[fanfic] SPN "Do Dandelions Roar" Chpt 5 Title: Do Dandelions Roar: Chapter Five 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 Five - by KnM
In retrospect, Bobby figured, he should have known that stopping at a local diner for lunch had been a hell of a bad idea. But he also knew there wasn't no sight clearer than hindsight, and now they were stuck.
It wasn't Dean that was the problem, though Bobby had to admit that he was currently more than a little concerned about the boy. As soon as they'd set foot inside the diner Dean had gone wide-eyed and white-lipped and completely still. The silence was something that Bobby was getting used to, but now it was as though Dean was trying to become the silence. His eyes weren't glazed over the way Bobby had seen in the hotel room -- he hadn't gotten lost inside his head, hadn't retreated from reality, voluntarily or involuntarily. He was simply unable to cope with where he found himself, and Bobby was worried that this might undo any good that might have been done by the past fifteen hours of freedom. He cursed himself for forgetting that Dean probably hadn't been outside the church where he'd been held, and definitely not in any public places, for most of the two years he'd been missing. And before that... well, he doubted the Melusine had let him out to play. No wonder the poor boy had frozen up.
And, of course, John and Sam were only making things worse. Bobby wondered cynically why he had been expecting anything better of them. No, really.
Sam, to his credit, had recognized almost immediately how uncomfortable being inside the restaurant was making Dean, and had suggested they turn right around and go find a drive-thru. John, being the stubborn ass that he was, insisted that they would eat sitting down. Bobby thought that John had actually felt he was doing what was best for Dean, and the boy had been out of his father's line of sight, tucked up against Sam's side. By the time they were seated in a booth, Sam and Dean on one side, John and Bobby on the other, and John could get a look at Dean's face and see his mistake, it had been too late.
John had mumbled something about making it a quick meal -- a resolve that Bobby had heartily approved of -- but this was turning out to be anything but.
For all she was friendly, with an honest smile that only faltered a little when her eyes ran over Dean, their waitress was slow as maple sap flowing on a cold spring morning. First she brought them their waters. Then she provided the menus that she'd forgotten earlier. Then there was coffee to be poured, and before she would even consider taking down their orders, questions to be asked; "Where y'all headed? Where you comin' from? How's your trip been so far?"
While John studied his menu with a hard set to his jaw and Sam rubbed Dean's hand surreptitiously under the table, Bobby fielded the queries with more grace and good cheer than he usually spared for chatty wait-staff. Their group, after all, was strange and distinctive enough to be memorable. And until they could confirm for sure that the authorities weren't looking for any of them or Dean, it was best to keep a low profile.
He'd have thought that John and Sam already knew that, but by the time their waitress brought their plates -- a good half hour after they'd entered the diner for a "quick lunch" -- they were clearly on the verge of going at it hammer and tongs again. Sam was impatient and wanted to take Dean and go wait in the truck, John said absolutely not, Sam accused John of being "an insufferably insensitive prick", and if Bobby hadn't kicked John in the shin, hard, things probably would have escalated further, faster.
The three of them sank into a morose, tension-laden silence. Until their food actually, finally arrived, and then there came along a whole 'nother battle. And Bobby began to seriously consider carrying out his buckshot threat -- on both John and Sam Winchester.
That morning, in the hotel room, ordering Dean to eat had worked and because of this Sam had held his tongue. Now, when John tried it, Dean was just too freaked out to obey, and Sam, predictably, took exception. Not that there hadn't been any reason for John not to try. But Sam was evincing the same overprotectiveness that Dean had always shown when standing resolutely between his younger brother and trouble. Which was also understandable. The fight had been almost inevitable, but that fact didn't make it grate Bobby's teeth together any less.
At least they only argued in hissing whispers... to start with. But in a small local diner like this, where ninety percent or more of the customers were regulars and everyone knew one another by name, they might as well have been yelling.
Bobby winced at the curious stares that he could feel fixed on their table and decided that, yes, just as soon as he could pepper John and Sam's posteriors without the action traumatizing Dean further, he would do just that; so that every time they sat, they would be reminded of what asses they had been. It might be a while, but he was a patient man. He could wait.
