Work Text:
"Veni, vidi, amavi.
(We came, we saw, we loved.)"
-Unknown.
It's times like these, Bobby is reminded, why he's seriously contemplated the pros and cons of buying a lifetime supply of MREs, holing up inside of his house with research, and never crawling out save for the occasional hunt or an apocalypse.
Why'd it have to be the grocery store? The only grocery store near his house?
He could just turn away and walk off. Everyone needs food. And it's not like the two don't look like they need it. But they're not being exactly subtle to a trained eye, and if they get caught...
Damn his conscience.
With vague irritation, Bobby sets down the loaf of bread he was deciding if he'd actually eat, glancing over obliquely at the kid. Generously, Bobby would guess he couldn't be older than ten, realistically he looks about six or seven. Spikes of blond-brown hair adorn his crown, a mess with mud, dust, and what looks like some caking blood near his temple. The clothing he's wearing isn't in much better state, too big for him, worn and hole-riddled.
The even smaller child gripping tightly at the elder's hand is what Bobby would guess is about three. Hidden behind a mop of dark brown hair, clinging to his—friend's? Sibling's?—arm so tightly he looks afraid he'll be blown away. Both of them are half-starved, with wild, frantic eyes. They look like they've been on the road for a while.
Where are their parents?
Are they aware that their sons—son and friend? Because they don't look that much like siblings, but Bobby can't see a seven-year-old making friends with a four-year-old, nor parents approving of that match—but are whoever they belong to aware that they're shoplifting? Or at least, trying to make a valiant effort to wiggle away the loaf of bread?
He casts a glance around the nearby store, but sees no adults searching for the two. Beyond Mrs. Kurt from down the road, whose children are married or at college, as she's so happy to remind him of, it's just him, the exhausted employees, and the kids. Great. Orphans, maybe? They don't look like they've been living in paradise the last few weeks.
Bobby's teeth grit together as he realizes that the store is basically empty, but the kids are too starved for him to move off of this aisle before making their attempt. Karen wouldn't have stood for that. She'd have picked the boys up, paid for their measly loaf of bread, and—
Bobby cuts off the thought, feeling the familiar twang of loss in his gut, dulled with time, but no less jarring.
Sighing deep and long from the bottom of his soul out, Bobby crosses the distance between himself and the two, deciding to finish picking up his groceries at a different date.
Apparently somewhat aware of their surroundings, the older kid looks up at him before he's managed to reach them. Vivid green eyes hidden inside of sunken bags stare up at him, as utterly defiant as they are terrified. There's a healing bruise on his cheek, splotches of yellow and green.
Bobby flinches at the sight, his stomach dropping.
With a frantic tug on his sibling's—friends?—arm, the kid starts to pull them away.
The younger kid glances at him, and Bobby only catches a glimpse of bloodshot hazel before the two of them are frantically scrambling away from him. But Bobby isn't exactly short, and can match two of their strides with one. He grabs hold of the kid's ratty backpack, too big for his small frame, and halts their progress without too much effort.
Green Eyes shoves Hazel Eyes forward, twisting around to try and wiggle out of the straps of the heavy backpack. Hazel Eyes staggers a few feet forward, but goes no further, beginning to breathe heavy. Bobby grabs Green Eyes shoulders, trying to remember dealing with the kid's Karen used to preschool.
"Kid!" Bobby exclaims, snapping his hand back when Green Eyes tries to bite at his fingers. His struggle is completely silent, no screeching, no yelling out for help, no shouting at his brother/friend, just silent squirming. For some reason, they deeply unsettles him.
Eye level. They need to be eye level.
He squats down next to Green Eyes, which makes Hazel Eyes slide forward, looking ready to fight him. Given that Hazel Eyes is so tiny, the idea is cute, but not realistic. "Kid," Bobby repeats, and grips Green Eyes steady until the kid, panting and as pulled away he can be, settles, "Listen to me for a sec, would you?"
Green Eyes heaves, looking like he's going to be sick.
"I'm not gonna hurt, ya'." Bobby keeps his voice as level as he can, trying to be friendly. But he's been informed that his trying to be gentle makes him sound like he wants to kill someone, so he's not sure how effective it is. There's not a word from the boy. "You—"
There's a flash of metal from the overhead lights, and Bobby reacts. Years of honed instincts answer before he can even process what's going on. He grips the thin wrist before the long blade can plunge into his stomach. What the hell is a kid doing with a knife that big?! Where did he even—?
Bobby twists his wrist, not relishing in the immediate flash of pain that crosses the child's face. The blade drops into his basket, landing on top of the egg carton with a clatter. Both their eyes fix on it for a second.
"What the hell, kid?!" Bobby hisses, returning his gaze to Green Eyes. There was no hesitation. Nor, as far as Bobby can see, any regret. A seven-year-old kid was prepared to gut him. His first thought is something other, but any hunter worth their salt knows to wear silver and iron rings at all times, and the kid didn't react at all when Bobby made contact with his skin.
Which is great. If it's not supernatural, then these are just some really messed up kids.
Bobby is reminded once again of MRE's and becoming a hermit.
Green Eyes's gaze flick back down to the knife, body coiling up. But not to scream, just go for that knife again. Bobby grabs the boy's other shoulder, forcing their eyes to meet once more. Hazel Eyes lurks closer, tiny but rebellious. "All I was going to do was offer to buy the bread for you, idjit. No knife required. Your shoplifting skills are appalling."
Green Eyes stares at him, brow furrowing. His mouth parts slightly, but he still doesn't say a word. Bobby's not sure that he understands, so he says in a slightly calmer tone, "Give me the bread and I'll buy it for you. You won't have to steal it. You and your...brother clearly need it." He wavers on the word, but Green Eyes doesn't correct him, and Hazel Eyes doesn't strike him as old enough to fully comprehend what's going on.
