fandom: supernatural
tw: self harm, child abuse mention, depression
category: gen
summary: after sam tells bobby about john's abuse and dean's cutting, bobby struggles to show Dean he's not alone.
word count: 5,592
Dean finished installing the new pan, but was forced to leave the other two repairs for later as John came storming back from another few drinks and ordered him and his brother into the car.
When he did, Dean asked quietly, “We got a hunt?”
“I got a hunt. I don’t need you and your habits slowing me down.”
It was the only response needed to confirm what Dean had predicted to Sam earlier, and with it, John passed out in the passenger’s seat and the teen set them en route to Singer Salvage Yard.
The plus to John being blackout drunk was that the trip wasn’t consumed by more screaming, or even silent seething. The father slept, and the older son pushed back his panic and self-loathing to try to make the drive as pleasant as possible for the younger son.
Sam usually passed road trips studying or reading these days, so Dean taped one of his quiz sheets to the edge of the dashboard and ran answers with him for an hour or so. Then, since he’d spent a large amount of his time since childhood reading police reports and press releases in search of jobs, Sam questioned him for another two hours about the legal system and how it worked.
Finally, however, with the sun well below the horizon and the moon rising in its place, Sammy fell asleep as well.
That was when ignoring the events of the past day really got hard.
Dean turned on his music, low to ensure he didn’t disturb his family, and stared pointedly through the windshield, desperately trying to empty his mind of anything but melody and rhythm and lyrics.
How could he be so stupid? How could he let everything he’d hidden for so long come out so quickly?
This couldn’t be real. It had to all just be a terrible, terrible nightmare.
But he was aching too thoroughly from his father’s beating for that to be possible.
At least it seemed like he’d gotten Sammy’s mind off of it.
Off of that fact that his big brother was a freak who hurt himself for fun.
What was wrong with him?
When you did it for so long, it became normal. You numbed yourself to it. It was just a part of who you were.
It took someone else finding out to remind you how psychotic it really was.
This wasn’t the first time, but it was the first time that really mattered.
Only a month or so after he’d started, a teacher had seen as he handed in his work. He hadn’t reacted at the time, and when he’d asked Dean to stay after class, he’d assumed it was for not doing his homework or failing to make up the test he’d missed while on a hunt with his father. Maybe he’d seen the beer in his backpack. All things he’d been in trouble for a million times before.
The real reason was so much worse than any of that.
He’d been so calm about it, so gentle and understanding and… quiet. Perching on the edge of a desk just like Dean was… something a lot of teachers regularly scolded him for doing… and simply asking questions.
Real questions. Not John what is wrong with you, who taught you this is okay, how did you get so screwed up questions.
Genuine, concerned, help me understand questions. Despite how Dean had attempted to lie, he’d managed to get some real answers out of him in a round-about way. Eventually, he walked him to his counselor’s office, and an hour later, they’d called John. Except John hadn’t picked up. John never picked up. The Winchesters left the city a week of unsuccessful attempts to get a hold of him later.
Maybe that teacher was the reason Dean had held onto that stupid hope for his father’s reaction.
But he’d been new to hiding them back then. After that, he’d been more careful. He’d started wearing clothes that were too big for him. That way, the sleeves never slipped past his wrists. He’d spent hours thinking of excuses and stories and distractions just in case someone did see. He’d made sure the long sleeves he chose never looked too forced, even in the summer. Made a personal style out of being very, very covered.
And yet, he’d completely forgotten about the dirty little secret he’d worked so hard to hide that afternoon. Maybe it was the beer. Maybe it was the simplicity and joy of working on the beloved car.
Whatever it was, it had screwed him over.
He had screwed him over.
And he’d always known. He’d always known he couldn’t keep it up forever. He’d always known he needed to stop. But he just… couldn’t.
He’d tried. Told himself he wouldn’t. Distracted himself with alcohol and poker and girls and most of all, hunting. But it never worked. The amount of time he could stay clean only got shorter as time went on.
But why?
He felt crazy. He couldn’t put his finger on it.
It helped.
But what did it help? What was it that hurt so bad that he lay in bed at night and thought of the gun in his duffle and wanted nothing more than to just end it all?
He jerked himself out of his own head with a sharp flinch.
So much for not thinking about it.
He glanced at his father, still snoring in the passenger’s seat, and felt a fresh wave of self-hatred wash over him. It was his fault he’d gotten drunk. It was his fault he drank at all. He didn’t deserve this. Dean was supposed to be better. For him, and even more than that, for Sammy.
