[fanfic] SPN "Do Dandelions Roar" Chpt 6 Title: Do Dandelions Roar: Chapter Six Author:kuwamiko Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, John, Bobby Rating: R-NC17 Spoilers: nothing major (set in pre-series AU) Summary: Two years ago Dean disappeared. Now John and Sam have gotten him back. But how will the three of them deal with the unexpected changes his trials in the time between have effected? Warnings: Nongraphic references to non-con sex and underage prostitution. Violence. Language. Incest (duh). Author's Note: This is AU, utter self indulgence, and has massive Dean!whumpage. Will contain Wincest eventually. Set about a year before the pilot, with some major differences. [chpt 1] [chpt 2] [chpt 3] [chpt 4] [chpt 5] [chpt 6] [chpt 7] [chpt 8] [chpt 9] [chpt 10] [chpt 11] [chpt 12] [chpt 13] [chpt 14] [chpt 15] [chpt 16] [chpt 17] [chpt 18] [chpt 19] [chpt 20] [chpt 21] [chpt 22] [chpt 23] [chpt 24] [chpt 25] [chpt 26] [chpt 27] [chpt 28] [chpt 29] [chpt 30] [chpt 31]
"Do Dandelions Roar"
- Chapter Six - by KnM
There were his boys, John Winchester's sons, waiting for him where he had left them. It was like rolling back the years, walking into the hotel room with a take-out meal in hand, and finding both his boys curled up on one of the beds together.
Of course, this was nothing like while the two were growing up. Not by any stretch of the imagination.
The television was on, the local station a muted buzz in the background, but neither of the room's occupants were paying any attention to it. Both were lying on the bed furthest from the entrance, facing the door, Sam's larger body coiled around Dean's slender form.
Sam was lying on his side, dark shadows under his eyes apparent even beneath the double screen of his lashes, sleeping the sleep of a man overcome by sheer emotional exhaustion. He was still wearing his traveling clothes, but had taken off his shoes. It was clear from the way he was propped up against the pillows that he hadn't meant to fall asleep, but equally obvious that he hadn't had much choice in the matter.
One of his arms was caught underneath his brother's body, the other wrapped around Dean, his hand spread possessively over Dean's bare chest. He didn't look as though he was going to be letting go any time soon, as though he was afraid to let go.
John felt a pang of guilt and sorrow shoot through him. He hadn't been able to give his boys the lives he'd intended for them when they were born, the lives their mother surely would have wanted, but Sam had gone out and grabbed that life for himself out of sheer determination and will.... And John had reached out and yanked him right back out of it, right back into everything Sam had fought to leave.
It made him feel ill, suddenly, to realize that he had what he'd wanted the night Sam had left, but in such a twisted way that it never would have been what he truly desired.
Besides, if he hadn't wanted, really in the heart of him, wanted Sam to leave for Stanford, he never would have filled out all those forms and signed all those papers. He'd never told Dean, and he doubted Sam had, but if he really hadn't wanted his youngest to leave, he could have just burned all the paperwork that Sam shoved at him. It was easier, though, to blame Sam's departure, his desertion, for John's anger at losing his son. Just like it was easier to get angry instead of facing the fact that he was terrified at the thought of his boy being where John wouldn't be able to protect him.
And just look at what had happened. It had been Dean who had protected his younger brother. It was Dean who had paid the price of that sacrifice.
John had never blamed Sam for what had happened, though he was well aware that Sam had always blamed himself. No, it was all John's fault. His fault for dragging his boys into this life of Hunting. His fault for allowing Sam to leave for college. His fault for training Dean to be one of the best Hunters he had ever seen, and yet not that extra little bit good enough that would have kept him from being captured and damaged by that supernatural bitch.
Sammy had always been Dean's weak spot, and the Melusine had exploited that without even knowing she had been doing so.
Dean was lying against Sam's chest, also facing the door. John couldn't see his son's eyes through the gold-tipped curls tumbling into his face, but he suspected that Dean had awakened as soon as the key had hit the knob, and the boy was just playing 'possum now, waiting to see what would happen to him.
Again, he felt sick, and this time it was at how horribly he had failed Dean. He shouldn't have taken so long to find his older son. Shouldn't have left Dean so long in the hands of men who used and abused him, who made him think that being hurt, being violated, was a matter of course.
Dean was out of his shirt and shoes, again, but he was at least still wearing his jeans and socks. His left hand was curled against his face, and John was pretty sure that he had his thumb in his mouth. A habit he and Mary had coaxed Dean out of before Sammy had even been born, and it made John's heart hurt, both to remember the small boy that he and his wife had held in their arms and to see that Dean had fallen back into that habit after twenty-five years, that he so badly needed any form of comfort that he could claim for himself.
There was a glint of silver on Dean's other hand, which was laying palm up beside him on the bed, but then Bobby gave John a shove from behind, grunting that he was letting all the cold air in, and John crossed to place the bags he was carrying on the counter in the small kitchenette.
He'd never considered himself a good father, but he had done the best he could with what he had. Now, looking at his boys, he felt like the worst failure of a father on the face of the Earth. And he wondered where they'd all be if it hadn't been for the yellow-eyed demon.