"Would you two shut up!" he snapped, keeping his voice low but cutting easily through their rumbling and growling back and forth. He felt a strong sense of deja vu and wondered just what sin he'd committed that he was now stuck playing mediator between these two stubborn Winchester men. Whatever it had been, it couldn't have been that bad, he was sure! How had Dean stood between them all those years? The boy must have practically qualified for sainthood by the time Sam left for college!
Knowing that he was exaggerating a little in his own thoughts, and that they were all of them on edge now, but still wondering how Dean had been able to deal with this sort of thing on what was likely a daily basis, Bobby glared impartially from John to Sam. "Listen to me! We are in the middle of Bumfuck, Idaho! The nice residents of Bumfuck, here, are beginning to eyeball us 'cause of the almighty fuss the two of you are raisin' up! Now, even if the three of us don't look suspicious -- and I'd venture to say that we do -- we got a boy with us here who's clearly scared to death, and gettin' worse the more the two of you fight. You think that you get in one of your shoutin' matches here, no one's gonna call the cops, say there's some men here might be kidnappers 'cause the kid with 'em sure looks a'feared? You want to take the chance that might not happen? Hell, we don't know yet whether we got away clean, if the cops ain't looking for Dean. Anything we do to cause these folks to remember us once we're gone, that's a bad thing. You hear me?"
Bobby kept his voice low during this tirade, and there was no one seated near enough to eavesdrop. The Winchester men, however, did listen. Miracle of miracles. And they both settled down, John gripping the edge of the table with white knuckles and Sam pushing his food around his plate with his fork, looking more repentant than petulant, but a little of both.
Considering them sufficiently quelled, Bobby waved the waitress over from where she was standing near the kitchen, talking to the grill cook. Giving her the most charming smile in his repertoire, he asked her to bag up Dean's untouched sandwich "for later". When she asked with evident concern after the silent boy's health, Bobby smoothly explained that Dean was feeling carsick.
"Oh, poor baby," the waitress crooned, her plump face crinkling. "Just like my youngest when she reads in the car. And you all going on a road trip too."
"A little more water and a little walk around the next rest stop we hit and he'll be right as rain," Bobby assured her, wishing that there were some way his words could be true. "Now, darlin', could we get one more round of this fine coffee and maybe some cherry pie? And the bill?"
"Of course!" She bustled off and Bobby hoped that she'd spread the car sickness story around.
"Bobby, thanks," John said, at the same moment Sam mumbled, "Sorry, Bobby." The two men looked at each other and grinned sheepishly.
"This would be a whole hell of a lot easier without the two of you actin' like dem fools," Bobby said, not placated in the least, but his tone more conversational than venomous. "If either of you had the sense that you were born with...."
"Then we wouldn't need you as much as we do," Sam said, his eyes wide and warm with sincerity.
Bobby snorted. "You say that like it's a good thing."
"We really appreciate everything you're doing for us, Bobby," John put in.
"Speak me pretty words all you want, John Winchester," Bobby drawled, sitting back as the waitress approached with the coffee pot. "Still ain't gonna stop me fillin' your ass with buckshot the first opportunity I get." Sam let out an incredulous huff of laughter, and Bobby fixed him with a hard glare. "You too, boy. Yer ass ain't exempt."
Really, it was almost worth having to play arbitrator to see the nonplussed expressions on their faces. Almost, but not quite.
Bobby smiled as he sat back and sipped his steaming coffee, leaving it to John to get the check. He was looking forward to his cherry pie. He felt that he had more than earned it.
***
It was big -- not big like the night had been, not big like the ocean floor had been -- but big, big and man-made and filled with people that had no place in his yesterdays, that would hold no place in his tomorrow, people that his senses insisted would cease to exist as soon as he walked out of here.
It made him feel afraid and overwhelmed and he didn't know how to deal with any of it. And they were angry again -- the men who had him, the men he ought to remember. Two were mad at each other and the third was mad at the two, and it was his fault somehow. He was sure he'd be punished later, for disobeying. And yet he couldn't force himself to eat, to do as he was told, to be a Good Boy. Because the fear was too big, it was eating him, swallowing up his training, and he hadn't been this scared since he had found himself on the floor of the ocean, buried under miles of salt water, all wrapped up in Her grasp.
