Title: When Bobby met Johnny.
Author: Wysawyg
Summary: Title pretty much says it all. The first meet of the two titanic forces known as Bobby Singer and John Winchester with a healthy dose of Wee!Dean and Wee!Sammy thrown into the mix. Oneshot. Humour fluff. Pre-series.
A/N: After the nice reception I got to John's Boys, Bobby kept talking away in the back of my head and this piece is the result. Hope you enjoy. Please review, I live for feedback.
This started off as a short oneshot and quickly spiralled into a long oneshot when John and Bobby and the boys refused to shut up!
Bobby was used to things turned up unexpectedly on his doorstep. If demons were frat boys then Bobby was the spotty, slightly gawky kid that lived on the corner with his mom. It was barely a month went by which didn't have something turning up on his doorstep, daring each other to knock on his door, to animate one of his cars, to possess his dog. It had taken a lot of effort for Bobby to find anti-possession charms to fit on a dog collar.
So when Bobby heard a knock on his door on a chilly November evening, he immediately went into action. He grabbed the shotgun from where it hung within easy reach on the door, made sure the holy-water spiked beer was ready, slid the crucifix up his sleeve and murmured the Latin exorcism that he knew off by heart before he opened the door.
Demons, Bobby pondered, had come up with a new tactic as he saw the broad-chested grizzled man in front of him and the toddler clutched in his arms. Another small child clutched at his knees, half-hiding behind his legs. "Bobby Singer?" He asked.
"Who's asking?" Bobby growled, not about to soften his approach just because this potential demon had come up with a more cunning plan.
"The name's James Donohue." The man said and Bobby could read the lie a mile off, "I heard you were the person to see about getting some work done on my car."
Singer's Car Repair was well-known in the local area and among the hunter fraternity. This man was not a local, Bobby would have known him if he was. He had some of the look of a hunter, the haunted hardened gaze and a couple of scars on his face but Bobby had never heard of a hunter with two children in tow and that sort of thing would set the grapevine buzzing. "I'm afraid I'm too busy to take anything on at the moment."
"Dad," The older of the two boys whined, "Let's go."
"Not now, D.avid." The halt in his voice was short and wouldn't have been noticeable to anyone except the trained ears of a hunter, "If you could just put me in touch with someone who isn't busy."
Bobby gave a flick of his eyes to his two dogs who had been trained to slouch nearby when visitors came calling, signalling each to stay and wait for the moment. "If you will wait here, I'll go and check my records."
The man looked un-amused, "Can't I come in? My boys are cold and we've been on the road all day."
Bobby crooked a finger and the dogs slunk forward, keeping their bellies pressed to the ground and moving soundlessly, "Unfortunately my house just isn't suitable for visitors at the moment."
"For fuck's sake man," The man swore, "It's a freezing cold night, my children are tired and we just want to stand inside in the warm for a moment while I try and get a weapon's cabinet put in my car. Is there some secret handshake I should have used?"
"You say you are a hunter," Bobby stated, matter of factly, "But I've never heard of you." Bobby's tone held the unspoken 'And I would have heard of you.'
The man huffed out a breath, white misting in front of him, "Guess I missed the open day. Does this mean I don't get my copy of the hunter's almanac?"
Other hunters had often remarks that Bobby had a sixth sense when it came to detecting demons. Bobby usually retorted that it was just a case of using the natural five properly. At the moment, none of his senses were seeing a demon in front of him but there was the conflicting appearance of a well-trained hunter that his mind couldn't help calling a rookie. Finally Bobby stepped back from his doorway, "Fine, come in." He stepped through to his kitchen and grabbed a couple of the spiked beer bottles, holding out one to the other man.
The other man took the bottle and regarded it with suspicion, "First you won't let me in the door and now you are offering me beer?" He placed the bottle with a solid clink unopened on the table, "No, thank you."