And he really, really needed a good stiff drink or dozen.
"Rise and shine, boys," Bobby boomed, clapping his hands together. Sam started, snorting, his eyes flying wide. He glanced around, looking lost for a long, confused moment, then his face fell as he realized where he was.
John winced and turned away. It was going to be that way for Sammy for a while. John had awakened expecting to find Mary breathing softly beside him for months after the demon had taken her from him. Hell, he still sometimes awakened to that expectation, more than twenty years later.
"Z'ere food?" Sam slurred, his jaw cracking in a wide yawn. It wasn't even nine o'clock yet and he already sounded ready for a good night's sleep. Which was part of the reason John had been willing to make an early stop instead of driving on through the night. Dean wasn't the only one John was concerned about pushing too hard.
"Plenty to eat and it's all good," Bobby informed Sam, and it didn't even sound like false cheer. "Let's dig in while it's still hot!"
Yawning again, Sam climbed off the bed and led his silent brother over to the threadbare sofa. Dean's eyes were wide and clear and if he had been sleeping earlier, he was definitely wakeful now.
Sam got Dean some food while Bobby helped himself. Once they'd gotten out of the diner and into the truck that afternoon, with a hundred miles or so under the wheels, Sam had managed to talk Dean into eating almost half of the sandwich the waitress had boxed up for them. John eyed the amount of food that Sam was preparing for his brother and had his doubts that Dean would be able to get through so much as a third of it. But after the argument in the diner, he was resolved to stay the hell out of it. If Sam could get Dean to eat without John's intervention, then more power to him.
And it actually wasn't an issue. Although, as John had expected, Dean only finished about a quarter of what Sam had dished up for him. John hoped that as Dean recovered, his stomach for meals would return. He clearly recalled having trouble keeping both his boys fed during their teens, and Dean had retained a hearty appetite into his twenties. It was strange and disturbing to see him leaving so much on his plate... but that would change as he got better and started getting more exercise. John was sure of it.
Sam, Bobby, and John finished off what was left, even though John hadn't thought that he would be able to eat. It seemed his body was on track, even if his mind was a weltering mess of angst, confusion, and anger.
While John tossed the empty containers, Bobby hauled out his cell phone and made a brief call in his own room with the door shoved to. He emerged in under two minutes, grinning crookedly. "So far, so good," he announced cheerfully.
John heaved a sigh of relief. There was still no guarantee that they would all stay in the clear, but as long as it lasted, it was good. He trusted Lao to contact him if there was news. So in this case, no news really was good news.
"Oh." Sam frowned, then crossed to rummage in his duffel. He pulled out his own phone and turned it on. After the start-up chime there was a frantic beep signaling a voice mail. Sam punched a key and listened. A moment later he hissed, his eyes rounding as he yanked the phone away from his ear. "Holy shit!"
"How many messages?" Bobby asked curiously.
Sam just shook his head at the older man and took his phone outside. John had a feeling that his son would be out there for a while. He didn't know what preparations Sam had made before leaving Stanford, but he thought it was more than likely that he had just dropped everything and taken off as soon as he'd gotten John's call. So, yeah, he probably had some catching up to do. Too many people at Stanford cared about Sam for the young man to just vanish without a word.
Dean was sitting where Sam had left him on the sofa, still shirtless, his eyes flickering between John and Bobby, a twist of gold-brown hair twined around one finger.
John looked back at his son, meeting Dean's eyes and watching his gaze skitter away. Dean nibbled on one finger, and bowed his head slightly. John bit back a grimace. It was just so wrong. Dean had never been shy, not since he had been a very small boy. And he had certainly never been this... submissive.
Retrieving the Zeppelin teeshirt, John chivvied the boy back into it. He just... felt more comfortable with Dean fully clothed.
Dean looked up at him, his green eyes round, pupils wide and black, loose curls tumbling into his face. John ran his fingers through Dean's hair, smoothing it back from that pale brow. He wanted his son back, his Dean. There didn't seem to be much he could do, but there was one thing....
He rooted through his bag until he found the scissors and comb he had purchased that morning. Dean watched his every move closely.
Bobby was also watching. "John...."
John shot the older man a hard look. It was none of Bobby's business. This was John's son, his responsibility, his decision. His son.
Bobby's lips pressed tightly together but he held his peace as John urged Dean to his feet and led him toward the bathroom. Dean moved obediently. He seemed perfectly stable on his feet now, which made John feel a bit better. Dean would recover. He'd always been a quick healer.
"John," Bobby repeated softly, and the tone of his voice halted John in the doorway.
"Go and sit on the toilet and wait for me," John instructed Dean levelly, and after taking a moment to make sure that his son did as he had been told, he took two steps back into the room. "What is it, Bobby?"
Bobby reached up and scratched at his beard, his expression impossible to read. His gaze was sharp, though, and his eyes hard as jade. "I jest.... Ain't my place, I know that, but I worry. I jest wanna say to you, don't fergit what Dean's been trained to do for the past two years."
John glowered, anger and bitterness rising in him, hot and fierce. "As if I could forget!" he snapped harshly.