They wanted him to eat and wanted him to be good and he ached to obey but this place was too big and crowded and scary and he just couldn't do it. He sat still and quiet, afraid he'd fall to pieces if he moved, all his body parts breaking away in his new clothing, and all his yesterdays shattering him into shards, until there was nothing left.
He thought that the lady who brought them the food was familiar even though he'd never seen her before. He thought that he should know this place, should feel comfortable in it, but it was too difficult and there were people here, and new people was never a good thing. New people meant that he would be hurt and used and made into that thing that he hated but had no control over.
He always knew that it was wrong. He always heard that voice inside him saying he wasn't meant for this, that he shouldn't let those things happen. But They had hurt him and trained him and pounded into him the Rules, that he had to be a Good Boy. And even though in his heart he rebelled, there was something else that bound him, that twined around his mind, that made it impossible for him to break free.
In his more lucid moments he knew what it was. It was Her. She had done this to him. Broken his will and fragmented his memories. And without his memories, how could he know who he was? All he had was his training. All he knew was how to be Good. And all he could feel was how wrong that was.
Since these men had come for him, he felt as though he was slowly awakening from a bad dream. Only there was nothing for him to awaken to, no person for him to become as he shook the dreaming away. He didn't know who he was and he couldn't remember what he had lost.
They knew. The men who sat here at the table with him. They knew, and that was something that Engram and the others hadn't known. Of course, they'd already proven that they were stronger and better than the men who had been holding him, because they were alive and Engram and the others were dead.
They knew who he was, these men, even though he didn't know. He wondered if they were going to tell him sometime. Since he couldn't remember on his own....
He had a name. They kept calling him by it. But the sound of it, the single syllable, the meaning and memory behind it kept slipping out of his mind. His head couldn't grasp it, no matter how many times they spoke it. He knew when he heard it that they were speaking to him, and yet he couldn't hold onto the sound. She hadn't just taken away his memories, She had also taken away his name. He wondered what was left. If he'd truly been erased from the world he'd once lived in.
He was still here, though. His body was here. He was sitting on the hard, uncomfortable bench. His hand was clasped tightly in the larger hand of the man who had once been the baby. He could almost remember that, but it slid away as smoothly as his name. He couldn't remember.... He couldn't.... Those yesterdays were somewhere in his head, but he couldn't reach them, and he didn't know the name of the man. He only knew the warmth and the safety that he felt, sheltered against the strong-hard body. It had been so long and he didn't even know how long it had been, because he couldn't remember ever feeling this safe, but this can't have been the first time....
The men were grumbling at each other again, but not fighting, and the woman had brought over a slip of paper and some hard little things that his brain told him were "mints", even though he couldn't recall how he knew that or what they were for.
"Maybe these will help with the car sickness," she was saying, smiling at him, large, slightly yellowed teeth framed in cracked red lipstick, her eyes crinkling with kindness and he fought the urge to sink back into the loose embrace of the man next to him. Not the same, not the same as She had been, and this human woman was safe, she meant him well, but he was still afraid. Everything here scared him, and he longed to be back inside the truck, back on the road. Because in the truck there was only himself and the two men who knew him; even though he didn't know himself anymore.
It had stopped raining. Outside, but they were still inside. He knew that the rain had stopped. That would make driving easier, but the sun might hurt his eyes. The sun hadn't shone into the church and he wasn't used to its light anymore. He didn't mind the rain, though he didn't quite care for getting wet. It wasn't the same as it had been when She had held him wrapped up in Her clutches. Under the sea it was choking, salty, dark. It had been like dying over and over again, and he could still feel the sting in his lungs, sapping his breath. Warm fingers tightened around his hand, and he clung to it, following the steady touch back from the maze of his yesterdays and tumbling back into today. He was free now, and the water here didn't have any salt, it couldn't hurt him.