His eyes darted up to the rear view mirror, and while the guilt throbbing in his chest only increased all the more at the sight of sleeping thirteen-year-old, he also couldn’t help but smile just a little.
Sam definitely deserved better. Better than him, better than John, better than all of this. But certainly better than having to worry because his older brother was a freak who forced their father to beat him because he couldn’t do anything right. Because he hurt himself for fun.
They both seemed to be sleeping soundly enough, so he turned up the music a little and tried once again to shut his mind off.
It worked just about as well as the first time.
He supposed it was a good thing his family was in the car with him. If they weren’t, he didn’t know that he could resist the urge to run full speed into the nearest concrete.
The sky was just beginning to lighten when the Impala finally passed under the familiar, rusty arch. Dean didn’t sleep so well anymore, but the night had still taken its toll on him, and he wanted few things more than to crawl into his bed upstairs and finally, finally have a real chance at making his brain shut up for a while.
That wasn’t the only reason a pang of relief opened in his chest as he drove up the gravel drive, though. This was the closest thing he’d had to a permanent home since his mother had died. This was the only place he could really think of a bed as his own, the only place that he could be confident would always be there.
He knew he didn’t deserve comfort, but in the guilt and pain and self-loathing of his present, Bobby’s house was comforting.
When pavement had changed to gravel, both Sam and John had started to stir, and by the time Dean finally parked the car in front of the house, they were awake for real.
John swore softly, rubbing the bridge of his nose with one hand as the other grappled for his door handle. No sooner had he managed to open it and step out of the car than he was emptying his stomach onto the driveway.
“Serves him right,” Sam muttered just loud enough for Dean to hear.
The brothers filed out of the car and Dean retrieved their duffle from the back in a well-practiced routine. By the time they had, their father had finished puking and was stomping his way up the porch steps.
Dean had been worried about waking Bobby up, but judging by the light in the kitchen, he either already was, or had gotten caught up in a case and never gone to bed in the first place.
Dean and Sam were just climbing the steps as John pounded his arrival onto the front door. He tried the knob without an answer, but it was locked, and he was forced to wait as Dean heard movement on the other side.
A moment later, the door opened to reveal Bobby, coffee mug in hand.
Dean swore he didn’t even look surprised as he took in their obviously hungover father. “John.”
He stepped aside to let them in as his gaze traveled the boys’ way. “Heya, Sam, Dea…” He stopped short when he looked at the older brother, good nature draining from his place to be replaced by worry. “What on earth happened to you, Boy?”
Dean looked at the ground as he trouped into the house. “Hunt went bad. I’m fine.”
Bobby opened his mouth to argue as he closed the door behind them, but John spoke first. “Can the boys stay with you for a while?”
“The boys know they’re always welcome,” Bobby replied, his tone even but hesitantly curious, obviously searching for the reason.
It wasn’t lost on John, who glared daggers at his older son. “Ask Dean why.”
Dean felt his shoulders drop as he stared even harder at the floor and wished he didn’t exist.
The senior Winchester clopped further into the kitchen and opened the fridge to retrieve a beer. He popped it open and took a long swig before glaring at Dean once more.
“Did you get the car fixed?”
“No, Sir. Not all the way.”
His father swore under his breath. Dean pretended like he didn’t know every word he used was insulting him.
Bobby didn’t miss a beat, walking over to a drawer and pulling a set of keys out of it. “Red Cortina. Out front.”
John grunted in satisfaction, accepted the keys, and turned to leave. “Dunno when I’ll be back.”
The door slammed behind him.
Silence engulfed the house until the sound of John driving away was gone. When it was, Bobby looked back at Dean. The boy could feel the concern and compassion in his gaze without looking up to see it.
“Dean, you look awful.”
“I’m fine, Bobby,” he whispered. “Just really tired. Been driving all night.”
The hunter sighed a little, but nodded, indicating the stairs. “You know where to go.”
“Thanks,” he managed.
He kept his head low as he slowly climbed the stairs, listening dully to Sam and Bobby talk as he went.
“You tired, Sam?”
“No. I slept on the way.”
“Hungry?”
“A little.”
“I think I have some cereal around here. I’ll have to make a grocery run.”
“Thanks, Bobby. I can get it.”
“You can turn on the tv if you want to.”
“You have any good books?”