Green Eyes blinks once, eyes glancing at his sibling as if seeking reassurance. There's a weighted moment of utter stillness before Green Eyes slowly withdraws a now-slightly smashed loaf of bread from the inside of his jacket. Bobby releases his shoulders, taking the loaf from his tiny hands. The kid avoids any contact with his skin.
Both brothers watch the descent of their food into the basket with longing. But they make no move to run, even though that's what Bobby would have done at that age. Haven't eaten for a long time, then. Bobby closes his eyes for a long second, breathing in, then out; wishing that the world was a lot more black and white.
That thieves were actually just the slum of society instead of often those who need help.
"Alright, c'mon," Bobby says and clambers up to his feet. The two stare up at him. Bobby tries to plaster something reassuring onto his face, but it doesn't seem to reassure either child. Green Eyes, still looking up at him, reaches out a hand without a word toward his sibling. Hazel Eyes grabs hold of the pale fingers, practically gluing himself to his brother's side.
They both stare up at him. Bobby feels a deep wariness settle in his stomach at their eyes. Almost as if his character is under contemplation. There's just...just something very off-putting about the two of them.
"Okay," Bobby says, because he hasn't been hunting for ten years without learning how to act calm when he's not, "let's go get this over with, yeah?"
Bobby takes the knife off the egg carton and slides it into his jacket beside his own blade, then goes to checkout. The two follow after him, silent. Like mute, hollow ghosts.
While waiting at the checkout line, the two still behind him and looking somewhat agitated at all the noise, Bobby spies the small bag of peanut M&Ms. He's not sure exactly what takes hold of him, but thinking of the kids behind him, he plucks out a package and settles them next to the bread. If the kids notice, they make no reaction to indicate so.
The woman at the checkout, who has tried to make small talk with Bobby for years without much success, coos at the two of them.
"Aw, aren't they just cuties!" She says cheerfully. She smiles down at them, and the two stare back up at her as if they don't understand what she's doing. She draws back a fraction, seeming confused, then looks up at him, "Mr. Singer, have you been holding out on me? These little guys aren't yours, are they?"
And here lies the problem. This is his hometown. By unspoken rule, he has a "no BS zone" drawn out around it, if only for his own piece of mind. He claims these kids as his, or even remotely related to him, and he'll never hear the end of it from the woman. "No. Just babysitting." Bobby says gruffly.
The woman slides the items across the scanner, the familiar beep sounding over and over again. Bobby wishes she'd pick up the pace. "Oh! How fun! They sure like playing out in the dirt, don't they?"
"Yes." Bobby says, because he has no other way to explain their appearance. "You know the rain we've been getting. Miracle they're as clean as they are."
She smiles wide.
Bobby grimaces.
With a private look of bemusement, the cashier slides the last item—the M&M packet—through the scanner then moves onto bagging while Bobby takes care of paying. She hands him a receipt, the three bags, and then winks at him. She smiles at the kids once more, and Bobby hurries out of the store before she can ask anymore questions he'll have to lie through.
He walks back to his truck, the familiar scraping blue paint an odd comfort instead of annoyance, and turns around when he reaches the bed. He pulls the loaf of squished bread from the bag, and searches for the M&M's for a moment before handing the two over to Green Eyes, who is standing rimrod straight behind him.
The kid takes the bread reverently, but stares at him with confusion at the peanut M&Ms. "It's candy, kid," Bobby says, and gets no more of an enthused response than before, "haven't you ever had sugar before?"
He feels like he's talking to stray cats. Skittish and hungry, but unwilling to accept comfort.
He holds out the bag, and then says with a sigh, "Listen, kid, I ain't gonna eat it, and I'm just gonna leave it here if you don't, so..."
Green Eyes reaches up and plucks the M&M's from him, and Bobby hopes belatedly that neither of them are allergic to peanuts. Good deed done for the year, Bobby nods to himself and turns around to place the three bags inside of the bed. He shoves over a tarp with a painted devil's trap on the back to make room, and realizes he ought to call Rufus to make sure the old coot is still alive.
He turns around, half expecting the kids to have vanished as quickly as they appeared, and is a little more surprised than he cares to admit when they're still there. The bread is being zipped into the backpack, and the peanut M&M's package curiously poked at by Hazel Eyes.
Green Eyes swings the pack over his shoulder, takes his brother's hand once again, and then looks up to meet Bobby's eyes. His shoulders set, and mouth pressed into a grim, but winced line, he says softly, "Sir, can I have my knife?"
The sound of his voice is almost like being slapped. He didn't realize how much he'd been expecting that the kid was mute until now. Bobby registers the question, and looks down at the kid. The blade is easily eight inches long, and not exactly something that he wants to give back to a child who could barely look over the top of his counter.
Bobby finds himself sitting on his haunches again, so they're eye level. "Why'd you need it in the first place? Kind dangerous for a kid like you, innit?"
Green Eyes looks like he wants to flinch back, but stands his ground, pulling his sibling closer to him. Voice somehow softer, "Can I have it?"
"Where're your parents?" Bobby counters.
"Mom's dead," kid says flatly, "Dad…" he grips Hazel Eyes tighter to him.
Something in him compresses at the sound of sorrow, disgust, and despair in the kid's voice. He sounds like me, he thinks, and remembers that gunshot. His teeth grit together, and he eyes the bruise on the child's face. He should call CPS, Bobby knows, or the police, get the kids to actual law enforcement and in the shaky hands of the authorities.
But ten years on the wrong end of the police force has made him deeply wary of them, and he can't help but admit that the idea of sending these two already highly paranoid children into the hands of uncaring officers sits with him wrong. "Kid…" Bobby sighs, and rubs at the lower half of his face.
"Can I have it? We won't bother you again, sir. Thank you for buying the bread. We'll get out of your way...Please. I need it."
So you can go stabbing more unsuspecting strangers? Those who aren't trained to anticipate it? Bobby doesn't say. Sure, that would be a brilliant plan on my part, huh?