The rain was nice. And in that green place, the wide, moving water had called to him. It had been cold, but he had walked out into it, and it hadn't scared him. He knew that he could control it, that it would not consume him. That had been a powerful feeling. He hadn't felt in control of anything since... well, since the yesterdays that he couldn't remember, that had been stolen from him.
The man with the beard had been scared, but he couldn't understand why. He didn't know why the reality of that man weeping had made his heart hurt, made him want to fix things and make them better, but he knew that the man was important to him. He just couldn't remember why.
He could still feel the cool water sliding between his toes, lapping against his legs, and the rain was spotting down on his head, and he let it touch him, because it tickled in a good way....
And now a voice called him back, out of that yesterday, which he thought had been earlier in the same today he was still in, and he knew that it was his name, but it slipped out of his head again no matter his resolve to try and hold onto it. And they were leaving, and he was glad, because this place still scared him, and the truck felt safe, it felt like "home".
Even though he had no idea what "home" was, what it had been so many yesterdays ago. Before he had been broken, before She had erased him. But now they were inside the truck and the man who had once been the baby wrapped him in a firm embrace, tugging him up against his side, and he knew now that this was "home".
And he didn't want to leave it, ever again.
***
"All right. Thanks, Lao. I owe you.... Okay, then, I owe you more. Yeah, let me know if you hear anything at all. Thanks. Bye."
Sam glanced over curiously as John clicked his phone shut. The sky had cleared after all, and the afternoon was inching into evening as the two trucks roared down the highway. John had promised they would stop at the next hotel they found, and Sam thought that was for the best. As much as he wanted to reach this Missouri who was supposed to be able to help Dean, he also didn't want to push his brother past what he was capable of dealing with.
Right now Dean was dozing against his side, head resting on his shoulder. Their hands were clasped and Sam honestly couldn't remember which one of them had initiated it... though he had to admit to himself that it had probably been him.
"What's the word?" he asked curiously. "Who's Lao?"
"Cop in Eugene, Oregon," John grunted, tucking his phone into his jacket pocket and wrapping both hands around the wheel. "He doesn't know whether there's anything about the church that burned with four bodies inside, since it happened up in Washington, well outside his jurisdiction. But he did check that there was no search for a nameless fourteen year old male matching Dean's description. He's going to pull some strings, make a personal inquiry to make sure there was nothing to connect any of us to the church, and he'll keep an eye open, let us know if the cops start looking for Dean.... But so far it seems as though we got in and out clean."
Sam nodded, tugging Dean up closer against his side, even though his brother was already almost in his lap. "Good." If they had gotten away clean, that would simplify things. No more running or hiding. They'd reach Missouri, she'd help Dean, and then.... Well, he didn't know, exactly, but it would definitely involve Sam taking care of his brother.
"There," Sam pointed. "The Black Bear Motel."
"Got it." John flipped on the turn signal, and in a minute they were pulling smoothly into a spot in front of the office. Sam watched his father jump down out of the truck and stride inside, leaning wearily against the desk as he checked them in. It was the same routine he recalled from his childhood, almost comforting in its familiarity. Though before they had been in the Impala and he had been smaller and tucked up against Dean in the back seat, not curled around his suddenly smaller brother in the cab of a big truck.
Sometimes checking in seemed to take forever; especially when he had been younger, his limbs tingling, his butt aching from sitting too long, and he just wanted to get out of the car. Not to mention, a lot of the time when he'd been a kid and John hadn't seen the need for rest stops, he'd been desperate for a toilet. Tonight, though, it seemed no time before John was back in the truck with a couple of good old fashioned keys, instead of those stupid card things all the hotels had now, and they drove over to what was almost more a cabin than a hotel room.
"This looks promising," Bobby said, as he clambered out of his truck and joined them.
"Got two rooms with an adjoining door," John said, handing over a key and gesturing. "Should have enough beds tonight."
"My back thanks you," Bobby grinned, letting himself into his own room before John even got his key in the lock.
