Genre: h/c, family
Summary: As Sam heals, and Dean helps him—Bobby reflects.
A/N: A short missing scene from my story, “Goodnight, Moon.” (Which took place after “Jus in Bello.”) You don’t necessarily have to read GNM before reading this story, but this one might leave you wondering what the bleep happened.(Unbetad so please forgive any mistakes.)
Walking through the living room, Bobby tripped over a pile of books Sammy had stacked while playing. He guessed they still hadn’t finished cleaning up after the kid yet. Too busy doing other things, too busy taking care of Sam. He had to admit he would miss having the little runt around, but he was incredibly relieved to have Sam back and safe and sound—for all of their sakes, especially Dean’s.
At Missouri’s call for lunch, Bobby’s stomach rumbled, but there was something he wanted to get done first. Walking past the boys’ room, he glanced in to find Sam lying on the bed and Dean sitting next to him. It was a common scene of recent, but what caused him to nearly stop in his tracks was the fact that they were both grinning at each other like fools. He didn’t want to get caught acting like an eavesdropping little girl, so he kept moving, but damn if it wasn’t good to see them with smiles on their faces again.
Readjusting his grip on the wrench in his hand, Bobby made his way to the bathroom. He’d never be able to look at the room the same again—not after what Sam had done. Not after the kid had locked himself inside and cut himself up trying to save his brother.
The blood had long since been removed, but Bobby could still see it. And he probably would continue to see it until he could figure out what the hell kind of spell the boy had done. It was a shame Sam couldn’t remember—but maybe it was a blessing, too.
Bobby knelt before the sink and started to unscrew the pipes. It had been clogged for nearly a week…and he couldn’t find his watch.
Speaking of kids, he could still hear the boys in their room.
“Hungry?” Dean was starting to sound like an old broken record anymore—pestering Sam to eat. But it was for good reason. Bobby heard Sam grunt in protest, though. Poor kid got nauseated damn near every time he tried to. But he did try. He always tried for his brother.
“Come on now, you’re a growing boy,” Dean teased.
Bobby rolled his eyes and imagined Sam doing the same.
“The spell didn’t leave me a few inches short to catch up on, Dean.” Bobby barely heard the exhausted murmur. Sam had a lot of strength to reclaim. “I’m back to my average height.”
“Hate to break it to you, kiddo, but being a sasquatch doesn’t exactly fall under average.”
“Why do you think Missouri’s been stickin’ around feeding us? To woo Bobby?”
Hitting his head off the bottom of the ceramic sink, Bobby almost missed the snort that must have come from Sam. “To woo me?” he grumbled incredulously under his breath, getting to his feet and ready to use the wrench on something other than a clogged drain. Dean’s next words stopped him, though. Or, rather, his tone.
“You need to get your strength back, bro,” he said softly, failing to hide the worry that crept into his voice. “Between the cold and the spells…” Sam had hung on by a gossamer thread for so long…. Bobby sometimes still couldn’t believe he had made it. Thank goodness he had inherited his daddy’s stubbornness. Thank goodness both boys had.
And wasn’t that a whole other can of worms that had been opened.
“I know,” the younger resigned just as softly. “Help an old man up?”
This time it was Dean that snorted. “Come on, little brother.”
He knew without needing to be in the same room that Dean immediately reached for him—never hesitating, because no matter how big his little brother got, he’d never be too big for him to carry.
“Is that…is that potato soup I smell?”
“Dude,” Dean answered as enthusiastically as he typically did when it came to his limited favorite food groups. “Not only is that potato soup, that is homemade rolls and pie, Sam. Pie!”
There was a moment of silence. Bobby recognized it for what it was—one or both of the boys hatching a plan.
“What?” He heard Sam inquire before an uneasy feeling settled into the pit of his own stomach.
“I wonder how long we can convince Missouri you’re still growing.”
Sam huffed a laugh and Bobby could see them now as they made their way into the living room. “That depends,” the recently re-sasquatched replied.
“On?” Dean asked patiently beside him, hand held supportively under Sam’s elbow…where it was just about every moment Sam was on his feet lately. Boy has been weak as a kitten and God only knew when those damn muscle cramps would strike again.
“Think you can still lift me for airplane?”
Of all the… Bobby rolled his eyes and went back to his task. He could hear them slowly shuffling the rest of the way through the living room. He was just getting the pipe loose when he heard, “If I drop you and you split your gigantor head open, I don’t wanna hear it.”
“Take one for the team?”
“We got freezers that need fillin,’ little brother.”
Bobby shook his head towards the sky…and made a mental note to get Sammy’s Spiderman Band-Aids back out. He’d learned never to put anything past those two—from surviving against the greatest and bleakest of odds, to doing something positively ridiculous to earn a few extra homemade meals.
“Singer, I didn’t make this soup for you to eat it cold!” Missouri bellowed from the kitchen.
Bobby grumbled under his breath, “Nag, nag, nag.” He got the pipe off and his watch, some water and a shotgun casing fell out.
“And bring some Band-Aids. Your boys are idiots,” she called again after a moment, but there was warmth in her voice and it found its way to Bobby’s heart. He peered around the pipes into the living room. The boys didn’t really try to pull the airplane maneuver, did they? He thought on it for a second. “Nah,” he decided with a shake of his head, and got back business.
Tightening on the pipe, he sometimes wondered how he had gotten to this point in his life—that had nothing to do with ghosts and various creatures that go bump in the night, but everything to do with a bossy psychic that had taken over his kitchen, and two grown (and overgrown) trouble magnets that had taken over his heart.
But however, or whatever the how or the reason, he found he didn’t really care.
“Cripes, woman, I take it patience was never a virtue of yours!” he hollered back, standing up and grabbing the Band-Aids before stomping out of the bathroom.
Because, God help him…he wouldn’t have it any other way.