Bobby had seen it. Fearful the nasty secret is out.
Maybe this is exactly like Dean, but Bobby just didn’t want to see it.
This is the part of Dean that sounds too much like John, his inability or unwillingness to wind in his temper when things go too far. Before lines are crossed and trust is broken. If Dean wants to become his father like he seems to, he is going on the right path for it.
Bobby just hopes it’s not too late for the kid, not too late to pull him back from the edge.
“I don’t mean to, Bobby, he just-“ Dean starts left over frustration and newly blossoming guilt fighting for dominance in his face.
“Now don’t give me that shit, you stupid son of a bitch,” Bobby snaps, cutting the boy off cold, refusing to hear Dean blame Sam for this, “He’s your little brother, Dean. Have you lost your goddamn mind?”
Dean looks away, hands flexing at his sides. He looks about ready for the world to implode around him, and, despite everything, Bobby feels a pang of pity for the boy.
Dean has always been a closed book, a shoot first and ask questions later type of kid, to hell with whoever gets in his way. He carries the weight of responsibly of someone ten times his age. Hell, the boy has been more of a father to Sam than John ever has. It doesn’t take a genius to see that. Sam looks up to him in a way he hasn’t looked up at their father for years. Dean and Sam have been inseparable since they were young. Sam attaching himself to Dean like a leach whenever he hasn’t seen his brother for a period of time, whether that be an hour or a week. Dean looks at Sam like he’s something precious but terrifying. Like a father would look at their kid and hope to god they aren’t fucking this up.
Dean would kill for Sam, die for him. In a heartbeat, no thought, no questions. Bobby knows that.
That doesn’t make this right.
Dean shifts on his spot, “Do you want me out?”
The question hangs in the thick tension of the room. Fragile and awful.
Part of Bobby wants to say yes. Out of pure anger. Out of fear. Out of the desperation to get Sam the hell away from any harm that might befall him in the future.
But Dean looks terrified, horror in his face. He looks young. Like the pain is an ocean. Like he already hates himself enough to drown in it.
“No, I don’t want you out, boy.”
“Sam might,” Dean answers, looking down, leaning back against the wall, miserable.
Bobby rolls his eyes, cruel and pointed, “That kid loves you to death, Dean. He’s more worried about me putting you on ya ass than the blood running down his face.”
Dean looks at a loss.
“What’s wrong with me, Bobby?” Dean asks, finally, rubbing his hand over his face, “I never thought I would struggle to keep my temper in check, not like this…”
Not like John.
Neither of them say it, but there it hangs.
Part of Bobby wants to continue to watch him squirm, watch him lose himself in the guilt he is carrying. But Bobby cares for Dean too.
Bobby throws him a lifeline.
“Start at the beginning, Dean.”
Dean shrugs, looking at him at last. His hair is tustled from anxiously running his hand through it, “We were training, you know. The usual stuff. Laps, target practice, the works. Sam was talking about….about something, i dunno even what now. He wasn’t concentrating so his aim was off. Dad would have lost his mind if he’d been there. I told him to quit talking about his nerd crap and focus, then he stormed off. We argued and….,” He squirms on his feet, “and you know the rest.”
He cannot face the words. Can’t voice reality.
“No, you tell me.”
Dean’s voice drops, shame colouring it.
“I hit him.” Quiet, reluctant.
Bobby lifts his brow, “Him?”
Dean looks sick. Honest to god sick to his stomach.
“Sam,” Dean chokes out, voice like acid in his mouth, “I hit Sam. I hit my brother.”
“Why?”
Dean eyes him warily, shaking his head. And there it is, Dean’s rage mounting again with every word out of his mouth, “I don’t know. He pushes and pushes. He knows what buttons to hit everytime to make me angry.”
Blame.
And there it is, an excuse as old as time itself. A half-assed excuse that angry, violent men throw out to get their heads off the chopping block. Poison leaking from every word. He did this, he did that.
He deserved it.
Bobby feels sick to his stomach.
“So, what, he deserves a beating? A smack for daring to feel hurt when his brother can’t seem to stand the sight of him these days?” Bobby’s voice is calm, dangerously so, “A slap because he’s upset and mouthy and thirteen. You couldn’t keep a handle on your own damn temper. That, boy, that is not on Sam.”
Dean is staring at him, silent, fearful. Sick with guilt.
Good.
“I don’t know what in the hell’s ‘appened between you two, but you’ve been stomping around this house like a bear with a sore head since you got ‘ere. Like you can’t stand the sight of him,” Bobby continues, voice low, this might hurt but Dean needs to hear it, “And that boy in there- he looks at you like you hung the damn moon. Hurt, bleeding, upset. He will still look at you the same way. Even now.”
Dean’s jaw is working, his face close to crumbling under the weight of what Bobby is saying to him.
But Bobby isn’t finished.