Dean closed the bathroom door behind him. He turned on the hot water in the sink. He found his hands were shaking as he pulled off his flannel. A glance up at his reflection in the mirror. He did look awful.
He washed his face first, dragging wet hands through his oil-tipped hair. He’d take a shower tomorrow, but right now he was just so tired.
Next, the water was pulled up his dirty arms. He scrubbed extra over the scars and cuts, like somehow he could just wash them away.
Finally, he pulled his t-shirt off as well, quickly replacing it with a hoodie from his duffle. He traded jeans for sweats, flicked the light off, and stumbled across the hall to the bedroom.
He didn’t even care if he had nightmares at this point. He was living in one anyway.
time-skip sponsored by philipp grubauer
Dean woke up eight hours later, just as the sun slipped past its high point. He didn’t remember the last time he’d gotten a full eight hours of sleep.
Despite the rest, his body ached just about everywhere. His cracked rib was screaming, it felt like every bone in his body was bruised, he could feel the way his eye was swollen, and the cuts on his arm were loudly smarting.
He groaned as he rolled out of bed, steadying himself with one hand while the other dragged through his hair. It still felt thick with grease and oil. He looked down at the pillow he’d been sleeping on and saw that its off white surface was now soiled with black marks.
“Crap,” he muttered, inwardly cursing himself.
Bobby gave him a bed to sleep in, and this was how he repaid him. He really couldn’t do anything right.
He’d have to clean that, but first he needed to clean himself. So he grabbed some fresh clothes from the duffle and painfully made his way to the bathroom.
A hot shower felt good, but it did little in the long run to make him ache any less. Once he was dressed again, he collected the dirty pillow case and took it downstairs to the kitchen. Dish soap was supposed to get oil out, right?
He could hear Bobby and Sammy in the room which housed Bobby’s personal library, and he couldn’t help but smile slightly at the string of questions the hunter had no doubt been answering since they arrived. Sam always had something he wanted to know, and it seemed to him Bobby knew everything. Dean had seen the kid writing down lists of things to ask him next time he had the chance.
Five minutes of work saw a decent amount of progress on the stains, but they were still a good way from gone. Dean was so focused on his project that he failed to notice when Bobby entered the room until he spoke from a few feet away.
“What on earth are you doing?”
The teen started sharply, but relaxed when he realized it was just the hunter.
“I… uh… I was working on the car yesterday, and I got oil in my hair. Stained the pillow case while I was sleeping. ‘m sorry. Swear I’ll get it out.”
“Dean,” Bobby sighed in exasperation. “you do not need to apologize for getting a little grease on a pillowcase. God knows it's not the first time it’s happened around here. We’ll throw it in the wash and it’ll be fine. Quit fussing.”
“Oh.” Dean stared at the linen in the sink for a moment. “I… uh… I just… I didn’t wanna make you mad…”
“The day I get mad about a pillowcase is the day you can just go ahead and shoot me,” Bobby told him simply. “Now go toss that in the laundry room and come get some food.”
“Do you want me to at least start the load?”
“No, I want you to eat.”
Dean nodded in resignation and deposited the wet fabric in a laundry basket before returning to the kitchen, where he found Bobby pulling a plate of chicken and rice out of the microwave.
“Your brother helped me make this, so if it’s bad, blame him,” the hunter told him with a small smile.
Dean nodded and accepted the plate murmuring, “Thanks, Bobby.”
“You want some water?”
“Can I have a beer?”
“Nope.”
Dean managed just a bit of a rueful smile. “Then yeah.”
Bobby just grunted in response as he set the glass down on the table and Dean sank down in front of it with his food.
“You look like you’re hurtin.”
He shrugged, then regretted it. “‘m fine,” he said through his food.
“Has anyone even cleaned them?”
“Took a shower.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“Yeah, it is.”
Bobby gave him a hard look, and he directed him gaze down at his plate.
“Stop worrying, Bobby. I’m fine.”
The hunter sighed heavily. “What happened, anyway?”
Dean was glad he’d taken time on the drive to think of a convincing story when the man inevitably asked how he got so beat up.
“We were hunting a demon. I screwed up the trap and it threw me around while Dad exorcised it. That’s why he’s so mad.”
“Traps get screwed up,” Bobby replied, but there was something in his tone that said he didn’t fully believe him. “Happens to the best of us.”
Dean just nodded a little and shoveled another bite in his mouth.