Bobby met his glare without flinching, his own expression melting into something more mournful than anything else. "You ain't hearing me, John Winchester."
"What?" John was well aware of what had happened to his son. He'd never be able to forget; it would torture him for the rest of his life.
Bobby stifled a groan, looking equal parts exasperated and anguished. "Please don't make me spell out what I mean."
John wallowed in utter confusion, and hated the sensation.
Bobby gave him a betrayed look, not seeming any more happy than John was, his mouth drawing down bitterly. "Yer an asshole, John," he said fervently, then dragged a hand over his face. "What I'm sayin' is not to fergit what your son's been trained to do for the past two years... and apply that knowledge. If he don't know you right now, then to him yer nothin' but another strange man."
John could feel himself blanche, could feel the blood draining from his face, as Bobby's meaning finally penetrated the solid wall of denial that he hadn't even known he'd erected. The heat of his anger was completely dissipated, and a cold wave of horror washed through him. His eyes were burning but the rest of him was frozen through.
"You--" His voice cracked in half and he licked his lips. "You'd better not mean what I think you mean...."
Bobby gave him a slightly defensive look, raising his hands, callused palms flashing harmlessness. "Nothin' like what yer thinkin', John. And nothin' I couldn't turn to the right. But Dean is lost and tryin' to find his way, and it's only natural fer him to revert to what's been pounded into his head fer the past two years."
John heard an anguished whine and was ashamed to realize that it had escaped from his own throat. It was one thing to "know" what had been done to Dean. It was another thing entirely to be confronted with the reality of what it had molded his son into. "For God's sake, Bobby, he's my boy!"
Bobby nodded, his grizzled face soft, but his gaze uncompromising. "Hurts, John. I know. I ain't tryin' to make things worse. I'm tryin' to make things better. Or... well, tryin' to keep you from hurtin' Dean more'n he already has been. Not sayin' you can even do anything about it. Jest sayin' you'd best not fergit."
John clenched his hands and nodded tightly. "Yeah. Okay." Without saying anything else, hoping that Bobby wouldn't say anything more, he turned and went back into the bathroom.
Dean was sitting on the lid of the toilet, a finger in his mouth, and he fixed John with a wide-eyed look as he set the scissors and comb on the edge of the sink. John closed the door quietly behind himself. Bobby might not trust him, but he was Dean's father and he would only do what was best for his son.
Kneeling carefully before the boy, John struggled to smile. "How you doing, champ?" he asked, reaching to gently cup Dean's jaw. "You ready for a trim?"
Dean stretched a hesitant hand forward, fingertip tracing lightly over John's beard. His brow crinkled ever so faintly, and John didn't think he was imagining the confusion in those green eyes.
"That's something new, isn't it?" John murmured, his smile more sincere now. He was comforted by two things. First, that Dean didn't seem to be reacting to him sexually, despite Bobby's dire warnings. And second, it might be wishful thinking, but Dean seemed to be on his way to recognizing his father. "You think I should shave it off?"
Dean glanced up, not quite meeting John's eyes, withdrawing his hand slowly. John stifled a sigh and patted Dean's knee. He couldn't hope for too much progress too quickly and it would only make things worse if he pushed Dean too hard. He was going to have to be patient and look to Missouri to offer aid in doing what he could not.
"Let's get your hair dealt with first," John decided, rising to his feet. "I'll get you looking like a boy again."
Freeing the scissors from the packaging, he wet the comb and began drawing it through Dean's hair. Dean shivered when a bead of water ran down the back of his neck, tracking over the mark the Melusine had left in his skin. John held his breath, but Dean didn't seem to have any reaction except to hunch a little bit more into himself. He remained obediently motionless, stayed stubbornly silent.
John resolved to get this finished quickly. Dean's unnatural stillness, while convenient, was supremely unsettling.
And after Dean was shorn, then he'd decide whether or not to shave off his beard.
***
Bobby sighed, rubbing his hands wearily over his face. With Sam outside and John and Dean in the bathroom, he was alone in the Winchester's room, but he was reluctant to retire to his own. It was still early, even with all the driving that they'd been doing, and he wasn't ready for bed yet.
It felt almost like some sort of betrayal, but he missed his home, and he would be glad when he'd handed the Winchesters off to this Missouri Mosely and could be on his way back there. He'd actually been sleeping in his own bed, drinking out of his own coffee mug, doing things to his own schedule less than a week ago. Then John had gotten the first real lead on his son's whereabouts since Bobby had discovered that Dean was no longer in the clutches of that damned Melusine, that the creature had actually been shredded by something much more powerful shortly after taking the young man. Upon making that discovery, Bobby had half considered that Dean was gone forever, though he never would have said the words aloud.
But John had called him, he knew where Dean was, and Bobby had come. He fostered an inexplicable fondness for the Winchester boys, and had been glad to be able to help John get his eldest son back.
Of course, he hadn't expected to find Dean so broken and he very much hadn't expected to find himself playing peace-keeper between John and Sam. As much as it irked him, he was glad he was here.... And yet he was just as much looking forward to getting home and having some -- he felt -- well earned peace and quiet.
