These Broken Shards
These Broken Shards
Summary: “What if Dad is here? He'd know that we'd come.” Whiskey 'verse
A/N: Yet another installment in the Whiskey 'verse, which was never intended to be a 'verse, but I couldn't just leave them where they were in Hangover, right?
XXX
“What if Dad is here? He'd know that we'd come.”
Dean turned to his younger brother. Sam's arms were folded across his chest, feet shuffling restlessly as he scanned the scrapyard suspiciously before turning to the door to eye it as well.
“He's not,” Dean assured him. “We would've seen him by now.”
The petrol tank had run dry well before Bobby's place came into sight, leaving a stealthy walk through the yard as their only option, not that Dean needed another one. The last thing he wanted was to pull up and find that Dad had beaten them here, and keeping an eye on the place until they were sure it was just Bobby had always been his plan.
Sam shrugged, too anxious to be convinced, and looked down at the ground. Dean eyed him critically, part frustration and part sympathy. Sam had dawdled all the way here and he hadn't said anything but Dean was sure it was about Bobby and what had happened the last time the kid went up against a father figure, even if he had tentatively agreed that this was a good idea when Dean first brought it up. He seemed to become less and less certain the closer they got and now that they were standing on Bobby's porch, he looked ready to bolt. Dean understood but if they couldn't trust Bobby then there was no one left. And Dean really needed there to be someone left.
He can't blame Sam for being rattled though, not when he still feels pretty shaky himself, and not when the poor kid's standing there with his eye still deep purple down to the cheekbone, mottled green spreading over the bridge of his nose and to his eyebrow, and the beanie pulled over his head to hide the stubble of his hair. It made Dean's stomach knot up every time he looked at Sam. Maybe if he had been there...
But he hadn't been, and now they were standing on Bobby's porch with a maxed out credit card and nothing but chump change in his pocket.
The door in front of them opened, just as Dean was raising his hand to knock, and Bobby appeared, looking the same as always, with his flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows and a truckers cap on his head. Dean saw his eyebrows rise as his sharp eyes skimmed over Dean and turned to Sam, taking in the black eye, before settling his gaze back on the elder brother.
“What the hell took you boys so long?” he demanded.
Dean blinked.
“I've had your Daddy on the phone, ranting and raving, and I'm sure I don't have to tell you that it's hard to get any sense outta him when he's off his head but I managed to figure out that he'd done something stupid and you two had packed up and left.” Bobby squinted a glare at Dean. “That was two days ago and none of you damn Winchesters seem to know how to pick up a phone. You trying to give me a heart attack?”
“The battery-” Dean started, because in his rush to leave he'd forgotten to snag his charger, or Sam's, though as far as the kid knew, his phone was still at the motel they had shared with Dad.
“Oh, never mind.” Bobby waved him off gruffly. “Get your butts in here before you let all the heat out.”
It was reassuring to be in Bobby's presence, Dean thought as he stepped into the hallway, followed by Sam, who stuck close to his heels, slightly behind him, like the kid didn't sense the safety he did. Which was fair enough. Dad was supposed to be safe, after all.
“You boys hungry?” Bobby asked, looking them up and down as they arrived in the kitchen.
Dean had to think about it. The day was fading into evening and they'd only snacked on road trip food since morning. He hadn't had much of an appetite even for that but now that he had time to consider it, and didn't have to worry about stealing it, he realized that hunger was starting to squirm in his stomach. Even so, food didn't really seem all that appealing, it was just his body reminding him that it needed fuel. What he really wanted was to sleep, take a breath, stop thinking so much. It was there in Bobby's kitchen that Dean realized just how stressed out he had been since Dad... he could still hardly comprehend what Dad had done. His whole life he'd been hearing the mantra “Look after Sammy” and what did Dad do? Fucking smacked the kid hard enough to brutally blacken his eye and left bruises on his wrists where he'd held Sam down and tried to turn him into a good little soldier by cutting his hair off.
“Sit. I've got leftovers.” Bobby gestured to the kitchen table before turning to rustle through the fridge. “Bet you two have been eating junk,” he muttered in what seemed to be fond disapproval.
Dean didn't say anything because he was right, of course, and then Bobby pulled out a huge block of lasagna and set about reheating it, and Dean couldn't speak for a whole different reason. Bobby really had been expecting them; lasagna had been a favourite dish since Bobby first made it for them when he was twelve and Sam was eight and Dad had left them at the scrap yard for a week because they both had the flu. Judging by the two slices missing, Bobby had made it for them the day Dad had called and told him they'd left.
The lump in Dean's throat grew as he thought of Bobby eating the lasagna alone, worrying about them, waiting for them. He bet his phone was full of missed calls, and he felt a sudden need to apologize for not coming straight here - he should have, he realized that as soon as he managed to start thinking straight again, which had admittedly taken too long - but it would surely be met with a gruff brushing off. What's done is done and they're here now, at least.