"You got any relatives that can pick you up? Grandparents, aunt or uncle?" Bobby asks.
"No. They're dead." Green Eyes's dead tone sounds dangerously close to frustration. "Just my dad, me and my brother. I don't have any other weapons. I need the knife."
You shouldn't have to.
And it's that thought, Bobby guesses, that changes everything. It's that thought that causes this whole mess of decades to come. That thought that makes his edges soften a fraction. He looks down at the two starving children, desperate and very alone, and thinks with more force, you shouldn't have to.
"Tell you what, kid," Bobby says this calmly, ideas only half formed and more spontaneous than he cares to admit to himself. "Why don't you and your brother stay with me for a few days, okay? You're a little young to be wandering out by yourself, we'll get you sorted out."
Green Eyes backs up a step. "I'm not going to climb into a serial killer's truck. Do I look stupid?"
"Do I look like a serial killer?" Bobby asks with an equal bite.
"Yes." Green Eyes says firmly.
Well, he'll give him that one. (The kid is seven. He shouldn't know about serial killers. Just to be wary of strangers.) Bobby runs an agitated hand through his hair. "I just want to help. That's all. If you and your brother there want to leave at any time, I won't stop you. Promise. You can even have your knife while we drive, and you're welcome to use it."
The kid carefully places his hands firmly over his brother's ears and says softly, "Christo."
Bobby almost flinches, but more out of surprise than possession. He holds himself steady, even as blood drains from his face. For a long, awful moment he's speechless. There are only two families that he knows of that hunt monsters, and both their kids are well into their late teenage years and early twenties. But these? These are hunter's kids. Because no normal American seven-year-old he's ever spoken to spits out Latin.
And that's that.
"Your daddy a hunter?" Bobby asks calmly. Green Eyes slides his hands away from his brother with some surprise, and his eyes are wide when he looks up.
"Are you?" Green Eyes asks.
"Yeah. Name's Bobby Singer," he says. The kid relaxes a fraction, almost as if this is a good thing. It's not.
"Oh." He says, somewhat with more voice. "Okay."
Bobby notices he does not return the favor of naming himself, nor looks inclined to do so.
Bobby hands the kid back his knife, and the three of them clamber into his truck. And it's here, starting the ignition, that Bobby wonders what on God's green earth he's gotten himself into.
000o000
Bobby directs the two inside of his house, and sits them down at the couch in the front while he goes to put away the groceries. There's a bunch of books piled on his countertop. The table hasn't seen the light of day in almost three months, and his laptop is squished into the small space, humming mournfully and blinking an unhappy light of low battery.
I have no idea what I'm doing. Or why I did that.
Bobby presses his lips together, and runs a hand under his trucker's hat for a moment, fingers trailing on the scar down the back of his skull, hidden under his hair. He puts the cap back on, and returns back to the front room, making sure that he's still got his knife, flask of holy water, and his cell.
The two kids blink up at him as he approaches, and Bobby sits down on the coffee table in need of maintenance in front of them. Karen would hate him for the disarray the house has fallen into, but there hasn't been many people here save himself and the occasional hunter in need of some respite and bandages in a long time.
Green Eyes shifts a little, and Hazel Eyes seems to almost squirm behind him on the couch. There's plenty of room, but the two seem joined at the hip, arm, and elbow joint. Bobby presses his tongue against his teeth, shaking his head once at his impulsivity, then asks, "What are your names? I can't keep calling you Thing One and Thing Two in my head."
The reference seems to make no connection with either of them. It doesn't spur on a small smile, or even do anything but make them share a quick wide-eyed glance.
Bobby clasps his hands together, "Guessing you two haven't heard any of Dr. Seuss then."
"Who?" Green Eyes finally ventures asking. The two are so silent. Other kids their age Bobby has heard parents have a hard time of shutting up.
"Children's book writer." Bobby explains. "Your daddy really not read any of that to you?" Karen had a collection of them, her favorite being The Lorax.
"Dad doesn't read to us." Green Eyes says flatly.
The tone makes him pause, but he carefully ventures forward, "Well, he should. Names?"
"I'm Dean," Green Eyes says. His head tips toward his brother, who frowns deeply at the elder. The expression looks strange on the face of someone so young. "That's Sammy."
Bobby nods, mentally filing that away. The three of them sit in silence for a moment while Bobby tries to decide what to say. Eventually, he settles on, "Your dad out on a hunt, then? Leave you two here by yourself?"
Lord, please do not let their father be dead. Because Bobby can do something about a man missing on a hunt. He can do something about kids lost on a hunt. But he cannot bring someone back to life.
"No," Dean says, clipped. Bobby waits, but he doesn't provide anymore information.
"No to which? Leaving you here or that he's on a hunt?" Bobby asks. These kids are so young. They shouldn't be involved with hunting. This isn't something that you can just wash off as bad dreams and unfortunate childhood experience. The things out there...there are stains that will never be removed no matter how much bleach is applied.
What does their dad do about school? Food? Clothing? Housing? Kids need a stable place to grow up. It was Karen's complaint when they used to move around a lot. Funny that the only thing that made him finally settle down was her death.
"He was on a hunt. He didn't leave us here." Dean answers, seeming slightly exasperated. Then adds on a quick, "Sir." It's about as much emotion as Bobby's come to expect from them. He levels a stare with the too-mature kid, acting ten years older than he should. Sioux Falls may not have been his choice of residence, but he's well aware of the area. The closest thing to a hunt nearby was a black dog, and Bobby took care of that two weekends ago.
Hasn't been a peep of supernatural activity since. His small circle of "No BS Here" is clean. And no parent in good conscience would dump their kids a city away, then drive to a different one to take care of a hunt.
"Your dad wasn't hunting here, was he?"
Dean's eyes fall. "No, sir."
Great.