Bobby sighed again, just beginning to consider going to his own quarters, because he felt a little awkward hanging out in the Winchester's hotel room, surrounded by their things, not an interloper, but definitely in a place that was not his own, when the door to the parking lot cracked open.
Sam stepped back into the room, his slightly slanted eyes sharp as he scanned the interior. "Where's Dean?" he snapped without preamble, closing the door behind him with dangerous care. "And Dad?"
Bobby grimaced, recognizing now the reason he hadn't gone to his own room. This wouldn't get anything other than ugly, his gut told him. Even though he couldn't be sure exactly what form this battle was going to take, his instincts let him know in no uncertain terms that there was going to be one. Bobby had been a soldier and a Hunter long enough to recognize this.
"Where do you think?" he responded mildly, quirking a brow at the young man. After all, there wasn't but one place they could be. If they weren't in Bobby's room, and why would they be in there?
Evidently Sam didn't have any trouble following this line of reasoning, because he crossed the room in five long-legged strides, throwing the bathroom door open before Bobby could even get his mouth moving to say anything. Not that there would've been any way he could've stopped Sam, once he was on the rampage.
Well, shit.
Bobby felt that his duty was clear. And if either John or Sam tried to call him on his actions afterward, he'd smack the stupid out of them, he swore it.
Bending and grabbing Dean's new sneakers where they had been abandoned by the bed, he snaked into the bathroom. The small room seemed even more tiny and cramped with the two large men furiously screaming at each other, and Bobby spared them both half a passing glare as he reached between them and plucked Dean out of the heart of their burgeoning fight. Not that either noticed, and Bobby didn't care. His only real focus was getting Dean out of that place and away from the battle zone.
He didn't even stop to get Dean's shoes on. The boy's father and brother were yelling, and Bobby just whipped the silent boy out of the hotel room and into the parking lot. It wasn't raining out, and they were on pavement. If Dean's socks got a little dirty, there were seven more pair in the pack his father had bought him that morning.
Bobby did pause, once they were out of the range of the worst of the yelling, though, pressing Dean's compliant form up against a convenient vehicle, and kneeling to wedge the boy's feet back into his sneakers. He'd closed the hotel door behind him but it didn't seem to help much. If John and Sam brought the cops down on their own heads, he and Dean wouldn't be there, and it might even prove a wake-up call of sorts. Not that Bobby hoped that the two Winchesters would get the local law set on them.... But it was an awfully satisfying thought. He was feeling a mite vengeful.
"You okay, boy?" he asked, still crouching before Dean and praying that the owner of the car he'd propped the youth against wouldn't peer out the window until after they'd moved. What with John and Sam howling a few doors down, and himself on his knees in front of an under-aged youth in a hotel parking lot, this couldn't look anything but suspicious.
Dean blinked down at him, his eyes dark and not quite meeting Bobby's gaze. He had his head tilted toward the hotel room they'd departed so hastily, and that was where his gaze gravitated when it skittered off of Bobby's face.
Bobby groaned as he heaved himself back to his feet, and then huffed. "Hope you ain't a'feared of me, boy," he rumbled, reaching down and clasping one of Dean's limp hands in his own, callused fingers curling protectively around it. "Because I ain't takin' you back there 'til they're done with their fightin'. Sorry."
Dean didn't seem to mind, though, as Bobby led him away from the room, not in the direction of the office, but toward a small playground area that had seen better days, just past the last hotel cabin. There was only one swing of three left on the rusting frame, and the merri-go-round was tilted at an angle that made Bobby wonder whether it even turned anymore. There was a weather battered park bench, and that was where he sat Dean down. He had his cell on him. If John or Sam got too frantic once their fight finally wound down, they'd give him a buzz.
"Hell of a homecoming," he grumbled, still holding onto Dean's hand, sitting beside him on the bench and hoping neither of them would come away with splinters. There were some lights for the parking lot, so they weren't in the dark, even though they weren't in the direct line of illumination. "Though it's prob'ly about what you were used to before Sam left, huh?"
He offered Dean a lopsided grin, but it faded away in the face of the boy's blank expression. Dean was gazing off into the evening sky where it hovered indigo above the treeline, his eyes dull, his lips parted.
"Don't wanna talk about the past, do ya?" Bobby continued, straining to sound normal and cheerful. He didn't think he did too good a job, but then, it wasn't as though Dean was listening. Bobby wasn't sure who he was trying to soothe with the sound of his voice; the boy or himself. "Can't blame ya. Not much to say about the present either, though." He sighed heavily, turning his gaze to follow Dean's. "Problem is, they both love ya too much, and neither one is good with sharin'. Betcha never woulda thought it before all the shit that went down, wouldja, Dean?"
He was startled to feel Dean's fingers curl hesitantly around his own, where he was still clasping the smaller hand. He glanced over, not wanting to startle the youth, and found those green eyes fixed on him.
Turning to face Dean once again, he smiled more easily this time and squeezed Dean's hand gently, carefully. "You are still in there, ain't ya, Dean? Strugglin' below the surface, tryin' to fight yer way back to the world. Still care about yer Dad and yer brother more'n you do about yerself. You always were a fool." He sighed, shaking his head, but chuckling a little, because he meant that affectionately, only half seriously.