“You act like you barely even like him.” Blunt, cruel, true. Words burning through the air.
Hurt flashes across Dean’s face, walls crumbling away as the words sink in, flinching as though he had been struck. Bobby watches the boy break, lets him fall apart in front of him under the weight of his own mistakes. The confidence and temper that rolled off him in waves finally breaking. The shadow of John Winchester falling away to unveil Dean’s true face.
Bobby doesn’t jump to soften the blow. He doesn’t say that lie coated in comfort, ’it’s okay’. Because nothing about this is okay. Not Sam’s bleeding face. Not Dean’s blooded fist. Nothing about the shard of John that lives deep in Dean is okay. Dean might be a product of who John has become since the loss of his wife. He might have grown up surrounded by that poison, that toxicity, so much so that it is hard to see where John ended and Dean began.
That doesn’t let him off the hook.
“I-I, Bobby, I fucking love that kid,” Dean’s voice cracks on the words, the emotions he had been hiding breaking through the dam at last, “you know-you know I do.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
Dean shakes his head, backing away slightly, chest rising too fast. Like a cornered animal. His gaze shoots to the door, itching to run. Bobby can see the urge to hide from reality, to bury it, to forget.
Bobby understood that, put a few walls between the damage and your hands. That’s okay when a table lays broken on the floor or a hole is plunged through the wall, but not this, not now. Because Dean can’t run for long enough to escape this. He certainly can’t leave Bobby’s because that would mean leaving Sam and that is not an option for the older Winchester.
“I would do anything…” Dean cuts himself off, pawing at his eyes roughly, not letting Bobby see a single tear drop, “I would do anything to take this back, but I can’t.” His voice drops, painfully raw, “I need to talk to Sammy”
He makes for the door
Bobby steps forward, blocking the boys path.
Dean has already grown taller than him, but Bobby does not back down even as Dean straightens to his full height as he is stopped short. Bobby wants time to talk to Sam alone without Dean, somewhere the boy can talk freely without fear of repercussions for his words. He doesn’t know yet how deep this goes. How long it has gone on for.
“You aren’t talking to Sam now,” Bobby says firmly, his voice is steady, allowing no room for argument from the Winchester.
“But Sam….Sam needs to know….”
“Go, cool off. Take a walk and do some goddamn thinking,” Bobby shakes his head, holding the boys gaze, not giving an inch, “That kid has already forgiven your sorry ass. Hell knows he must have had practice. The least you can do is give him space right now.”
“But-“
“The least you can do now,” Bobby says, his voice softening at the end, but still sharp and firm in his meaning, “is quit making this harder on the kid.”
Dean nods slowly, eyes darting to the broken table and the spot on the floor that Sam fell to. Bobby can see the cogs turning, the pain and the denial. Dean spares him one last look before he is out the door, listening to the command. Like the good soldier that John has made him.
Bobby sighs, he just wishes that is the only mark that that man has made on his kid.
The door stands in front of him, silent and mocking.
Oh hell, here goes nothing.
-------------------------------------------------------
Sam is on his feet the second Bobby steps through the door.
The ice pack is held limp in his hand, not looking like it has spent much time pressed to Sam’s face. It would have done just as much good melting on the table. Bobby closes the door behind him, taking in the boy’s appearance. Sam’s face is still red where Dean had caught him. The beginning of swelling blossoming around his split lip. By morning, there will no doubt be a dark, purple mark in its place.
“That ice oughta on your face, kid,” Bobby says, nodding when Sam immediately put the ice in its place, as though he hasn’t noticed it hadn’t been there.
Sam glances at the door then back at Bobby, a wary look on his face. Bobby doesn’t take it to heart, the kid has been through a lot the past hour, it’s not a surprise he’s searching for danger like an injured rabbit ready to bolt.
Bobby sits down on the couch, gesturing for Sam to follow suit with his chin. The boy hesitates slightly before doing just that. He sets himself down on the edge of the cushion, hand anxiously playing with a loose thread on his jeans, head bowed slightly. Making himself as small as possible.
That, makes something cold settle in Bobby’s gut. He has never seen the kid act this way before.
Bobby waits, eyeing the kid. This is Sam’s call. He’s not going to steer Sam anywhere he doesn’t want to go. Hell, knowing the younger Winchester, push too hard and say one wrong thing about his brother, Sam will clam up so fast and Bobby won’t see either of them for dust.
No, its better to let Sam come to his own conclusions. Let Sam feel safe enough to bring Bobby into his mind.
So Bobby waits.
“Dean, is he-?”
Bobby shrugs his shoulders, “Outside. Blowin’ off a bitta steam, figured it were for best for now.”
Sam turns that over in his mind, the boy always thinking, always worrying. He opens his mouth and the words come pouring out like they had been waiting on the tip of his tongue all along, “He…he doesn’t mean to do it, Bobby. Honest. He just gets so-“
Sam cuts himself off, struggling for the word.