“Well,” Bobby said finally, breaking the heavy silence that had settled over the kitchen as he turned back to face them. “I'm pretty sure I got the gist of what happened. Either of you want to fill me in on the details?”
Sam shrunk as Bobby's gaze swept over him, pulling his hands into his sleeves and staring down at the table. Bobby looked to Dean instead.
“Dad just... went crazy.” Dean shook his head in disgust. “Over a stupid exorcism.”
“An exorcism?” Bobby repeated, eyebrows pulled together in a frown under the brim of his cap, his worn face creased with concern.
“It wasn't the exorcism. It was me,” Sam said quietly, still refusing to look up. “It was because I don't listen to orders and I suck at being a hunter.”
“You don't suck,” Dean responded indignantly, because that just wasn't true, Sam was an awesome hunter. The problem was that Dad always compared him to Dean, always pushing him harder, expecting him to do better, despite the fact that Dean had an extra four years of training behind him. Personally, Dean thought that Sam might even be better at some things than he was at 14. Hell, the kid could almost beat him in hand-to-hand combat, despite the size difference, and of course, Sammy outshone him with his research skills. Maybe Sam didn't always jump to obey orders like Dean did, but he didn't deserve this.
“Your brother's right, Sam,” Bobby agreed. “You're a damn good hunter for a kid your age and if John can't see that then shame on him.”
Sam shrunk further into his hoodie, ducking his head so low that Dean could see tiny prickles of hair escaping the beanie at the nape of his neck. “I don't take orders though. None of this would have happened if I'd just listened.”
“Seems to me like none of this would have happened if John hadn't been half a bottle down,” Bobby said firmly. “It's not your fault, kid. Doesn't matter what you did or didn't do, your Daddy's got no right to lay his hands on you.”
Sam sighed, as if Bobby and Dean just didn't get it. “I'm not hungry. Can I go to bed?”
Frowning, Bobby gave him a searching look but nodded when it became clear that Sam wouldn't be offering anything else. “Sure. Your room's all ready for you.”
Sam slid out of his seat with a barely audible “thanks” and disappeared down the hall. Bobby watched him go, one hand raised to rub his beard thoughtfully.
“I'm guessing there's more to this story than one punch,” he said when Sam's footsteps had faded, leveling Dean with a stare that ordered details. “Something to do with Sam's hair?”
“What hair?” Dean muttered bitterly.
Bobby nodded. “John cut it?” he guessed.
“Shaved it,” Dean corrected. “Right down to the scalp.”
Bobby winced. “Over an exorcism?”
“And a Halloween party. Sam wanted to go but Dad said no.” The table wobbled as Dean propped his elbows on it and rubbed his hands down his face. “I don't know how it happened. I wasn't there, and all Sammy says is that it was his fault, but you saw him, Bobby, he didn't deserve that, no matter what he did.”
“No arguments here,” Bobby said grimly. He pulled up a chair and sat, squinting at Dean. “What about you? How're you doing with all this?”
Dean's eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Me? I'm fine. Dad didn't touch me. It's Sammy I'm worried about.”
Bobby leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. “Way I see it, Sam's not the only one who's had a shock. You walked in on a nasty situation and had to deal with it. I'm sure it wasn't easy to make the decision to leave.”
It took a moment for Dean to figure out what was bugging him about Bobby's statement. Leaving had been hard, of course it had, after being Dad's second in command for so long, but the problem was the insinuation that lay under the words, that Dean might have decided to stay.
He recoiled, indignant anger building in his chest. “Bobby, if you think I even considered any other option, then you don't know me at all.”
“That ain't what I meant, ya idjit,” Bobby shook his head. “I know your brother's your first priority. I'm just saying that you've had a hard time of it too, and I want to know how you're doing.”
Dean scrubbed his hands down his face again, pressing the heels of his palms into his exhausted eyes for a moment. He'd been sleeping about as well as Sam lately, which was barely and the few moments he caught were filled with nightmares. It struck him as odd that he'd spent years hunting monsters and hardly ever lost sleep over it, but walking in on Dad in the aftermath of his drunken rage was somehow imprinted on him forever.
“I don't know,” he answered honestly. “I can hardly think straight.” It felt like an understatement. He kept switching from betrayal and anger at his father to sudden, heart-stopping anxiety at being without his guidance. Worrying about Sam was his only constant. “How could he do that, Bobby? All these years, he's told me to look after Sam and then...”
Bobby shook his head, clearly at a loss. “Alcohol and grief will ruin a man. Have you talked to him?”
“He left some voice-mails before my battery died but I didn't answer them. He's not even sorry.” Wait, that was wrong. “Well, he's only sorry when he's sober. When he's drunk, he just goes on about how Sam needs to shape up and that he had to do it.” His voice was heavy with disgust. “He's still drinking, after what he did.”