Dean was watching him quietly, intently, as though the words Bobby was speaking required his full attention. There were a couple of twin lines between his brows, and he bit at his lower lip. His eyes lit on Bobby's, only to flicker away again quickly, but Bobby still took it as a good sign. Dean was trying to connect. Wasn't having much success, but at least he was trying.
"S'not a bad cut," he mused, lifting his free hand to brush soft bangs away from Dean's face. "Wonder if Sam even took the time to notice that." He restrained a snort. 'Course the youngest Winchester hadn't. He only saw what he wanted to see.
It looked as though John had started in the back, the hair cut in a neat line just below the hairline, the Melusine's mark completely exposed on his nape now. In the front, the hair was still longer, still tumbling into his face, falling a little below the lobes of Dean's ears. Bobby wondered idly if John had meant to cut it like that, or if this was as far as he had gotten before Sam had burst into the bathroom and so effectively interrupted. He figured he knew the answer to that one. Sam ought to be grateful John had only bought scissors, not a pair of clippers, or Dean might have come off with a close army buzz-cut.
Not that it was any of his business, but Bobby was glad not to see all of Dean's hair go, so he could sort of understand where Sam was coming from. Though he still thought that the boy had raised an unholy row over what was virtually nothing at all.
Dean blinked, thick lashes fluttering in the shadows that lay across his face, and reached a hesitant hand up, touching the back of his head. He gave Bobby a look that was caught somewhere between confused and distraught, and Bobby swallowed tightly. "Like I said," he husked, trying to smile reassuringly, "S'a good cut. You look fine."
Not that he thought Dean cared all that much what he looked like. Probably didn't have any caring left in him for things like that. It was more than likely to be the fact of another change that was making him fret. Yet another thing that was different and Dean didn't know how to deal with it. Bobby didn't think that John had done wrong by his son, and it was an improvement -- he looked like a boy again, and a little more like the Dean Bobby had known ten years ago, less like a fuck toy for sick bastards -- but he could see where Dean might be upset by the haircut. Hell, Sam had certainly hit the roof!
Dean's hand slid back down into his lap and his head bowed toward his chest. Bobby wondered what was going on in that pretty head, knew that it wasn't any of his business. He loosed Dean's other hand and slung an arm around Dean's narrow shoulders. "Yer all right, Dean. Yer doing okay. It'll be all right." He was uttering nonsense and he knew it, didn't believe a word of it even as he rattled it off, but he felt as though he needed to offer the boy something. Even if it was just easy lies.
Dean leaned into the half embrace, and suddenly anxious, worrying that the boy would misread his intents like he had that morning, Bobby reached and clasped Dean's right hand, holding it captive and trusting the other hand not to make a wrong move. He found his thumb tracing over the hard circle of the silver ring on Dean's thumb before he realized it was there, and he let out a soft noise of surprise. Dean had his ring back. At least, he was pretty damned sure Dean hadn't had it all along....
Dark eyes rose to fix on his, actually met his gaze and lingered for a long moment and Bobby found it easier to smile and mean it, all of a sudden.
"You havin' trouble recallin' things?" he asked gently, tucking Dean a little more closely against his side, his thumb moving slow and easy against the ring's smooth curve. "Maybe I should tell ya a story. It's about a boy who loved his younger brother very, very much. So much that he went an' got himself into the most messed up situations, more'n once. Like, there was this one time, when this boy was nine years old, an' his brother was five, an' they were stayin' with a friend of their father's...."
Keeping his voice low and steady, Bobby gave back to Dean some of the memories that the Melusine had stolen away from him. He didn't know whether the words were finding their way to Dean's ears, making an impact that would stay with the broken boy, but he had to at least try. He talked Dean all the way through some of his more innocuous childhood adventures, through the destruction of the Yellow-Eyed Demon, described to him the vengeance for his mother that he had helped to gain, but after that he hesitated, reluctant to remind Dean of how Sam had left for college, how Dean had been taken by the Melusine in his brother's place--
And when his pocket set off a mad vibration, startling the hell out of him, causing Dean to jump and tense when Bobby loosed a loud, heartfelt profanity, he almost felt that it was some sort of a reprieve. Even though he knew that someone was going to have to help Dean to remember.
Wouldn't be him, though. Maybe this mysterious Missouri that John was pinning so much of his hope on.
"Yeah, I've got him, we're fine," he said into his phone, not even waiting to hear who was on the other end before speaking. "Is it safe to come back yet?" At the muffled affirmative, he growled. "All right. You best mean that. We're headin' back in."
Clicking the phone closed, Bobby uttered a disgusted sound, but set aside his irritation. There'd be a place for that later, when he had the culprits before him. He tucked his phone into his pocket and shifted Dean's warm weight away from his side. He thought for a moment that the boy had fallen asleep while he had been talking, but Dean's eyes were wide and clear, and he stared up at Bobby with an expression that the man could not read.