Re-uniting the snot-nosed jerks with their father had been his priority since learning they were hunter's kids, but he's beginning to realize that this might be more than a coupla hours of searching, then dumping the two children on their appropriate adult. How far could two kids not older than ten get across the US realistically? A state, maybe, if they pushed for it?
It's not like either of them can drive.
He'll have to field out some contacts, see if they know of a hunter father missing some kids.
For now…
"You know where your dad was last when you spoke to him?" Bobby asks.
"Are you going to make us go back?" Dean returns, lifting his gaze up. His hand shifts, as if to go for that knife again. "Because Dad doesn't...we can't go back. Sammy…" he clamps up there, glancing at his brother. His grip tightens around the weapon.
What about his brother? Kid has spent the entire conversation trying to make Sammy disappear, and the kid hasn't exactly protested that. Not in the way that most kids under five would run around butt-naked for attention. Dean looks ready to kill, and doesn't seem the least bit bothered about that.
He can still remember Karen's three-year-old niece running around with Karen's bleeding finger shouting "ouchie! Ouchie!" at the blood.
"What about Sammy?" Bobby asks cautiously.
Dean clamps up, body stiffening, eyes going wide. His grip on his brother's arm shifts to death-white knuckles. His voice contains an edge of franticness. "Nothing! Sammy's fine. He's just tired. And hungry. Do you have any water, Mr. Singer?"
"Yeah," Bobby says after a moment. He stares at the kid and wonders, but gets to his feet to give them some space. He gets two plastic water bottles from the fridge, but when he returns to the living room, the couch is empty. The front door is wide open, and when Bobby steps out onto the porch, there's no sign of them.
He doesn't stop them, even though everything in him screams to chase after the young innocents of the world and stop them from being hurt. He wants to, thinks about his keys and the truck, but he stops.
Because he promised Dean he'd let 'em go if the kid decided they needed to run.
Apparently his questions on Sammy were enough to indicate a bolting. (And he doesn't understand that. Sammy isn't even five, what on earth could he have done?)
His heart aches, but he closes the door. He leaves the windows open, and watches the yard for the rest of the day between working and phone calls, but the two little bodies don't come back.
000o000
He makes a few calls to some hunters he knows, asking about anyone looking for their kids under ten. No one has any answers, and about half tell him they'll feel it out, and get back with him if they get any bites. Bobby figures that's the best he can do. He won't go after the kids.
What else can he do anyway, the two have obviously been on their own for a while and are as okay as they can be. A little thin, and ragged, but he can't do much else without betraying their timid trust.
Bobby puts down the phone and stares out the window again, filled with a sense of loss. He didn't even spend two hours with them, but there was something about the two that struck him.
(You shouldn't have to.)
Bobby eats a meal of cold chili and clambers into bed. He doesn't sleep.
The night is cold. The one after dips into the thirties, and Bobby finds himself thinking about the two hunter's kids, wondering if they're warm enough.
000o000
The next evening, Bobby is nursing his third cup of coffee for the day, picking through lore for a hunt some newbie got himself tangled inside of, trying to use the daylight to encourage his exhausted eyes to keep going.
The small voice nearly makes him jump. "Mr. Singer? Sir?"
He drops the book to his lap, looking up and seeing wide hazel eyes looking back at him. Sammy blinks at him, chewing his lip, looking hopelessly small without his older brother at his side. That last thought registers, and Bobby looks up and around for the large black backpack. Just Sammy. Looking tired and eyes ringed with moisture.
Where is Dean?
"Sammy?" Bobby sets down the book, trying to make himself seem more approachable. "Hey, you alrigh'?"
Sammy gives a small shake of his head, taking a slight step forward. There's something in his posture that suggests panic, but he remains...composed is the only word Bobby can think of, but it doesn't fit.
"Sir? Are you busy?" Sammy's hands wrap around his chest, like he might be sick. Or he's trying to preserve warmth. The brisk air bites into Bobby's skin beneath his heavy jacket. He can't imagine how cold the child must be. South Dakota autumns aren't known for their predictability. This week is proving to try winter for her cold fronts.
"No, Sammy, I'm not busy." The kid breathes out a sigh of clear relief. Bobby adds cautiously, "Where's your brother?"
Thin trails of water slip down Sammy's cheeks, but he doesn't start screeching, consumed by that awful, awful silence, even though he's obviously distressed. "He won't wake up." Sammy whispers, "I don't know what to do. You helped before…"
Bobby's stomach drops and his fists clench. He thinks about the cold of last night, and has a pretty good idea what happened. Damn it. "Is he sick?"
Sammy shakes his head. "He's really cold. I tried to wake him, I did. But he just keeps sleeping."
"It's okay, kid," Bobby promises, trying for a reassuring smile, "we'll get him fixed up. Where's he?" Sammy points south. "Is he far?" Bobby adds, eying his truck. He doesn't know how far the kid could have walked. Or how far he would have.
Sammy nods, sucking his lips against his teeth as if to stop himself from crying. Bobby nods to himself and offers a hand out to the small child, "Here, let's get to my truck, then we can drive to him. That sound okay?"
Sammy doesn't take his hand, but he does follow him to the truck, so Bobby counts the win where he can. Bobby starts the car and Sammy clambers up to his feet to see over the dashboard. Bobby knows that the memory of kids is often crap, but Sammy tells him where to turn and when with perfect confidence. There's no backtracking, no second guessing, and the one time that Bobby asks "are you sure?" Sammy gives him a look that suggests he's an idiot. Coming from someone who isn't even five, it's impressive.
By car, the distance is a little less than ten minutes. By foot, it would have been a lot longer than that. Bobby shakes his head with some incredulity at the idea of a kid Sammy's age wandering the streets by themselves and follows the child out of the vehicle.