“Man's a fool,” Bobby agreed.
XXX
From Bobby's kitchen window, Dean watched Sam cross the junkyard, his arms wrapped around himself to ward off the chill his thin hoodie couldn't. Rumsfeld wandered beside him, the dog's usual playfulness subdued by Sammy's obvious misery.
Dean chewed on his thumb nail. Another few steps and he'd lose Sam in the maze of old cars, and he wasn't so sure he was ready to let the kid out of his sight just yet. He'd just made the decision to follow when Bobby spoke up from behind him.
“Let the boy have some space, Dean. If he didn't want it, he wouldn't be out there.”
Dean hesitated, unsure, and Sam's slight frame vanished behind a stack of burnt-out shells. He turned to Bobby unhappily. “He hasn't even had breakfast,” he said lamely, half-hoping for an excuse to chase Sam down.
Bobby just shrugged and headed for the coffee Dean had brewed. “He'll be in when he's ready.”
“I guess,” Dean muttered, sitting down at the table, gratefully accepting the mug of coffee that was placed before him.
“You boys sleep okay?” Bobby asked as he settled into the seat across from Dean with his own mug.
Dean huffed a bitter laugh. “Barely slept at all. Sam got less than me, I think. Every time I woke up, he was awake, pretending he wasn't.” One of those times, he thought Sam might have been crying but there was no response when Dean whispered his name, so Dean had let him be. He didn't know what else to do.
“He'll be alright, Dean,” Bobby said confidently. “So will you.”
“Sam thinks Dad will come looking for us,” Dean blurted out, dropping his eyes to his coffee so Bobby wouldn't see the mess of emotions within. He didn't want John to find them but he didn't want his father to just leave them either... He didn't know what he wanted.
“I'm sure he will,” Bobby said grimly. “But don't you worry; I can handle your old man.”
Dean sighed. Maybe they should have just stayed away, instead of dumping their problems on Bobby. It was hardly fair. And Dean could probably work something out...
Apparently sensing Dean's thoughts, Bobby set his coffee down and leaned forward. “You know you boys can stay here as long as you need to, right? Don't go stressing yourself out trying to make plans.”
Dean smiled weakly. “Thanks, Bobby, but we can't exactly stay here forever.”
Bobby narrowed his eyes. “And why not?”
Why not? Dean drew back, stunned, and frowned at Bobby. “Well, 'cause it's your house and we don't have any money or... or anything, and I swear Sammy grows out of his clothes every other week and there's his education to think about, which means buying new books and...” He was babbling now. “You don't really want us living here forever? We're not your responsibility.”
Bobby drained the last of his coffee before answering. A shadow had come over his face and when he spoke, his voice was strained. “Once, a long time ago now, I planned on raising children here, turning this house into a home. Life has a way of messing up your plans though.” The shadow had passed when Bobby looked up, replaced by determination and sincerity. “I've known you and Sam since you were knee-high. You boys are the closest thing I have to family. Hell, you are family, so if you want to stay, there's always room for you two here.”
Whatever dark memories lurked behind his words were lost on Dean as relief allowed him to sit up a little straighter. He hadn't dared to ask Bobby if they could stay indefinitely. It was too much, and he hadn't been ready to deal with the anxiety a 'no' would have brought.
“Bobby...” he started, struggling to find the right words to express how much this meant. There weren't any.
The chair squeaked against the lino as Bobby got to his feet, clapping a hand on Dean's shoulder on his way to the sink, a silent 'you're welcome'.
“Why don't you go find your brother and I'll get some breakfast ready,” Bobby suggested. Dean got the feeling that Bobby wanted a moment alone to think about the plans life had messed up for him, which was really the least Dean could do after such a generous offer.
Tracking down Sam in the maze of cars took some time, even though Dean knew all his hiding spots. He felt a pang of nostalgia for all the hours they'd spent playing hide and seek here when they were young and everything wasn't as fucked up as it was now. He checked the likely places one by one and found Sam in the spot furthest from the house, a small space between two cars, a third car stacked sideways on top of the two like a roof.
Sam didn't acknowledge Dean as he edged his way in to sit on the ground beside Sam. Rumsfeld was sitting attentively at Sam's other side, guarding the teenager as he huddled in the tight gap. His knees were pulled up to his chest, one arm wrapped loosely around his legs, the other slung over Rumsfeld's neck, fingers absentmindedly stroking the dark fur under the dog's chin. Dean swore that the misery rolling off of the kid was so strong he could taste it, sour and thick.
“Hey, kiddo.” Dean was almost too big to fit in here now. He mirrored Sam's position through necessity, feeling the cool metal pressed firmly against his back, the tips of his toes nudging the front wheel of the car before him. “Bobby's making breakfast.”