Bobby inwardly grouched, the holy water test was one of his usual fallbacks, but he didn't let it show on his face, just shrugged and said, "Suit yourself," before popping the cap off his own beer and taking a swig, "So, who gave you my name?"
There was a shrug and a yawn and the toddler attached to the man's side detached itself briefly, peering out at the world from beneath fronds of brown hair. The man dangled the boy into his older brother's arms and directed the two with one quick motion towards Bobby's battered sofa. "Does it matter?" The man asked.
Bobby narrowed his eyes, recognising the crisp lines of the gesture even as he marvelled at the boy, who could be no older than seven or eight, obeying. A Military man, probably a marine or something similarly gung-ho. "It matters to me. I don't have a big appreciation for folk just showing up on my doorstep, especially not your sort."
"My sort?" The man didn't drop his gaze from Bobby's.
"Look, let me lay the cards on the table for a minute." Bobby said, taking a quick swig from his beer. He always watered down his own drink when he had unknown visitors, drinking lured people into a false sense of security, "Looks to me that you are a rookie at this business, ain't even got yourself a weapon store yet. I don't know your story and I don't much care. Chances are you'll get yourself killed first time you try to hunt and leave your boys alone so how about you pack up and go home, buy yourself a nice little place and try not to peek out the windows too close to dark."
If Bobby had had any doubts about the man's military background, they were instantly erased as the man lost any hint of a relaxed posture, his shoulders pulled tight and Bobby had the feeling that if he could have stood up ramrod straight without looking awkward then he would have, "Let me lay my cards on the table." He said in a voice the shade of death, "I am going to hunt, as the euphemism seems to be. I am going to hunt and I am going to kill every single thing out there until I get to the thing that.. Until I get to the thing I'm after. I don't care about your opinion, I just need a compartment in my car to hide the weapons. After that, you will never have to see me or my boys again."
In future years, Bobby would sometimes wonder how much easier his life might have been had John kept that promise. In future years, Bobby also realised just how boring his life would have been. For better or worse, when a Winchester got involved, things undoubtedly became complicated. When three Winchesters got involved, everything got shot to hell and Bobby wouldn't miss it for the world.
At the present time, Bobby just realised this was a vengeance gig. Something killed someone he loved, likely a wife seeing as the youngest boy didn't seem like he was out of nappies yet or old enough to be away from his mother unless it was forced. Of course, as soon as his eyes loitered too long on the toddler, he found his gaze blocked by the angry green eyes of the older brother who had interjected his own body between his brother and Bobby.
"How 'bout trusting me with your real name and I'll take a look at your car to see what I can do?" Bobby said, waiting for fireworks.
The man just quirked a brow and Bobby would've sworn he was almost amused, "John Winchester."
"Like the rifle?"
"One of my ancestors," John remarked, "So, the car?"
Not one for small talk, Bobby could appreciate it. The small minority of visitors who weren't either demonic or old hunter buddies tended to be from the newer set of hunters: those who'd just discovered the oogly booglies out there and insisted on regaling Bobby with whatever their most recent hunt had been. These were usually one hour epic poems which would have been limericks had Bobby been on the hunt.
There once was a hunt named Bobby,
Who, in hunting matters, was snobby.
A hotel ghost did soar
Bobby shot its ass to the floor
And then sauntered back to the lobby.
Bobby glanced back to the two children ensconced on the couch. The youngest was still fast asleep by the looks of it and the older was watching the shadows in the room with the kind of wariness Bobby would have expected to see on long-time hunters, "What about them?"
John glanced to his sons, looking surprised that the question had been asked, "Dean, look after your brother." As if that settled matters, he turned back to Bobby.
Bobby shrugged his shoulders, getting involved in family matters was not what he was here for and motioned the man to lead towards the car.
The car, as it turned out, was a mint-condition cherry black 1967 Chevy Impala and for the first time, Bobby was actually glad the rag-tag family had shown up on the doorstep. He paced around the car, checking for rust or any sign of wear but it looked like this car had been kept in much better condition than its owners. "Well," Bobby drawled, "I could cut into her to fit you a compartment but that seems a crying shame. How much stuff do you need to keep in the back?"