Tense. Aggressive. Angry. Wound up as tight as an elastic band ready to snap.
Sam trains his eyes on the, once again lowered , ice pack, “Sometimes I just push him too far.”
The similarity of Sam’s dismissal to Dean’s explanation turns Bobby’s stomach. Same poison, different voice. Smaller, this time.
I push him too far.
Always Sam’s fault. Always granting Dean salvation from his sins while his own feelings batter and break inside him. Sam looks worried, scared for Dean, desperate to convince Bobby to forgive him. All the while the red turns purple on his face.
“That may be, but it doesn’t make it right, kid,” Bobby answers, keeping his voice steady, it won’t do to let Sam fear him too.
Sam shakes his head, looking at Bobby, his eyes are soft, vulnerable in a way Bobby has never seen before.
“What’s wrong with me Bobby?”
Bobby’s eyebrows knit together, caught off guard.
“What you going on about kid?”
Sam moves the ice pack from hand to hand, eyes glancing at the small smear of blood on the bag, “I…I don’t feel clean, Bobby.”
Bobby swallows, quiet, still. Listening.
“Sometimes….sometimes my blood doesn’t feel like it belongs to me. Like it ain’t even mine. Like its bubbling just below my skin. Just waiting for me to crack….ready to burst free.” His grip on the ice pack tightens before loosening instantly, conscious of his hands, “It makes me mad. Unbelievably mad. So I pick a fight with Dean….or dad, just to feel something.”
“Sam,” Bobby looks at the boy, concern coiling in his stomach, this feels more than just self-blame, this is something deeper, “you are growing up. You are gonna feel all kinds of things-“
Sam huffs, a sharp, humourless breath escaping his lips. He looks towards the ceiling then back at the melting bag of watery ice, “This ain’t about puberty, Bobby.”
“What Dean did-“
“Wasn’t his fault,” Sam’s voice is sharp suddenly, “It’s me you should be mad at.”
Bobby feels his patience start to crack.
“Bull,” Bobby snaps, meeting the boys shocked, wavering gaze, “Dean is responsible for himself. Plain and simple. The boy can’t hold his temper and takes it out on you. That’s not on you.”
Sam shrugs, like he doesn’t care, like Bobby’s words aren’t breaking him, “Then why do I bring this out in everyone?”
And there it is. What Bobby had been afraid of. Not fear. Not just lingering guilt.
Belief. Belief that punishment was deserved. Belief that he really is unclean.
Bobby feels his heart breaking for the boy. Sam, at just thirteen, is learning to navigate a world with rising tempers and lurking monsters all around him. Too many grown men with tempers and excuses ready to poison. He doesn’t get the privilege of pretending he isn’t scared of the monster under his bed while also checking for it to be on the safe side when nobody is looking. No, he has a handgun within reach of his bed for those very moments. Sam, Bobby can tell, hates it. He hates ditching every school he gets settled in. He hates moving from one place to another, one bed never the same as the next. He hates the sleepless nights waiting for John and Dean to phone him. He hates Dean’s resentment when he has to stay with him.
Sam has learnt from a very young age that keeping quiet is safer than speaking your mind.
No wonder, now that he’s grown older, he is pushing the boundaries to see how flimsy that safety is. To see how many hits he can take before someone starts listening. To see if the amount of blood that needs to be shed is worth it.
Kids like Sam pushed when nobody listened the first hundred times.
“It isn’t on you, Sam,” Bobby repeats firmly, wondering how many times it will take for Sam to start to believe it, “You are just a kid.”
“If I’m old enough to load and fire a gun,” Sam pushes back, his walls are back up, defensive in his positioning away from Bobby. Stubborn, “I’m old enough to take a punch
Bobby stares at him for a beat, because there is the rotten heart of it all.
These boys have been brought up with guns in their hands and the weight of the world on their backs. Taught all the wrong coping methods with all the wrong reasonings. The lessons drilled so deep into them that they sound like common sense.
Growing up too quickly on brittle legs, not experienced enough to hold themselves up.
Bobby shakes his head, “You ain’t, kid.”
Sam looks down then away.
“You ain’t old enough for either.”
The room falls quiet after that. His words hanging in the balance.
Bobby knows, even as the words leave his mouth, that he’s fighting a losing battle. That Dean will come back in soon, torn up and so sorry, and Sam would accept the broken pieces of his brother and start putting them back together in whatever way hurt Dean the least. Taking the weight of the blame on himself. Because this is what they have become. Dean blows up, Sam absorbs the damage and breaks himself to fix it.
Love, perhaps they called it.
Doesn’t make it right.
Bobby leans back on the couch, exhaustion settling in his bones as he watches Sam.
He just hopes there is still time to get through to them. To break the cycle that will keep on going around.
Sooner rather than later. Before something happens that can’t be walked back from.