Sam led his drowsy brother in, Dean swaying at his side. John flicked on the lamp as Bobby opened the door between their rooms. They had two queen sized beds, a sofa, and a small kitchen area along with the bathroom. Bobby's room looked the same, except there was one bed and he only had a microwave. The air smelled of stale cigarette smoke, disinfectant spray, and an ancient air freshener; the typical hotel scent. But the bedspreads were handmade quilts and there were watercolors of black bears on the walls, a waist-tall bear carved from wood and dyed black in one corner, and a smaller ceramic bear that didn't match on top of the dresser.
"Nice," Sam commented, looking around, and he meant it. For a cheap hotel with a faintly ridiculous theme, this one was more tasteful and less kitschy than some that his father or Dean had chosen in the past.
Dean rubbed at his eyes, seeming to be coming awake, and Sam settled him on the edge of one of the beds. He felt guilty to realize that he was glad there were only three beds total, so that he and Dean would have to share again tonight. He just... despite the embarrassment of waking up with a boner this morning, he really felt the overwhelming need to be with Dean. He was so afraid that something would happen if he let his brother out of his sight; just look at what had happened by the river, after all! He wanted to hold onto Dean and never let go.
"Here," he said, bending and peeling Dean's shoes off. Dean's face lightened and Sam thought for a moment that he was going to smile, but he didn't. That was all right though. Sam knew that Dean was happier without the shoes on.
"Wanna flip for who goes out to get dinner?" Bobby asked John as he wandered into their room from his.
John scowled, dumping their bags on the floor by the dresser. "It's your turn. I got dinner last night and breakfast this morning!"
Bobby snorted. "We'll go together then," he said, shooting Sam a quick look. Sam knew that Bobby didn't trust he and John in the hotel room with Dean without his supervision, but he couldn't take offense, because he knew that Bobby was right. "We're taking your truck."
John looked as though he would argue, but then Bobby pushed him out the door, and suddenly Sam and Dean were alone in the hotel room. Sam waited, half expecting their father to storm back in, but there was the sound of one truck door slamming, then the other, and the rumble of its engine.
"They didn't even ask what we wanted," Sam groused to Dean, toeing off his own shoes and wiggling his toes. There was a threadbare rug over a hardwood floor, and it was a little chilly, so he flopped on the mattress beside his silent brother.
Dean sat there, his head bent, curls tumbling forward and hiding his eyes from Sam's view. His body appeared relaxed, but Sam could see the tension in his shoulders, and he started when Sam placed a gentle hand against his upper back.
"How you doing?" Sam asked softly, leaning forward and peering at his brother.
Dean met his eyes for a moment, then his gaze fell to Sam's chin. His lips were parted, plump and pink, and Sam cursed himself roundly for noticing.
"No, Dean," he murmured as his brother gravitated toward him slightly. "No. It's just not.... Dean, it's Sam. I'm Sammy. Your brother."
Dean's green eyes rose to his again, dark and hooded, and Sam let out a despairing sigh, because there was no real recognition there, just a struggle that he could see but could do nothing about.
"Dammit, Dean," he groaned, then bit his lip when his brother flinched away from the hoarse curse. "God!"
He dragged his hands through his hair, fighting to keep calm. How were they going to deal with this? How was he going to deal with this? Dean didn't know him anymore, and he expected Sam to want to have sex with him, and it was just all so sick and wrong, but he couldn't do anything to fix it!
"Bathroom," he muttered thickly, wondering if Dean would even notice he was gone. And that was a mean thought; it wasn't Dean's fault that his brain had been messed up. It was that Melusine bitch who had done this to Dean, she was the one to blame. But she wasn't here, and Sam didn't want to hurt Dean more, but he didn't know what he could do to help him either. It hurt him to be around Dean when he was so lost and confused like this, even though he knew that it shouldn't. This wasn't about Sam, it was about Dean. And yet Sam couldn't help but be affected.
Even though it made him feel even more selfish to realize that he felt that way.
Taking a leak and washing his hands, Sam managed to catch his breath. He eyed himself in the mirror. It was almost a surprise to see that he looked pretty much the same as he had last time he'd looked at his reflection in his apartment in Stanford. He felt as though he'd been through the wringer. Almost like a different person. He felt bruised and damaged, as though he was full of sharp spikes and the wrong move would drive one straight through his heart.