The building they're parked in front of is a local house abandoned after a poltergeist got the better of the owners. That was about fifty years ago, and Bobby dealt with the spirit seven years ago after a local teen got on the wrong end of a falling chandelier. As far as he's aware, no one's made an attempt to claim the land or the house.
Sammy leads him to the building, stopping to look behind twice to make sure he's following before slipping inside. Bobby trails through the unlocked door, then watches as Sammy crosses over to the window where a lump of blankets is lying beneath.
Dean, Bobby guesses, and this is confirmed when he gets closer.
The older child is sleeping deeply, eyes sunken, lips washed of color. He's not shivering, and covered in the only three blankets in the space, head pillowed by the backpack. Bobby drops to his knees beside him, resting his fingers against the kid's neck. His pulse is slow, skin cold upon contact.
Bobby frowns, brushing a hand against Dean's face. The skin feels slightly waxy, which Bobby knows is a sign of frostbite. On top of how gray he looks, Bobby suspects that they're dealing with moderate to severe frostbite. He swears under his breath, looking up at Sammy's wide eyes.
"We gotta take him to the hospital, kid."
Sammy's face drains of color, "Mr. Singer, we can't pay for that."
Bobby stares at him. The kid isn't even five. "Do I look like I'm expecting you and your brother to yank a fortune from your hole-riddled pockets?" He demands of the child. Sammy stares at him, eyes more confused than they should be. Bobby shakes his head with disbelief.
He turns his attention away from the brown-haired kid, and turns back to his brother. He rests a hand on Dean's cheek again, feeling out the cold temperature, hiding a gathering of freckles beneath his thumb. He breathes out stiff, letting his lungs cling to the air even as much as he wants to let it go quickly.
He's seen hypothermia before. He can handle this. The ER isn't that far away.
Bobby gathers the limb body into his arms, disappointed but not surprised at the light weight that he feels. He wraps the blankets tighter around the pale child, and debates with himself for a moment before grabbing the well-worn backpack and swinging it over one shoulder. "C'mon, Sammy," he instructs, and hustles the small child out of the building.
Bobby glances at the cramped backseat, but decides that stuffing all the hunting equipment he hasn't made much of an effort to clean to the floor would only be more damaging in the long run, and settles the small kid down next to him on the front bench seat. He has to bend the kid's knees so he'll fit, and Sammy clambers up underneath his brother's head, wrapping small arms over him and looking up at Bobby hopelessly.
Bobby grits his teeth, slams the door shut, and backs them out into the street with force and vigor.
He breaks a few laws driving to the hospital, but doesn't have the mind or will to care about it. His fingers are wrapped white around the wheel, and his impatience with the lights is enough to make him want to dismantle it.
And he's not sure why he feels such an intense need. It's not like he knows the kids. It's not like they mean anything to him. But he can't get that hopeful yet hopeless look Sammy wore asking for his help out of his head. Sammy thought he'd help them, and he'll be damned if he doesn't deliver.
His father would have just let 'em rot on the side of the road. But Bobby isn't his father.
He pulls the car into a sideways parking job that any halfway decent driver would cringe at, and hauls the boys out of the truck. He herds Sam into the ER, where a male nurse has already gotten up to help him. The ER is mostly empty, much to Bobby's relief. It's a little after four PM, so he's not sure what he was expecting anyway.
He explains what he can about the kids, lies about how he met them, and says that he has no idea where their parents are. Which is true. The nurses nod at his answers and take Dean from him, placing the small body down onto a gurney and wheeling him to the back room.
A different nurse hands him paperwork to feel out to the best of his ability, checks to make sure that Sammy is okay, leaves, and then he takes a seat on one of the padded chairs.
Sammy, who Bobby had nearly forgotten about in the chaos, sits down carefully in the chair beside him with effort. He looks like he wants to cry. His small hands wrap around himself again, and he tucks his knees up beside his chest.
Bobby looks up from the paper, staring at the kid. There is no returned stare, so Bobby fills out the barest of details that he has, and flips through the pages of information he's helpless to. He told the staff that he doesn't know the kids, and they are still expecting him to pull this information out of his ass.
Frustrated, Bobby finally turns to the kid. "What's your full name?" They need a last name if they have any hope of getting past medical records. Allergies, past injury...parents.
Sammy doesn't say anything for a long time. Long enough Bobby doubts he will. When he does finally speak, it's soft. "Is Dean gonna die?"
Bobby stops scratching out a rough picture of the coffee table in the room on the back of one of the pages. He meets the kid's eyes evenly. "I don't know, kid. I don't think so."
Kid was bad off, but not the worst Bobby's seen someone.
Sammy slumps a little, looking away from him and biting on his lower lip. His voice is thick with unshed tears. "I don't want him to die."
"I know," Bobby promises. "I don't either."
Sammy takes in a deep breath and closes his eyes, ducking his head against his knees. "Winchester," he mumbles. Bobby stares at him for a moment, wondering what on earth this conversation has to do with a rifle. Sammy adds after a second, "It's our last time. Like the gun."
Winchester. Bobby wracks his brain for a moment, searching, but he can think of no hunters he knows of that have the surname. It might have come up in passing, but whoever the man is didn't do anything significant enough for Bobby to remember him.
Bobby nods, relieved, and turns back to the first page. Under Patient Name he adds Winchester. Dean Winchester. Like the rifle. Bobby looks back down at the kid. Sammy's wrapped around himself, face hidden from view and looking tiny and impossibly vulnerable.
(Alone. He looks alone.)
000o000
When they're finally allowed to come back and see Dean, they've been at the hospital for a few hours. Sammy has refused to speak to him after giving him their last name, and follows after Bobby like he's in a trance when the doctor, a tall man with a receding hairline and a badge that says Dr. Wilson, leads them back towards the room.
"He's resting now. He woke up about half an hour ago asking for his brother," Dr. Wilson explains. "We want to keep him overnight for monitoring, but he's doing much better than he was. His temperature finally got about ninety-five, which is a little over six degrees warmer than when he came in. He's going to be weak for a few days, but nothing that shouldn't fade with time."