"We travel light." John laconically stated as he walked over to the back of the car and popped the trunk.
The trunk was completely empty apart from one small raggedy toy in the corner that John whipped out of sight before Bobby had a chance to get a proper look. He measured the dimensions with a spread hand and hummed, "This could work. It won't be that large and I can't make it almost unfindable like most of my work but it'll do."
"Good," The man said, "How long will it take?"
Bobby mentally made the calculations, "About three or so days. Will have to get a few matching scrap bits to make the new bottom match the old one and add a few smooth catches and safety measures. If you got a werewolf jumping at you, you don't want to not be able to get at the guns. There's a motel down in town where you can stay, I can lend you one of my cars for the duration."
"We sleep in the car." John said and the rumpled appearance of both him and his boys became a little clearer.
Bobby noticed the man didn't say it as if he expected an invitation to stay at his or some funding for a motel and that was why, Bobby decided, he found himself saying the next words, "Fine. I have a spare room, you can crash there."
"We don't take charity." John Winchester stated, his voice low and hard.
"It's not charity," Bobby replied, "I just like to start on cars early in the morning and don't fancy having to evict three people from it first." It was mostly the truth, enough to pass the man's piercing inspection. "It'll be about two hundred for the work." It was a cut down on Bobby's usual price but he guessed the man wasn't avoiding motels due to suspicions of their dubious cleanliness, "And I don't take credit cards." There was only so many times Bobby could tell the police 'You mean that one was fake too?' before they got suspicious.
"Bar in town?" The man asked.
Bobby nodded and then shook his head, "There is but it's used to hunters coming around so you are more likely to be hustlee than hustler." Bobby frowned knowing that the next words the man said would likely be an excuse to leave, "Look, there's a report of a haunting, just a hundred miles or so from here, you take care of it and I'll call it quits? By the time you are back, the car'll be all done. I can even watch your boys for you."
Bobby wasn't sure why he'd said that but he's known the moment he said it that it was the wrong thing to say. John's expression shifted to absolute distrust in microseconds, his hand shifting back to where a gun was likely holstered even as Bobby's own hand autonomically moved to his own. "My boys will come with me."
Conversations with this man were more exhausting than running up a flight of stairs with the flock of harpies after you, "Fine." Bobby said, moving his hand just far enough away from his gun that it was a pacifying gesture without making it so he couldn't reach it if necessary. "Was just an offer. You leave the kids in the car when you hunt?"
Bobby knew he was being assessed in that moment under the scrutiny of beetle brows, "Safest place for them. The Impala locks and no-one else has a key."
Bobby nodded, knowing this probably wasn't a good time for an instructive lesson on the numerous ways there are to break into a car, he suspected the man already knew and just allowed himself that dreg of denial, "Let's go back inside. I worked up a file on the ghost you can look at. You done ghosts before?"
"Salt and burn," was all John Winchester replied as he turned, closing up the trunk of the Impala and heading back towards Bobby's home. He was polite enough to wait at the door to let Bobby step into his own home first and then pushed past to check on his boys.
Bobby could swear the eldest hadn't moved an inch from where he'd been sitting as they'd left, back ramrod straight and his eyes batting around to every shadow, "Sammy's fine." The boy squeaked at his father.
John ruffled the boy's hair, "Good boy." He said before turning back to Bobby, "Let's see that file."
Bobby reached to his bookshelf and brought out the folder he'd left there the other night before clearing a couple of plates off the table and spreading some of the paper out, "Here. Looks like it was a girl, aspiring actress, killed herself in the hotel after a rather nasty review of her play." Bobby tapped the sepia-toned newspaper article.
John joined him at the table and then motioned to his son, "Dean, join us." It was a command, not an invitation. The boy checked his brother was settled then slid off the sofa, walking over to the table. He tugged out a chair and clambered up to stand on it to get a better view without so much as a word.