"We'll have to finish that story later," Bobby murmured, knowing that it was a lie when he said it. There was little to no chance that Sam or John was going to be letting Dean out of their sight again before they got to Lawrence, Kansas... and Bobby was okay with that. But he felt bad just leaving Dean hanging like that. "Did you like hearing it?"
He almost thought for a mad moment that Dean might reply. Instead, the boy craned his neck up and planted a soft kiss on Bobby's mouth. Again.
Bobby stifled a sigh and shook his head, rising to his feet. "That's enough of that, Dean. Yer Dad would kill me if he saw. Now, let's go. I think it's yer bedtime."
Dean rose obediently as Bobby levered him to his feet, and Bobby clasped his hand carefully as he led him back toward the hotel room.
He didn't know if this little sojourn had helped the broken boy at all... but it had certainly been more healthy than leaving Dean behind with his father and brother, both of them fighting over him like a couple of dogs over a bone.
And that was really a mental image that Bobby could have done without. He sighed wearily. These damned Winchesters... they'd be the death of him yet.
***
Sam had a black eye. He knew it even without looking in the mirror, could feel the familiar sting of the bruise over the bones of his eye socket. He also knew that he probably deserved it... but that didn't stop him sulking. He knew that he was sulking even before the disgusted look that Bobby sent him immediately upon entering the room, but he just couldn't wipe the expression off his face.
He took some comfort, at least, in the fact that his father was sporting a fat lip, the cut in its swelling surface scabbing over already. It wasn't so much the fact that he'd hit his Dad -- he was actually kind of ashamed of that. But the fact that neither of them had come out of the argument unscathed, that he'd actually gotten his father angry enough to hit him back... it wasn't much of a triumph, but it was something at least....
Or, well, he'd felt that way until Bobby was in the room, looking at them both as though they were a pair of idiots. And Sam couldn't think of any way to offer proof that they weren't.
He had to admit, now that he'd cooled down a bit, that he had started it; attacking his father for doing something that John had deemed perfectly reasonable and even necessary. He was still pissed, though. He was certain that John hadn't stopped to ask Dean if he wanted his hair cut, and even if he had, there was no way Dean was coherent enough to have consented. John had just taken and hacked away Dean's beautiful hair because he wanted to.
But even with all that, Sam couldn't quite articulate why it had caused him to react so violently. He wasn't even going to try.
So now he was sporting a black eye, John had a split lip, Bobby was completely pissed off, and Dean....
Well, the haircut didn't look as bad as it could have, Sam had to admit, now that he got a better look at Dean, one that wasn't clouded with rage. He must have interrupted their father before he could do too much damage. Though Sam was still upset that John thought he could just cut Dean's hair without so much as a by-your-leave. Sure, Dean was John's son, but hadn't he had enough done to him without his permission in the past two years? Besides, as Sam had pointed out more than once before he had left for college, "father" didn't mean the same thing as "overlord and master". This statement had never gotten good results before, and it certainly hadn't tonight either.
Bobby stayed where he was just inside the door, Dean's hand clasped in his, and gave them both a long, steady look. Sam was slouching on the bed while John had been pacing before the small kitchen area.
"I'm getting tired of giving ultimatums," Bobby said clearly, his voice even and calm but his eyes hard. "So I'm going to say this, and you are going to listen, because this is the last time. Absolutely my last warning, and I ain't foolin'. I care about Dean. I care about what happens to him. And I don't want to leave him all alone with you two dem fools. But if you get into another row like this one, you raise yer voices and do the best you can to bring the law down on our heads jest once more, an' I will turn and walk away. Take my truck and head home. There is a limit, and you both're trampin' all over its edge right now. I'm about fed up. Not pissed off. Not annoyed. Jest completely fed up. And I ain't puttin' up with any more. You hear me?"
Sam felt like a puppy who'd gotten a rolled-up newspaper to the nose for messing in the house, which was undoubtedly exactly how Bobby meant him to feel. Dammit. Sam was in the right... sort of. Well, okay, not so much, when Bobby laid things out like that. Okay, so he had to admit that Bobby had a point.
"I hear you," John gruffed, reaching up and prodding at his lip with a wince. Sam felt his jaw tighten. John had offered the first concession, and even though he knew that it was stupid and irrational, the combatant in Sam that always seemed to arise when he was around his father reared its head. He rose up off the bed, hands clenching, and then he flinched as Bobby transferred that stern glare to his face. All the fight drained out of him and he hung his head slightly.
"Yes, Bobby," he chimed in with appropriate meekness. After all, it wasn't as though the man had asked anything unreasonable of them. If anything, Bobby had been amazingly patient, and had given them both multiple chances to straighten up.
Of course, that still didn't stop Sam from feeling a little resentful, feeling as if he was being treated like a child by both his father and Bobby, even though he knew that wasn't at all the truth. He tried to keep this unwarranted resentment off of his face, but from the sharp scowl Bobby gave him, he was pretty sure that he was as easy to read as an open book.