Bobby nods, not expecting anything differently.
Dr. Wilson looks back at him, glancing down at Sammy for a moment before returning his attention up. "You said you found the kids, Mr. Singer?" At his nod, Dr. Wilson adds, "We'll pull up some background information. With a last name, we should be able to contact their living relatives about where they are."
Bobby nods again, shifting his feet. He thinks about Dean's horror about being returned to their father, but he doesn't know how to articulate that properly. Or not blow his cover story. He said that Sam just came up to him asking for assistance, and he can't dissuade that. So he just bobs his head stupidly and then ducks it until Dr. Wilson opens the door to Dean's room.
The kid is buried beneath a mountain of blankets, pale and flushed, but awake and looking vastly better than when Bobby handed him off. He's no longer gray. White and little red, yes, but at least it's not that awful gray. He's not sitting up, looking like the effort of keeping his head from tipping forward into his chest is too much effort.
He instead tips his head back to meet Bobby's eyes, something in them that Bobby can't quite read. Loss of some of the cold and distrust, maybe? He feels too tired to contemplate it.
"Dean? This is Bobby Singer. He's the man that found you," Dr. Wilson explains. Dean's eyes flick up to him, but he makes no corrections. "I'll give you guys some space," the doctor says after a moment, "holler if you need something."
The door closes behind them.
Sammy moves past him, managing to pull himself up onto the bed with some wiggling and effort, and falls against his brother's side, wrapping his arms tightly around Dean's waist. The older's arms come up automatically to embrace him, and he looks calmer with his sibling at his side. "You were gonna die," Sammy whispers. "You were gonna die, you were gonna die…"
"I'm okay, Sammy, I promise," Dean runs a hand through Sammy's messy hair.
"You were gonna die."
"I'm okay."
They go in this circle twice more before Sammy quiets, closing his eyes and burying his face against Dean's shoulder and curling in on himself. Bobby feels the vague urge to protest, but there isn't a point. Sammy won't listen, and the warmth—small as it is—won't do Dean any harm.
Belatedly, Bobby is grateful that Sammy's temperature wasn't anything that bothered the nurses too much when they checked him in the waiting room. Walking to find him probably saved the kid's life. And his brother's. He'd have hated to keep the kids separated, because tension he didn't even notice has bled from both of them, leaving them much closer to their respective ages.
"You alrigh', kid?" Bobby asks Dean.
The kid narrows eyes at him, frowns, and brushes a hand through Sammy's hair. "I'm going to be. Probably." There's a pause, then with less bite, Dean asks, "The doctor said that Sammy found you?"
"That's right. Showed up at my house out of the blue. Kid's almost invisible, I'll give you that." Bobby says carefully. Deciding that he's going to be here for longer than a few seconds, Bobby takes one of the visitor's chairs in the room and drags it closer to the bed, leaving it at an angle he can see both the children at.
Dean looks at his brother. "You walked to Mr. Singer's?"
"Did you want me to take the bus?" Comes the muffled grouse.
"You walked?"
"I didn't know what else to do. You kept sleeping, Dean."
"I—" Dean cuts himself off, seeming to remember that they have company. Teeth gritted, he turns back to Bobby. His eyes flick down to his lap for a second. "Thanks. For, um, not leaving me to die. And taking care of Sammy. He's never been in a hospital before."
Bobby feels his eyebrows raise. He couldn't have told anyone that from the way he was acting in the waiting room. Then again, maybe the folding in on himself was a sign of that, and not the kid's normal amount of anti-socialness coming out. But Bobby doesn't say any of these observations, and says as evenly as he can, "'Course. Somebody had to."
Dean tilts his head a little, confused.
God. These children.
Bobby clasps his hands together, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration. MRE's, hermit, he thinks longingly. Things were far more simple before he spotted these two out of the corner of his eye. "Listen, I know that you don't have a place to go. The hospital's going to try and get in contact with your daddy—" and back up the bunching in Dean's body goes "—and I know you'd rather they didn't right now."
Believe me, he doesn't stress, I know.
Dean relaxes a fraction.
Why? He doesn't question, because it's not the time or place. Not yet. He'll worm the answers out of them when they stop looking at him like he's gonna stab them when they let down their guard.
"Look, my point is that I'm offering to let you two snot-nosed idjits stay with me for a few days. I know I'm not anyone's first choice on hospitality points, but I'm sure I can keep you alive for more than a couple of hours." Bobby finishes. He stares between the two children, waiting. Anticipation thrums through him. If they say no, they say no, and his part in their story is over. He's not going to force himself on them.
Dean bites on his bottom lip, releasing it with a tight breath, "Um, okay." He says to the blanket. Bobby's not sure if it's his recent brush with death that has changed his mind, or the fact that when seeking assistance, his brother sought out him.
Tension bleeds from him swiftly. Bobby nods several times, lip quirking up a fraction. "Yeah? The hospital wants to keep you overnight, but we'll try for tomorrow."
God help him, he's actually doing this.
000o000
There is no contact made with Papa Winchester, and Bobby explains his plan to the doctor. Dr. Wilson respectively doesn't seem completely on board with the idea, but much of the staff is familiar enough with Bobby showing up to dump half-dead patients off and though obviously don't like him, vouch for him.
Reputation speaks.
Dr. Wilson sighs with exasperation, but finally pulls Bobby into a small alcove of the hospital, holding paperwork. "Look, I'd rather we call the police and get social services involved over you. But those kids need somewhere to stay and you're already paying for their hospital bills."
"Great, with that settled—" Bobby starts to turn away. Dr. Wilson grabs his arm.