"Dammit," he groaned again, clenching his hand in a fist and dragging the other over his face. He hoped that his father and Bobby would return quickly. He needed a distraction, someone to talk to who talked back, even if they were arguing. He needed to not be alone with his brother and his stubborn, awful silence. Before, being alone with Dean had been all that he had wanted, but now that he had it, he didn't know what to do with it.
Leaving the refuge of the bathroom, he realized that Dean wasn't on the bed, though the teeshirt he had been wearing was lying where he had been sitting. Sam sucked in a breath, scanning the room quickly. No sign of Dean.
Stepping over to Bobby's room, he didn't even have to look, because the door was wide open, and he could see Dean's bare back just outside it.
"Dean," he croaked, trying to call to his brother, but his voice only emerged on a smothered gasp. He swallowed tightly, and stepped up behind Dean. "Dean."
Dean was staring up at the sky, where the sunlight was fading from the horizon. His upper torso was pale and too skinny, and Sam wrapped his brother up in his arms before he thought. He was a little surprised that Dean didn't start or draw away, just allowed himself to be led back inside.
"Holy fuck, Dean," Sam said once they were safely back in their own hotel room, the door to Bobby's firmly closed behind them. His heart was pounding against his breastbone and he couldn't catch his breath. "You can't just go off like that!" He vaguely remembered waking the night before and finding his father tucking Dean back into bed with him, but he'd thought this morning that it had been a weird dream. Evidently it had actually happened, and he shouldn't have left his brother alone out here for so long. So much for not wanting to let Dean out of his sight.... "God," he choked, burying his face in Dean's curls, clutching him close. "You just-- You can't--"
After a few pulsing moments, Sam sighed and released his brother. He rested his hands on Dean's upper arms, gazing down at that familiar face. Dean's eyes were fixed on his chin, or maybe his mouth, and Sam couldn't help noticing the faint freckles again. Really, had Dean had those before? But it wasn't likely that was another side effect of his time with the Melusine. Sam just hadn't ever seen them before, not really.
"Dean," he sighed, thumbs brushing over the hollows in his brother's shoulders. Dean's skin was smooth and warm under his hands. "Please. Don't wander off like that."
Dean wasn't listening, though, and Sam led him over to the bed again. He glanced at the teeshirt but decided that if Dean didn't want to wear it, he wouldn't force him. It was warm enough in the hotel room that he should be comfortable without.
Turning on the television, Sam put it on the local news. Not because he wanted to watch it; he just felt the need for the background noise, something to fill the oppressive silence.
Joining Dean on the bed, Sam found he was twisting the silver ring around his finger again. He eyed it, then decisively tugged it off.
"This is yours, Dean," he husked, drawing his legs up under himself and scooting closer to his brother. Dean glanced at him, gold-tipped curls falling in his eyes. Sam carefully took hold of Dean's right hand and slid the ring onto his third finger.
As he thought, it didn't fit. Didn't even come close. And had Dean's hands always been this slender and graceful when he had been a teen? Sam remembered them as being larger, stronger....
But that was the little brother in him, and now he was the bigger brother.
He tried it on Dean's thumb. It was a little loose, but not enough that he thought it would come off. He smiled, knowing that it was a sad little curve of his lips, and placed Dean's hand on his own thigh, patting it delicately. "There. I.... I got you your ring back, Dean," he said, forcing the words out through the tightness in his throat. His eyes stung, but he was not going to cry. This wasn't quite how he had envisioned returning Dean's ring to him, but at least he was finally doing it.
Dean now had his ring back. And Sam had his brother back. He just... he just had to keep that in mind.
It was the only way he was going to get through this.
"God, Dean," he jerked out, wrapping his arm around his brother and pulling him close. "Please remember? You have to.... You have to remember me!"
And even though he was pretty sure that Dean still didn't remember, the hand that pressed against his chest, palm resting steady over his heart, was so familiar and so comforting that he let a little of his pain and fear slide away.