“So what’s wrong with the car?” Bobby asked after a moment.
“Cracked fluid line and punctured pan.”
“Have to drive it hard during a hunt?”
“Yeah. Also why Dad’s so pissed.”
Bobby took a breath like he was going to say something, but seemed to change his mind as he let it out again. A moment of silence passed before he stated, “I’ll help you fix it later.”
“Thanks.”
He didn’t need help, and Bobby knew that, but the two of them enjoyed working on cars together.
“But first, I am gonna properly take care of all those injuries,” Bobby added after a moment.
That would no doubt involve taking his shirt off, and for very obvious reasons that was something Dean absolutely could not do. He struggled to stay calm and casual as he replied, “I’m fine. Dad said I’m fine, I say I’m fine. They don’t need taken care of.”
“Dean…”
“I’m fine.”
Another long moment of silence. Then softly, “I worry about you, Boy.”
Dean conjured up an easy smirk. “You should worry about the other guys.”
But Bobby didn’t match the smile. He just looked at him with deeply rooted concern, his eyes flocking to his plate like he wanted to make sure he ate all of his food.
And Dean became aware of the uncomfortable feeling that Bobby really, deeply cared about him.
He wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Bobby deserved better. In the end, all he would do was let him down, and he wished desperately that he could just make him stop.
When Dean had finished eating, they did go outside to get to work on the Impala. This time, the boy had chosen tighter sleeves that wouldn’t slip, and he watched them like a hawk as he worked.
It didn’t take long for them to replace the two problem parts, and as the sun really began to slip down the dome of the sky, Dean was sliding out from underneath the car and Bobby was packing up the tools they’d been using.
They hadn’t talked much as they worked, but now Dean was becoming uncomfortably aware of the fact that Bobby seemed to have a serious conversation on the tip of his tongue.
Once he had everything put away in its respective case or bag, the hunter got to his feet and walked around to the front of the Impala.
“Just gonna make sure everything’s good under the hood,” he stated, and Dean nodded, rising as well and climbing the porch steps to sink into a chair and wait for the verdict. He moaned softly as he lowered himself into the chair. His body ached more with every passing hour.
A few minutes later, Bobby closed the hood and joined him. “All good.”
More silence. Dean could feel that conversation coming, but he didn’t know how to stop it.
Finally, the question came, serious but gentle. “Is there anything you want to tell me, Dean?”
The boy could feel his heart immediately pounding out of his chest, his stomach clenching in absolute dread.
“Not that I can think of.” Even he could hear that the ease he’d forced into his tone was utterly fake.
Bobby let out a sigh that said he wasn’t surprised by the answer, but it also wasn’t the one he’d been looking for. He let a moment pass before speaking again.
“Your brother told me it wasn’t a demon that beat you up.”
It took a second for Dean to process the sentence, but when he had, he felt his heart drop inside of him.
Struggling not to panic, he exhaled a little. “And what did Sammy tell you it was?”
“Well…” Bobby replied carefully. “He didn’t say in so many words. But he said enough without them.”
“Bobby, you know I can’t read between the lines.”
He could, but right now he was desperate for anything that steered them away from the path Bobby was putting them on.
“And you know I’d fight anything that hurt you no questions asked, don’t you, Boy?”
“I was under the impression that was how you felt about all monsters.”
Another sigh from Bobby. Another hesitant beat of silence.
“I know your daddy beats you. I know your daddy did this.”
There was a deep anger in the hunter’s voice and his eyes when Dean chanced a glance at them, but it wasn’t that, that terrified the teen about what he said.
“Dad?” The shock in his voice sounded convincing enough. “What? He… No. No, never, I swear. He would never.”
“Dean.”
“I swear…”
“Dean.”
The boy’s eyes dropped. He felt his heart sink to his toes. Why was he so terrible at this? Yet another long moment of silence stretched between them, lasting until he finally found his voice again, though it still came out tiny and broken.
“Only when I deserve it. Alright? I screwed up bad. Real, real bad. What else is he supposed to do with me?”
“Dean, I don’t care what you do, you do not, ever deserve to be beaten by your father, you hear me?”
There was desperation and, shockingly to Dean, tears, behind the hunter’s voice, and he could feel the same sadness in his gaze despite the fact that Dean’s own was fixed steadfastly on the ground.
“No, no, you… you don’t know what I do, Bobby. What I did.” His voice cracked, but he pressed ahead, inwardly cursing himself. “Sammy was upset about the way Dad reacted, but if you knew, you’d react the same, okay?”