"All right, then," Bobby finally said, and he suddenly sounded tired. Sam felt even more guilty; after all, this wasn't Bobby's problem, not his family. He was here of his own free will, and they all owed him so much. "I'm going to my room, going to bed. I suggest all'a you do the same." He placed a gentle hand on Dean's bony shoulder, pushing the boy further into the room, but not toward either his father or his brother specifically. "Good luck, Dean."
Without another word -- but, really, there was nothing left to say -- the older Hunter strode across to the adjoining door and went into his room, closing it firmly behind him. Effectively placing a barrier between himself and the Winchesters... and Sam couldn't help but think that if not for the fight he'd started with his father, Bobby probably would have left it open when he retired this evening.
Feeling suitably quelled but not completely cowed, Sam took a step toward Dean. He shot his father a wary look, but John just sank down into the sofa, dragging both his hands over his face, his bleary gaze fixed on Dean. He looked as old as Bobby in that moment, and Sam knew that he should have been feeling guilt, shame, sympathy....
Instead, he just felt relief. John didn't say anything as Sam walked over and retrieved his brother, and he was glad.
"C'mon, Dean," he urged, taking Dean by the hand as Bobby had done and leading the silent boy toward the bathroom. Before entering it he grabbed some of the clothing and items John had purchased that morning -- pajamas, toothbrush, and toothpaste. He wasn't so sure about the pajamas, considering that Dean hadn't worn them in years, but he also knew that his brother would just let him put them on without protest. And he hated that, but it did make things a little easier right now.
There were still golden-brown curls laying on this cracked tiles of the bathroom floor and Sam winced. He settled Dean at the sink with his toothbrush, and there was no hesitation. Dean certainly still knew how to practice proper dental hygiene, though that shouldn't have been surprising; the men holding him wouldn't have wanted him to have bad breath or decaying teeth, after all. While Dean quickly and efficiently brushed his teeth, Sam bent to collect the scattered locks. The hair was soft in his hands, and he mourned its loss, but it was done and there was no getting it back. He tossed it in the wastebasket.
Once Dean was finished brushing and rinsing, Sam helped him undress. Dean was almost animated, as enthusiastic as he could be now, actively helping Sam to get him out of his jeans and teeshirt. Not so much, however, once Sam moved to lever him into his new pajamas. There was no real resistance that Sam could pin down, but there was a definite sense of reluctance and Dean made him do all the work of wrestling his lax limbs into the sleeves and legs of the set.
"You look good, Dean," Sam said once he was done buttoning up the top, standing back and taking a long, thorough look at his brother. Dean's hair still fell around his face, though not down to his shoulders anymore. Actually, John had done a good job -- deliberately or not -- of cutting off just enough to expose Dean's pale, pretty features and delicate neck, but leaving waves around his face to soften the stark lines of his too-thin cheekbones and jaw. Sam shook his head and grinned humorlessly. It was so flattering, actually, that there was no way their father had done it on purpose.
The pajamas were royal blue, a fine, rich color that made his plump pink lips appear even pinker. Besides, it wasn't as though Sam was expecting his brother to wear them long anyway. He'd be sincerely surprised if he woke the next morning and found Dean was still in them. That was part of the reason he hadn't taken off Dean's boxers before sliding the pajama bottoms up his slim legs -- in the hopes that he wouldn't wake next to his brother's completely naked body.
This thought was enough to make him blush, though he couldn't have said why, and he cleared his throat. "You look good," he repeated, feeling stupid even as he said it. He reached forward, clasping Dean's hand in his. "Sorry.... Sorry that Dad and I were fighting again," he offered, feeling that the apology was too little too late, but it needed to be spoken. "You know how it is... with us. Well," he had to admit, "It's like it always used to be."
Dean was intently watching his mouth move and that made Sam uncomfortable. This time he knew why and he decided that they definitely needed to leave the bathroom. Dean was as ready for bed now as he was ever going to get.
"C'mon," he murmured again, guiding his brother back into the hotel room proper. Dean allowed himself to be led, as quiet and docile as he had been since they had gotten him back.
For a moment Sam had trouble thinking of this silent teenager as his brother, just couldn't see Dean in the blind obedience that had become a matter of course.... But then as he sat the boy on their bed and caught a good look at that familiar profile as Dean's gaze fixed on John across the room... he knew that this was his brother. Even if Dean wasn't quite himself right now, he was still here. He was just... different now.
"Get under the covers," Sam urged, drawing back the handmade quilt and worn sheets for the boy. Dean did as directed, and lay there, his head on the pillow, a finger in his mouth, watching Sam closely, expectantly. Sam tried not to wince and tucked his brother in. "I'll be back as soon as I've brushed my teeth," he promised quietly.
He straightened and turned to where John was still slouching on the sofa. His father's head was sunk into his hands, and now Sam did feel guilty. Good; that would make what he was going to say easier and more sincere.
"Dad?"
John raised his head, his eyes dull and deeply shadowed. "Yeah?"
Sam bit his lower lip, but he had to say it. "I'm sorry."
John frowned at him, seeming to take a moment to weigh whether Sam meant what he'd said, and then another moment to decide whether he was going to accept the apology. Sam held his body tense, telling himself over and over that they were not going to get into another fight, no matter what John said, because they needed Bobby, and because he'd die before he put Dean through that again in less than two hours.