Bobby resolutely didn't let his eyebrow quirk up. It wasn't the first father-son hunting combo he'd seen, hell, not even the one thousand and sixty seventh but usually the son was a little older than this buzz-cut boy. "Victims so far including one movie critic, one husband of an arguing couple and a rather waspish mother."
"So she's going after anyone critical?" It was the small, piping voice of Dean that gave that comment rather than the booming one of his father and, as Bobby watched, the boy leaned forward, squinting at the papers, "Easy. We go in, you yell at me, the ghost comes out. Boom with rocksalt and while it's attacking you, I go salt and burn."
Bobby didn't suppress an exclamation of shock that time, "You let the boy hunt with you already?"
"No, I don't." John said, shooting an irritated look at his son, "And won't until he's old enough. As I repeatedly tell him."
Dean pouted, "But Daaad,"
"No." John said with an air of absolute command and the boy fell silent, slipping down to sit on the seat with his legs swinging beneath him in the universal sign of childish petulance. John waited a moment before adding, "But it was a good plan. Maybe when you are older." The boy's face instantly brightened and he scrambled back up to peer over the documents.
Their discussion continued on long into the night and Bobby finally managed to get John that beer, heaving an internal sigh of relief when he showed no ill-effects from it. When Dean started to yawn and repeatedly blink to clear tired eyes, John just walked over and hooked an arm under his son, lifting him up before gently doing the same with the younger sleeping son, "Spare room in here?" He nodded to the right door, returning moments later though Bobby overheard the strict instructions to "Get some sleep, you can help in the morning."
"Sometimes I think my boy is older than me," John said as he settled back down at the table. It was the first piece of information of a personal nature that John had volunteered all night and Bobby found himself carefully considering what to say as a response.
"He seems like a good kid." Bobby figured a compliment was the best measure and, to be honest, he was fair impressed himself. The kid had made connections from the notes that Bobby hadn't managed to do yet to the point that they had the gravesite just about fixed. He had noticed a certain look in the boy's eyes though as he'd studied the notes and he forced himself to add, "You know if you leave him in the car, he's going to follow you."
John glanced to Bobby and suddenly he seemed about twenty years older, "I know." He said, fingers idly playing with the corner of the notes he was studying, "How did you get into hunting?" He asked out of the left field.
It wasn't the first time Bobby had been asked that question and in times before, he had made up a number of wild stories involving succubi or a mother's last wish or twelve vampires and only one knife. To John, however, he spoke the truth, "I was born into it. My family have been hunters for generations. My grandfather used to say that while all the other cavemen were out there hunting deer, our ancestor was the one who bagged the first werewolf."
John grinned a little at that, "Mary used to say my ancestors were the ones marching about yelling 'Right you lot, we need perimeters defences here, here and here, you three are on border patrol and, for crying out loud, can someone shut up that flaming mammoth.'" The man's face softened for a moment, a barely perceptible lessening of the tension around his eyes, "Dean's too much like his mother, he cares."
Bobby was entirely unsure of what to say now so he just tightened his grip a little around the neck of the beer bottle and took a hearty glug, "So, what are you going to do about it?"
"Easy," John said with a confident grin that didn't seem so confident in the light, "I'll leave in about an hour while he's still asleep. You did offer to take care of them as I remember."
"And you half-threatened to shoot me as I recall." Bobby growled in response, "I offered when you'd tell them. Not when I'd have to wake up to two kids who didn't know where their father was and, by the look of your eldest, he'd likely try to stab me thinking I'd buried your body in the back."
John didn't seem put off by Bobby's mild rant, just nodded, "That's a good point. I'll leave a note."
"Dear Dean, Not dead. See you in a few days, take care of Sammy, Dad." Bobby worried that he'd known the man such a short amount of time but could probably paraphrase the content that note was likely to contain.