"I'm not done. You've got to understand something, Mr. Singer. Their father hasn't been seen in four years. Their last known residence was in Kansas." Bobby's eyebrows shoot up. Kansas ain't no walk down the street to Sioux Falls. "And no one has seen Samuel since then, either. Dean's been enrolled in a few public schools, but not until last year."
Bobby frowns, "Isn't he seven?"
"Eight." Dr. Wilson corrects. "His brother is four."
"No preschool, kindergarten?" Bobby says, feeling his stomach sink further. This is one of the reasons that he's never liked kids getting involved with hunting. There isn't time for much of anything but track, hunt, kill.
"Preschool until age four. After his mother died in November of that year, there's no school records for him until he's seven. My point with this is that I'm not even sure that their father is alive. No one has legally seen him for years, and there's no paper trail for us to follow. I'm giving you a week. If we haven't made contact with any living relative, I'm bringing social services into this." Dr. Wilson says.
Bobby's teeth press. "Hadn't expected any differently from you, doctor." He promises.
000o000
When Bobby takes them back to his house the next day, the first day Dean mostly sleeps. He curls up on the couch with blankets and mumbles a "stay where I can see you Sammy" before promptly falling asleep watching Sammy flip through one of the lore books with the most child-friendly pictures Bobby has. Most of it is angels, because a majority of everything else involves someone being bloodied, and Bobby doesn't think that would settle over very well with the kid.
Bobby wakes Dean to feed him and flush fluids down his system, and discovers that Sammy refuses crackers and pretty much anything salted, but will eat some of the most bland food he owns. Neither of them look very excited when he suggests cookies, and he backs off with both confusion and a sense of loss.
He's answered a few calls, called Rufus to receive a litany of curses on the other side, and made no luck finding their father. Winchester doesn't stick with anyone he asks for it.
Somewhere after six PM, Sammy walks up to him with the heavy tome and sets it down on the empty chair in front of him, because he's too short to set it on the table. Not that there would have been any room if he'd tried. "Do you have something else like this one?" he asks, "I want to know more about the angels."
Bobby blinks at him, mind scrambling to find something else somewhat G-rated, "I don't know if I've got another one on angels with that many pictures," Bobby apologizes, leaning back in his chair, "but I could—"
And that's almost an exasperated eye roll. "No, Mr. Singer. Not to look at. To read."
Bobby's hands still over his laptop. He looks down at the kid with incredulity. Wondering. He's four. Preschooler, really. And he's complaining that he wants to read? Kids this age can barely limp their way through See Spot Run. "You...what?" Bobby gets out.
Sammy nods, "Do you have one?"
"You can read?" Bobby asks, doubtful.
Sammy stares at him, then his gaze flicks to the left with confusion for a second, "Can't you? Dean can. And my dad."
Bobby shakes his head a little, and then grabs the notebook he was taking notes on, scribbles something down and then lowers it to the child, pointing at the words. "What does this say?"
Sammy glances at them. "'Can you understand this', then a question mark," Sammy recites without a hesitation. He shifts on his feet while Bobby stares at him, flabbergasted. "Do you or not? I need to go back to where Dean can see me."
He can read.
He knew where to turn to find his brother, and it wasn't just some sort of weird homing device.
God. God. He's. It. What?
"You understood that?" Bobby nods to the book.
"...Yeah?" Sammy says, sounding confused about why Bobby's confused. "I mean, there were some parts that were a little weird, but Dad talks about demons sometimes. And Pastor Jim talks about the Bible a lot."
Bobby pulls back the notebook. He's heard of smart kids. Everyone has. He knows that the smarter a kid is the better reading comprehension they'll have at a young age, but this is insane. There are passages in the tome that Bobby doesn't understand.
Dean moans from the couch, and both of them stop their stare-off to glance at him. But Dean does not rejoin the world of the living, simply rolls over into a position that looks even more uncomfortable than the last one, tangling himself in the blankets.
Sammy waits patiently. Innocently. Unaware of the world-tipping that he's just given Bobby.
Bobby sets the notebook down, and gets up to his feet, feeling both stupid and like laughing as he grabs the first vaguely angelic thing he sees—a text on the potential of divine weapons being in everyday life—and hands it back to the child. The book looks like it weighs about as much as he does, but Sammy happily returns back to the living room with a chirp "thanks!" and settles down beside the couch.
Bobby looks back down at the notebook and his hasty scrawl.
Can you understand this?
000o000
Day two shows more life from the two of them. Dean is up to moving some and seems to have developed an appetite. Unlike his brother, he does not refuse the salty foods Bobby shoves toward him, and seems a little more life-like today. He asks to take a shower, and returns looking like an entirely different child. Then he wrestles his brother into the tub, and Bobby hears small sounds of scuffling, and when the two return, Sammy looks like a very unhappy drowned rat.
Dean takes the third book Bobby has given Sammy since they got here and forces him to lay down on the couch for some sleep despite some protesting, and then when Sammy has started on his way toward a nap, Dean wanders into the kitchen. He's still a little pale and shaky, but it doesn't stop him.
Despite their arguing, most of it is done silently and through facial expressions. They're still quiet, as if they have a word count limit they can't go past everyday and need to use it sparingly.
Dean sets the book down and clambers into the seat in front of Bobby. The sudden attention makes him pause what he's doing and return the favor.
Bobby glances at the book. "Ain't reading supposed to put you to sleep?"
"Not Sammy." Dean says with an edge of exasperation. "Keeps his brain running. It's annoying."
Bobby nods, thinks about Can you read this? and then decides it would be easier to just put that to the side for the moment. "How're you doing, kid? Feeling any better?"
"I'm tired," Dean says after a moment, and reveals no further information. Bobby has to keep reminding himself that despite how much they've seemed to relax around him, they still have a long, long way to go before they're under anything beneath "trust."
"Yeah, hypothermia will do that to you." Bobby says. Dean nods, and scrapes his thumbnail along the edge of the tabletop. Bobby resists the urge to sigh, remembering how in-direct children are. "You want something?"