"Yeah," John finally said, loosing the word on an exhale. He scrubbed at his beard, frowning again, but not at Sam this time, and then lowering his gaze to the floor between his feet. His broad shoulders were slumped, and he looked ready to collapse into himself. "Yeah, I'm sorry too, Sammy."
Sam grimaced at the hated nickname but didn't correct his father. He silently collected his own sleep wear and toothbrush, and shut himself in the bathroom for his bedtime regime. They were both hurting. He didn't have it in him to try and soothe his father's pain -- not with his own burning clear and sharp in his chest -- but he could try to avoid making things worse for John, for them both, for Dean.
He was still irked over the fact that John had cut Dean's hair without consulting him, without Dean's explicit permission. But that was such a small thing in the face of everything else that they had to deal with....
He was going to have to let it go.
Because if he didn't, he fully expected to get an ass filled with buckshot, courtesy of one Bobby Singer. And he would richly deserve it.
***
John rubbed at his lower lip again, unable to stop himself even though it hurt. Maybe because it hurt. Anything to distract from his rattled, torn, tattered emotions.
He still wasn't sure why Sam had been so angry at him for cutting Dean's hair, but for the sake of keeping the peace -- and keeping Bobby with them until they reached Kansas -- he was willing to set the whole thing aside. He couldn't see why it was such a big deal, though. He'd kept Dean's hair short pretty much all his life -- it was safer for Hunting and easier to take care of. Just because Sam had always worn his hair too long, and evidently always would....
Bare feet suddenly appeared in his frame of vision, where it was fixed on the floor before him, and he lifted his head, blinking in confusion.
"Hey, Dean," he said softly, sitting up straight and meeting his son's eyes. Or, well, he did for a moment, before Dean's gaze slid away from his. "Whatcha doing up? Sam already tucked you in."
He could hear the water running in the bathroom. Dean tipped his head to the side, his eyes now fixed on John's bloodied lip. It was going to sting for a while, but so would Sam's eye. John couldn't believe he'd hit his own son. No matter that Sam had hit him first, no matter how the young man had provoked him, that was inexcusable. He could write it off as being so highly strung over this whole situation, but it was something he regretted with everything in him, and he swore it was never going to happen again.
Dean was frowning, and he looked somehow upset. John didn't think that he was imagining an echo of the expression Dean had used to wear whenever his father had come home wounded from a Hunt.
"I'm all right, Dean," he assured his son, reaching up and wearily patting one of Dean's shoulders. Dean touched his beard again with tentative fingertips, a faltering caress that John still refused to believe was sexual. His hand hovered over John's split lip, not touching now, and his frown deepened.
Reaching forward, John drew his boy into a loose embrace. The sofa was slung low, so his head rested over Dean's chest. His son was warm under the crisp material of his new pajamas, breathing softly, his heart beating steadily, and John allowed himself a moment of relief, of release, letting the tension slide away. Just for a moment.
Dean's hand was light against his back, patting him again, like he had done when John had found him splashing in the river this morning.
With a thick sigh, John released his son. Sam would be out of the bathroom any moment, and the last thing they needed was to get into another argument.
"Back in bed with you, Dean," he said, standing and steering the boy to the bed Sam had evidently claimed for them both. "I'm all right. Just tired. No need to worry."
It might not be the complete truth, but it was close enough. He was certainly tired.
Dean climbed back into the bed, and John repeated Sam's actions, tucking him in. He took note that Dean was no longer flinching away from him, like he had the night before, and suddenly he felt better, less tired and wracked, and he began to actually hope again. Did Dean recognize him? And if he didn't... was he getting closer to it?
Just as Sam opened the bathroom door, John heard his cell phone beep. Giving his son a nod, he pulled it out of his pocket and walked away from the bed.
==================== From: Unknown
Beware the frumious bandersnatch. -rusty ====================
John blinked. "Huh."
"What is it?" Sam asked, sounding anxious. The night before, he had just slept in his clothes, too exhausted to change. Tonight he was wearing a pair of plaid pajama bottoms and a faded Black Sabbath teeshirt that John thought he remembered as being Dean's before Sam left for Stanford.
"Nothing," John replied, shaking his head and putting his phone away.
That was just weird. He didn't know anyone named Rusty. After a moment he decided that someone out there must have just hit the wrong button or something, and this text message was meant for someone else.
That didn't sit well in his gut, something nagging at him. But he set that aside as Sam turned off the room's lights and slid under the covers with his brother. He'd left the bathroom light on and the door ajar, and John decided to take the hint.
Grabbing his shaving kit, John went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Clearly Dean didn't like the beard, so it was going to have to go.
"That's not even the way that poem goes," he muttered to himself, frowning into the mirror, not even realizing until he spoke the words that his mind had wandered back to that bizarre text message. "Ah, forget it."
Setting his jaw, he grabbed the shaving gel and razor. It had been a while since he'd been clean-shaven... two years, to be exact. Since he'd lost his son and had other things to concentrate on.
Now he had Dean back, and he'd do anything for his boy. A beard was a small sacrifice to make.