"You forgot 'Don't pester Bobby'" John drolly stated.
Bobby slammed the beer bottle down on the table at that, not quite hard enough to crack, "Look, I'm not about to tell you how to run your family, God only knows that mine is fucked up enough, but I won't be a party to you scaring the seven hells out of your boys. Either you go in and tell them before you go or the deal is off, including the compartment."
It was a staring contest from that moment. Not the childhood kind where whoever blinks first loses, both men blinked and at regular intervals, it was the kind of staring contest that results from two indomitable wills clashing against each other with bruising force and scattering egos in their wake.
Bobby was fairly sure that the two men would have ended up sitting there frozen at the table until the world ended if it hadn't been for the creaking of the door and the soft footsteps, "Dad? I heard yelling."
John broke away, even his stubborn determination broken by four words from his son, "Sorry, kiddo. Me and Bobby were just having a small disagreement."
"'sit about the hunt?" Dean broke into a yawn that seemed to stretch twice the length of his face as he spoke.
"Sort of," John lifted the boy up into his arms, "See, I need to leave for the hunt soon and Bobby was thinking I should wake you up first."
The boy's eyes lit up, even as they blinked back sleep, "When are we going?"
"We aren't," John corrected, "I am. You and Sammy can stay with Bobby for a few days."
"But I don't want to stay with Bobby." Dean whined, abruptly reminding Bobby that the boy couldn't be older than seven or eight.
"But I'm not giving you a choice." John matched his son's tone before turning his voice to a conspiratorial hush that Bobby could still hear, "I need someone to watch over the Impala, you know."
Bobby was about to shake his head thinking that the man was in dire straits if protecting a car was the best that he could come up with until he saw the grin on the boy's face, "Could I sit in the driver's seat and pretend to drive? I promise I won't turn the key in the ignition," The boy glanced down for a moment, "This time."
"The keys," John retrieved them out of his pocket, "will be left with Bobby and if there is a single scratch on her when I return, it won't be Bobby's hide that I take it out of." John flicked the keys rapidly to Bobby like it was a test and Bobby caught them easily, gaining him a nod of approval. "Don't pester Bobby and look after your brother, okay?" He said as he lowered his son back down to the ground.
"Yes, sir." Dean replied.
"And go back to bed. Bobby might want some help with the car in the morning and you want to be wide-awake, right?" John said and barely were the words out of his mouth before Dean eagerly nodded, span around and raced back into the bedroom. He was just on the verge of slamming the door when John added, "Don't wake your brother." The door closed with the softest of clicks.
"Was that so hard?" Bobby asked with a smirk.
John smiled, "Leaving them behind? Always gonna be. Of course, you are the one that's got to put up with them for the next few days." Before Bobby could mutter about changing his mind, John was out the door, the keys of the borrowed truck in one hand. Bobby heard the guttural snarl of the engine as it peeled away.
Bobby glanced at the spare room door and wondered how exactly he'd managed to end up with a couple of kids in his house and giving up the hotel haunting that he'd rather been looking forward to. He hastily replaced the salt lines at the door, checking all the demonic protections he had up and made his own way to bed.
He was woken up that morning before his alarm had a chance to go to sleep by the creak of the door opening. The knife he kept in his pillow was in his hand before two heartbeats had passed and he launched out of bed, grabbing hold of whatever it was that had dared tried to creep into his room and pressing a knife against its neck. He found himself staring into the very scared eyes of a seven year old and instantly released his grip, drawing away the knife, "Sorry," He said gruffly, "Forgot you were here."
"Sammy's hungry," Dean said as he touched his throat where Bobby knew he hadn't drawn blood, "What's for breakfast?"
"There's cold pizza in the fridge," Bobby said, finding his own voice a little shaky for the first time in years, "Glasses over the sink. I'll be out in a moment." After the boy left, he took a moment to re-gather himself. This was why Bobby didn't like people staying over, his instincts were too fine-honed and years of hunting had taught him that small didn't necessarily equate to being non-dangerous. Finally he hoisted out of bed, pulling on clean clothes and walked out of his room.