“No.”
The word was strong and decisive and absolute.
“Dean, I will never, ever hit you, and that is a promise I will not break.”
Despite all of his best efforts to beat them back, tears began to slide down Dean’s face. “Bobby, if you just knew.”
“I do.”
The teen swore his heart stopped beating. Against his own will, his eyes slid up to the older man’s.
“What?” the word came out a whisper.
Bobby exhaled heavily. “I was hoping you’d tell me yourself, Dean. But Sam also told me what your daddy was really so angry about.”
Dean’s entire mind was just flashing red lights and alarms and his own voice screaming insults at him. “I…” He couldn’t breathe. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. Not again. Not again.
“Dean, listen…” Bobby started, but Dean didn’t let him finish.
He couldn’t. Bobby was his rock, really more of a father to him than John was, the one thing in life he counted on to always be there, and he couldn’t handle listening to him finally recognizing him for the absolute failure and disgusting waste of oxygen he was.
So he got to his feet and bolted for the car.
He didn’t know where he was going or what he was going to do. All he knew was he needed to get away from this. From everything and everyone who had been stupid enough to care about him, who were now discovering the truth and being let down and even unknowingly being set on the road to hating him because that was what he deserved.
The key was in his pocket, and he desperately dug it out as he ran, yanking the door open and slamming it after him, shoving the key into the ignition and twisting.
The engine turned over, but refused to start. He tried again. The same thing happened.
Bobby had just checked the engine. It had started and driven just fine less than twenty- four hours before, and that was when it was leaking transmission fluid. Why… how…
The door he’d just slammed opened again, and Bobby stooped to Dean’s seated eye-level with a distributor cap held up in one hand.
His voice was gentle as he asked simply, “Where do you think you’re going?”
He’d only used the line twice before, years ago and years apart, but it seemed to Dean like it had been a million different occasions.
Bobby was always there when he felt alone and broken and worthless, when he felt like his only option was to run because he was a parasite to everyone and everything around him. His shoe had been traded for a vital part of his getaway car, but he was always there. Why was he always there?
Dean’s hand fell from the key, his head dropped to the steering wheel in front of him, and the first sob wracked his entire body as tears began to well and truly stream down his face.
He hated himself. He was a freak who cut himself because he liked it, everyone he loved knew about it now, and he hated himself more than he’d thought it was possible to hate a human being.
Two arms guided him toward the open door and out of the car, and before he knew what was happening, he was collapsing with his face on Bobby's shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” he heard his own voice gasp. “I… I… I… I’m so…”
Bobby shushed him softly, arms wrapping around him a little tighter.
So he gave up and just cried, stopped trying to make himself fight and just let the man support his entire body weight and comfort him like he was a child again.
Dean didn’t remember the last time he’d felt like anything even close to a child. He didn’t remember the last time someone had hugged him. He didn’t remember the last time he hadn’t felt alone.
He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that. Even when he finally didn’t have any tears left in him, he still didn’t move, didn’t lift his head from Bobby’s shoulder, because he was much too ashamed to do anything that could result in him having to look the man in the eye.
However, after another long moment, Bobby did move, gently lifting the boy off of him and taking a step back, though both hands remained attached to his shoulders.
“Alright. You ready to talk about this now?”
Dean immediately let his chin drop and fixed his gaze on the gravel beneath their feet, but he didn’t know what to do except nod a little.
Bobby returned the gesture, then turned, wrapping one arm around Dean’s shoulders and placing the other on the closer of the two to lead him back up the steps and to the chairs they’d been in when the conversation started.
Dean sank into his off of shaky legs, Bobby sat down in his own, and several seconds of silence stretched between them.
“How long have you been doing it?” the hunter asked at last, his voice still shockingly gentle.
Dean kept quiet for another long moment.
This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be happening.
“Almost a year.” His own voice, hoarse and barely audible as it was, surprised him.
“This is the first time someone’s seen?”
“Besides some teacher in some town we left a week later.”
“Have you tried to stop?”
“Yeah.”
“But it hasn’t worked?”
Dean closed his eyes and swallowed hard, shaking his head in a silent no.
“Would you like some help?”
The words hung in the air as Dean opened his mouth, swallowed air, and closed it again.
Screaming he understood. Beating he understood. He knew how to take them with his chin up, how to handle them in stride.