Sam shrugged apathetically. “I'm not really hungry.”
“You must be by now. You didn't eat anything last night.”
Sam shrugged again. Dean was getting no where by ignoring the issue so he decided he may as well get to the point.
“Bobby said we could stay as long as we want,” he revealed. “Forever, even.”
Now Sam looked at him, his expression unreadable as he seemed to search Dean's face for something. “Is that what you want?”
Dean bit his lip to stop himself from making a knee-jerk platitude, which Sam would no doubt discard as insincere. The truth was, Dean couldn't imagine life without Dad, but he only had to look at Sam's swollen, bruised eye - there was a little more green edging the purple today - and the beanie Sam refused to take off to know his answer.
“I want you to be safe.”
Sam dropped his eyes. There was a hole in the knee of his jeans and he picked at one of the loose threads. “Even if it means leaving Dad?”
“Even if it means leaving Dad,” Dean confirmed with conviction. “What he did...” He grit his teeth against the fresh flow of anger and betrayal, remembering the devastation in Sam's eyes that hadn't completely gone away, his father's drunken conviction that he'd done the right thing. There would be no going back, no forgiveness on his part, unless Sam wanted it. “You're my number one priority, Sammy.”
Inexplicably, his assurances seemed to make Sam more upset. He turned away from Dean to pet Rumsfeld but not before Dean saw the flash of misery cross his face.
“Hey, what's wrong?” he asked, frowning in confusion. He tried to lean forward to get a read on the kid's emotions but there wasn't room and Sam didn't turn back.
“I've ruined everything,” Sam said, his breath hitching like he was about to cry.
Dean drew back, aghast. “What are you talking about? You didn't ruin anything.”
Sam shook his head in denial. “I should've learned the exorcism. None of this would have happened if I just followed orders.” Rumsfeld whined and nudged Sam's shoulder, clearly upset by Sam's distress. “I heard what Dad said, He was right, I could get you killed by not listening. I messed up.”
“Sammy, no-”
“You weren't there,” Sam cut him off flatly. “I was being a brat so he punished me. I got what I deserved.”
For a moment, Dean was too stunned to argue, appalled by Sam's words. Then the rage began to build in his chest, righteous anger at his father building up like molten lava, searing and violent. How dare he make Sam feel responsible for this, this assault?
“Shut the hell up,” he found himself hissing at Sam, grabbing a shoulder and tugging the teenager around to face him. Sam gasped in surprise and even Rumsfeld let out a startled bark. “You listen to me, Sam. Punishment is extra training or running laps or, I don't know, being grounded. It's not this and you didn't deserve it, no matter what you did or what Dad said. He's the one who ruined everything, okay? Not you. This wasn't your fault.”
“But I-”
“But fucking nothing, Sam,” Dean ground out.
Silence twisted around the hiding place, filling all the empty spaces as Sam considered Dean's words. He still looked far too close to tears for Dean's liking, his face flushed where the bruises didn't obscure his complexion, but at least he wasn't automatically disregarding the reassurances like he had so far.
“Did Bobby really say we could stay forever?” he asked finally, his voice soft and uncertain.
“He really did,” Dean said.
Sam twisted the loose thread around his finger. “And you really want to stay with me and not go back to Dad?”
“I really do.” Dean poured every ounce of conviction he had into the statement.
Sam looked up at him, unsure, faltering. He wanted to believe, Dean could see it, but he also saw guilt and doubt. It was crushing. The kid was Dean's everything and he couldn't even see it. Silently, Dean vowed that he would change that. Maybe it wouldn't happen overnight but, with time, Sam would see that Dean was going to stick by him. One day, Sam would figure it out.
“I'm also really hungry, so how about we go sample Bobby's cooking?” he asked, desperately hoping that Sam wouldn't turn him down. He kind of couldn't bare the thought of the kid staying out here alone any longer, letting his thoughts run away to come to horrible conclusions. “I bet Rumsfeld's hungry too,” he added, in case Sam needed more convincing.
“I guess,” Sam said hesitantly, scratching behind Rumsfeld's ears.
“It'll be okay, Sam,” Dean promised, feeling the need for one more reassurance as he slipped out from between the cars, extending a hand to Sam. It was unnecessary but Sam took it anyway, which Dean chose to see as a good thing, as a little trust and confidence in him.
“I hope so,” Sam said quietly as he straightened up, wrapping his arms around himself against the cold, or maybe just because.
Dean took a chance, risking rejection, and slung an arm over Sam's shoulders as they headed towards the house, Rumsfeld bounding along beside them. Sam stiffened for a moment, his breath catching in his throat, before he relaxed, leaning into the touch, just like always.
A lot of things had changed but, Dean was sure, some things never would.
END