The boys were sat at the table, one plate in front of each with a slice of cold pizza. Dean's had a couple of bites taken out of it but Sammy's was untouched and the kid was sitting there with arms folded across his chest, "Want lucky charms." He said in that voice which always set Bobby's nerves on edge when he heard it, usually in supermarkets.
"There are no lucky charms." Dean said with the infinite patience that is God's gift to older brothers, "You could pretend the peppers are marshmallows."
"Don't like peppers." Was Sam's reply.
"Good morning," Bobby said and he frowned as Dean flinched a little, the memory obviously still fresh.
"Morning," Dean said, "I couldn't figure out which cold pizza you meant so I took this one but there's still some slices left of this one and the other one."
"That one's fine." Bobby said, walking over to the cabinet and reaching down a glass for himself. He turned to the table and noted the lack of glasses there, "Not thirsty?"
"I couldn't reach." Dean admitted like it was some dreadful flaw in himself.
Bobby cussed himself and reached down two more glasses, "Water okay?" Not that Bobby knew what he'd do if it wasn't. "Don't have any soda."
"Water is fine." Dean said.
"But I want…" Sam began.
"Shush. We're guests here." Dean interrupted his brother, sending an apologetic look to Bobby.
"That's alright," Bobby said, "I can head down to the store later if there is some stuff you want me to pick up."
"Lucky charms." Sam said in a sulk, "And fizzy pop."
Dean shook his head, "We're fine, thanks."
It was that point that Bobby realised exactly how much trouble he was in. His previous experience with children was limited to the few times his brother had visited with his nephews and that hadn't been until the youngest boy was sixteen due to a long-standing disagreement between the brothers over a chimaera hunt that had gone a little sour and was the reason Bobby's younger brother didn't hunt anymore. Those boys had spent most of the time either admiring the cars or sitting with their music on ignoring conversation. These boys were proving to be a little more of a handful.
"It's no bother," Bobby stated, "I need to go pick up some parts for your Dad's car anyway. The shops won't open for an hour or so though." Trust the Winchester boys to be early risers.
Sam still steadfastly refused to eat his pizza, staring at it with dark eyes until his brother finally filched it onto his empty plate and began munching away, "Sammy, why don't you go grab your reading book?"
Sam slipped down from the table and disappeared into the spare room, returning moments later with a scarlet red covered book with such happy faced children on the front that Bobby wanted to march down to the publishers and exorcise the lot of them. Sam scrambled up onto the couch, slouching himself into one of the corners and began reading, mumbling the words to himself.
Bobby turned his attention to the older boy, "About this morning…"
"Do you always sleep with the knife under your pillow?" Dean asked, curiously.
Bobby paused a moment to re-settle himself, "Yes, I do."
"Why?"
"Because sometimes things can make it past the defences and it's best to be prepared."
Dean nodded at his words like he'd just recited the oath of independence, "Can I have a knife?"
Bobby could envision crystal clear in that moment the expression on John Winchester's face if he gave his son a knife, "You are too young."
Dean scowled, "Dad says that too. I wasn't too young for the demon to kill mom so how can I be too young to defend myself and Sammy against it?"
Bobby had to admit that the kid had a point, "Because it's your father's job to defend you until you are old enough."
"Dad's not here."
"Then it's my job."
Bobby found himself on the end of a studying gaze that put the boy's father to shame. Bobby felt like he'd been set on a giant set of scales and more and more the balance was tipping out of his favour.
"I'd rather defend myself," Dean concluded.
Bobby had a sudden thought and he walked over to the cabinet, pulling open one of the drawers and pawing through the contents until he found what he was looking for. He held out the slightly worn object to the boy, "It's a penknife. Not as big as mine but it'd be enough to defend you and your brother. Can open bottles too."