His Dean, his older brother, was still in there somewhere. He was sure of it. He'd get him back, somehow. Even if Missouri Mosely couldn't help. Even if it took him the rest of his life.
He'd help Dean to remember. He would.
***
Turned out there was a restaurant not ten minutes from the hotel that had an excellent menu, and was willing to box things up to go, even though that wasn't their normal way of doing business. John pulled a page from Bobby's book in the diner that afternoon, and pled a sick child back at the hotel who needed to eat. And the host, who turned out to be the son of the owner, took pity on him and made sure they came away with plenty. Bobby paid for the meal; he figured that John was right and it was his turn.
"You got something you want to say to me, Bobby?" John asked in a low voice, as they waited for their order in the lobby. The place was hopping even though it was a weeknight, and Bobby was doubly grateful to the host for being such a decent guy.
Bobby quirked a brow, taking in John's haggard expression and bloodshot eyes. "Not particularly," he demurred, keeping his voice level. "Why? You think there's somethin' between us needs airin'?"
John scrubbed his face with both hands, and fixed a soulful stare on the generic painting of a mountain and a lake that hung on the wall opposite the bench they shared. "Seems you're putting an awful lot of effort into keeping me away from my son."
Bobby frowned, not liking the words or the dead tone in which they were delivered. "Which one, John?" he sought clarification.
John glanced at him and Bobby fought not to tense at the darkness in those eyes. He shouldn't forget that John Winchester could be dangerous, and never more so than where his boys were concerned.
Then, as quickly as that glare had sharpened, it melted away into a mournful look that made Bobby's heart ache.
"I ain't tryin' to keep you away from Dean," Bobby offered quietly, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably. "And I ain't tryin' to keep you from Sam; not really. Jest tryin' to keep the two a'you from spendin' too much time alone together. It ain't my family, ain't really my concern. But I worry about Dean, and if you two can't be trusted not to fight, I'm gonna do whatever I feel I have to do to keep it from happening."
John opened his mouth as though he would respond, but only let out a heavy sigh and shook his head. It wasn't in negation, though.
"Ain't like I'm insisting one or both'a yer boys ride in my truck with me," Bobby continued. "That's not my place. But--"
"All right," John interrupted. "Fair enough. And you've been proven right more than once. It's just that I feel like...."
"Like you ain't had any time alone with yer Dean now that you got him back?" Bobby supplied. He clapped a sympathetic hand to John's slumped shoulder. "Hey, if I thought I could peel Sam away from his brother's side, I'da made him come with me to get dinner. As it stands...."
John nodded, his eyes distant once again, and Bobby wondered what was going through the man's mind. There was so much to process, and John Winchester was one of the best at repression and denial that Bobby had ever seen. But there were some things that John was going to have to face head-on and deal with if he was going to help Dean to begin to heal. Like the fact that the boy had been continuously raped for the past two years....
But hell if Bobby was going to be the one to bring that subject up. In a public place no less. He'd trust that this Missouri Mosely in Kansas would do it for him. Bobby might not be as determinedly into burying a problem as the Winchesters, but he wasn't a foolish man. He knew that there were just some things that he couldn't discuss with the man who had the problems that John Winchester had.
Even though Dean deserved better. Not better than his father, who was really a fine man at the heart of it. Not better than his brother, who clearly loved Dean more than anything or anyone else on the face of the Earth. But better than this confusion, this fumbling in the dark, better than this big load of nothing that Bobby had to offer him. He'd do the best he could to keep John and Sam from one another's throats, and he cared about Dean as much as though he had been his own flesh, especially now that the boy was so very broken and lost. But there were things he could not, would not, and should not do. Things that were going to be up to his father and brother.
And no matter how it killed Bobby to stand back and watch, that was just what he was going to do.
"Here you go," the restaurant host said, a couple of heavy white bags filled with styrofoam cartons hanging from his hands.
"Thanks." Bobby rose rapidly and grasped one, John claiming the other. He smiled and the host smiled back.
"I hope your son feels better soon," he said to John.
"Yeah. Me too."
And Bobby couldn't blame John for the bitterness in his voice.