But this? He had no idea how to respond to this.
“I…” He finally managed to choke out. “I’m a freak, Bobby. Why would you want to help me?”
“Dean, you are not a freak,” Bobby countered, his voice gentle yet with a sternness that said he wouldn’t argue about the matter. “That’s your daddy’s word and it’s just another thing he and I will be having a talk about it, but I am not gonna stand by and let you repeat everything he told you about you.”
“Everything he said was true.” It barely even hurt to say it. It was something Dean had accepted a long time ago, and admitting that might make the old wound ache a little, but there was no fresh sting to it anymore.
“No, it wasn’t.” That firmness was even stronger this time.
Dean glanced up for just a second, just long enough to meet Bobby’s gaze and silently tell him there was no part of him that was ready to believe that.
The hunter sighed. “Listen, Son. I know he’s your father, and you’re conditioned to go along with everything he says. I know you can’t just ignore him. I know it hurts. And you know I don’t fight him on half the things we disagree on. But when it comes to what you believe about you… that’s a hill I’m willing to die on.” He hesitated before adding softly, “And I fail to see how he thinks making you feel even more worthless and broken is gonna help you stop hurting yourself.”
“So what would you call me, Bobby?” There was an edge in the teen’s voice that sounded like anger, but was really just his best attempt to cover up his pain. “I cut my own wrists for fun! What word is there for that besides freak?”
“I’d call you hurtin, Dean.” Bobby’s voice remained steady and gentle and calm. “Plain and simple. You’re in pain, and a lot of it. There’s nothing more to it than that.”
Dean blinked back a fresh barrage of tears. “But…”
The older hunter cut him off. “Which brings me back to my original question. Would you like some help?”
Dean’s face tightened, a physical representation of his emotional urge to put up walls and shove them at Bobby as hard as he could. But somehow, I’ll be fine on my own, Just forget about it, alright? and I don’t need help. I’m fine, all failed to complete the journey from mind to tongue.
Instead, he faltered for a moment before choking out finally, “How?”
“Well, for starters,” Bobby replied simply, “I’ve got ears to listen. Things dark enough to make you make yourself bleed are things you’ve faced alone for way too long.”
“Everyone… everything… says that!” Dean gasped in utter frustration. “But what is talking supposed to do? What are you supposed to do? I don’t… I don’t even know why I’m like this, Bobby!”
He hesitated, but Bobby said nothing, watching him expectantly.
He knew he was waiting for the overflow, and he knew he should hold it back, but somehow, he just couldn’t, and the words started pouring from his mouth.
“Dad kept asking what was wrong with me, and I don’t know! I don’t… I can’t… I think I’m crazy.” The last part came out a whisper. He continued in a soft, broken voice. “It’s like I… everything hurts, but nothing… nothing is real. And I don’t… I don’t know…” He trailed off, shrugging a little before repeating helplessly, “I don’t know.”
“Everything hurts, but nothing is real,” Bobby echoed gently. “Dean, that’s why you do it, and that’s why talking about it helps. They make it feel more real.”
“You make talking about it sound so easy,” the boy whispered.
The hunter nodded a little. “I know it won’t be. And I’m not gonna push you. But…” He reached over and once again laid a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “before you hurt yourself, please, give me a try.”
The silence which stretched between them seemed to scream. An inaudible cry made wholly of pain said that Dean had no idea how to do that, but he would try to try.
Finally, the teenager got to his feet, clearing his throat and trying to regain his composure and put his personal walls back in place. “Didn’t you uh… didn’t you say we needed to make a grocery run?”
Bobby stood as well, nodding a little while still watching him carefully. “That I did.”
“Maybe we can see…” He cleared his throat again, desperately trying to get the moisture and emotion out of his voice. “See if the car’s running alright.”
Once again, the hunter nodded. “We’ll just have to get your brother.”
Dean returned the gesture, but his eyes were locked on the ground. He swallowed hard, suddenly finding himself fighting a whole new rush of tears.
Bobby pulled him into another hug.
As usual, he went immediately rigid, but a second later, the safety of the embrace was too much, and he broke down, returning the hug as his face dropped once more to Bobby’s shoulder.
They stayed like that a moment before he whispered, his voice utterly broken, “When’re you just gonna leave?”
The hunter pulled back with both hands on his shoulders, squeezing a little to pull Dean’s eyes up to his. “Never, Dean. You hear me? I’m not going anywhere. And neither are you.”