"Can I have a beer?" Dean asked, eyes lightly up.
"Hell no," Bobby said with a laugh, "Not unless you want your father to kill me."
"My father could so take you." Dean said with a cocky grin.
Bobby just rolled his eyes. In truth, it might be an even contest if they played fair but hunting had taught Bobby that playing fair was never the best strategy to win, "I'm going to work on the car for a bit."
"Can I help?" Dean asked.
Bobby shook his head, "Finish your breakfast then you can wash up."
Three days went by faster than Bobby had expected. Which isn't to say it was all smooth sailing. There was the time Sammy spilled his lucky charms all over the couch. There was the time Sammy found his book on leprechauns and decided to exorcise the box of lucky charms. There was the time Sammy found his book on werewolves and tried to exorcise the dogs. Bobby decided he really needed higher bookshelves.
Dean alternated his time between watching like a hawk over Sammy and helping out with the car. Bobby had refused his help at first but the kid had a tendency to wait 'til Bobby was right in the middle of something, call his name repeatedly until he had to break away and then just ask "Can I help?" The kid didn't do a bad job and revealed his dad had been a mechanic at some point between being a marine and a hunter.
By the time John walked in the door with a couple of new bruises and a slight limp, they had reached a sort of natural rhythm. Bobby had taught Dean what all the numerous attachments on his penknife were for (even if he'd had to make up a couple). Dean had taught Bobby that peanut M&Ms really were God's gift to humanity and that you never get between Sammy and a bowl of lucky charms. Bobby had promised to lend Sammy a couple of his books on the supernatural, especially as he had a feeling they'd be walking out in the kid's bag no matter what.
Bobby had also given up his usually meagre efforts to keep his place in a state somewhere in the vicinity of tidy. Sammy's reading books decorated the room in lurid splashes of colour. Dean's socks seemed to have a natural migration pattern from his room which led to be appearing in the most random places including the fridge.
John walked in, took one look at the place with a smug grin and said, "Got the ghost. Hope my boys weren't too much bother."
Sammy hopped off his chair and ran on little legs up into his father's arms, "Daddy! Bobby let me climb the bookshelves and I drank three whole cans of sofa in one day and I couldn't stop burping all day and then I played with the dogs and we played tag and then I hid in one of the cars and Dean couldn't find me for hours and hours and hours."
"No bother at all," Bobby replied.
"Good," John said, "We need to be heading off now. Heard from another hunter out there 'bout a couple of chupacabras causing chaos on a farm not far. Is the car all ready?"
Bobby nodded, "Yep. Your son was a great help."
"Boys, pack up." John let his son down and both of them disappeared into the spare bedroom, emerging in what seemed like mere moments with bulging duffels. The pair the raced about the room, picking up all the odds and ends which had made their way in until they finally stood before their father, faces a little red and out of breath. "Thanks for taking care of them. Come on, time to hit the road."
John inspected the car before placing the duffels in the back seat and then made his way to the back, popping the trunk. A single eyebrow lifted at the dream catcher that now dangled there and he shot a questioning look to Bobby.
"You mentioned you sleep in the car a lot so I figured this was a good protective measure." Bobby answered.
John nodded, "Thanks again. In the car," He motioned to the boys who were saying goodbye to the dogs. Bobby swore he used to have a pair of vicious guard dogs instead of the fluffy lugs that were gallivanting about with the boys.
The boys scrambled into the car, Dean clambering into the front and pulling out a dog-eared box of tapes, "Dad, can we listen to Metallica? Please?" John nodded and got into the driver's seat.
"Be seeing you," He said as he closed the door and Bobby grinned.
As the black Impala pulled away, Dean waving from the window and Sam sulking in the back, Bobby realised that he's definitely be seeing those three again and as he walked inside, retrieving a sock from the inside of an empty beer bottle, he realised he was glad.
A/N: As usual, likes? Dislikes? Press the pretty purple button and let me know.