Dean's gaze slides to the side. "Um. I don't know. I just. You have all those cars outside. And I was wondering if I could take Sammy out to look at them? Later. When he's not sleeping."
Bobby's lip quirks up. "Yeah, sure. I can show you around the yard. But things are kind of dangerous out there. Lots of sharp metal, so you'll need to keep an eye on your brother."
Heated eyes flick back up to him. "I always do."
He does, in fact, keep Sam from touching anything later by giving him a piggyback for a majority of their journey outside.
000o000
On day three, Bobby drags the two to a nearby Walmart. The state of their clothing has gotten dire, and after seeing Dean shake out their black backpack in hopes of finding something clean for his brother, Bobby had decided enough was enough. Watching from the hall, he'd said carefully, "You guys living a little light, aren't you?"
Dean had jumped, automatically shifting in front of his sibling, then looked back at him. "What?"
"You don't have much." Bobby clarified.
"Dad says it's easier to pack when you don't." Dean had shrugged, and returned to searching. A Bowie knife had fallen out, along with a revolver. Bobby paused at that one. Eight-year-old kid with a firearm. Genius.
He picks up the minimal amount of clothing the boys will allow him, and feels relief when they don't look like they're freezing their asses off half the time. Dean and Sam are still quiet, but they do shift a little closer to him when uneasy in the checkout line, and he'll be damned if he doesn't admit that feels him with a sense of pride.
He later spies the two picking through the bag of M&Ms he gave them from the grocery store. They've color coded them and Sammy is explaining mathematically why it would be better for them to split it evenly, but Dean counters with the fact that there isn't an even number of the candies. The two both take a red one and on the count of three stuff it into their mouths and chew vigorously.
Oh, Bobby realizes. They haven't had it before. That's why Dean had stared at him like he was handing out poison.
Sammy makes a face like he bit into a car tire, but Dean's eyebrows shoot up with delight.
"Ugh," the four-year-old groans, "that's disgusting. You can have them all."
Dean cheerfully slides the M&Ms to himself. The two clamber back onto the couch they've been using as a bed.
Bobby realizes in this moment that a soft smile is spreading across his face, and he is getting attached.
000o000
Day six, there's a pounding on his door. Firm, loud, and weighted. Sam and Dean share a glance from across the other side of the countertop that Bobby finally cleaned off. He's attempting to feed them peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and wasn't expecting any company. Mrs. Kurt came by earlier, because word spreads in neighborhoods despite his efforts, and she had been more than cheerful to try and talk with the boys. Sam and Dean had just frowned at her while she was talking, as though uncertain if they should be happy she came or afraid.
Assuming it's another woman attempting to offer well wishes, Bobby puts down his book and walks towards the front door.
The man he opens the door for is not one of his neighbors. Tall, dark hair, scruff of a beard built up around his chin and dark, lost eyes stare back at him. Swirling into nothingness. He's listing to the side slightly, hand wrapped around the doorframe, smelling thickly of alcohol and looking like he's been on a three day bender. He's wearing a thick leather jacket, ripped jeans, and looks to be in his late thirties. Bobby has never seen him in his life. His hand instantly goes for the gun at his belt, and his fingers have scarcely wrapped around it before the man tightens rough fingers around his wrist.
His skin is warm. His gaze is not. "Bobby Singer?" he asks in a thin voice.
"And you would be?" Bobby returns, tone just as clipped.
"John Winchester."
Bobby feels something in him drop with disappointment. His lips press together, and he stares at John for a long moment. There's a car parked out front. Black Impala, though the year escapes him. It looks more maintained and cared for than his kids did when they showed up here.
Bobby doesn't move. John doesn't release his wrist. "A few hunters told me you had some kids under ten. I think they're mine."
"Well, I don't—"
"Dad?" Dean asks behind him. Bobby curses quietly to himself, and doesn't turn around, snapping his jaw shut. John's eyes flick down, and something like relief and anger settling on his face.
"Hey, buddy," John says, voice strangely toneless. No warmth. No familiarity that most parents have with nicknames. "Is your brother with you?"
"Yes, sir," and there Dean's voice has gone, swallowed up in whatever shyness and silence that encompassed it when Bobby saw them for the first time. Sam and Dean have never been loud children. It's part of what made looking after them for the few days he has so easy, but the longer they've stayed here, they've...relaxed is the only word he can think of, yet it still doesn't fit.
Dean stops behind Bobby's leg, close enough that Bobby can see the tuff of dirty blond hair, but not close enough that John could reach out and grab him. John releases Bobby's wrist. Bobby returns the favor by letting go of the gun.
"You scared me, Dean, running off like that," John says. When Dean continues to simply stare, the elder Winchester adds on, "Can I see your brother?"
Dean ran off? Dean took his brother and ran? It's more information than anything Bobby had managed to weasel from the two.
"No." Dean says firmly. Then tags on a hasty, "Sir."
"Dean—"
"No, sir. Sammy's busy." Dean says, and shuffles back a little when John's mouth tightens. A small fist grabs a handful of Bobby's jeans, out of sight of John's gaze. Bobby shifts a little in front of him to accommodate. He thinks about his father again, and wishing that someone would protect him.
John looks up towards the sky as if asking for patience. "Dean, I didn't know that Sammy was going to react that way. I swear I didn't know that it was going to hurt him."
"You almost got him drowned," Dean mumbles, gripping tighter.
Bobby's eyes snap back up to the man. "You what?"
John looks at him. "It was an accident. God, don't give me that look, it was. You don't—" he cuts himself off sharply, breathing out. "There's...something different about Sammy. I was only trying to help him."
"By drowning the kid?" Bobby asks dubiously.
"Oh, for the love of—" John throws up his hands. Dean stiffens. "You're going to take the word of an eight-year-old over mine?"
"Yeah." Bobby says without a beat. "You see your kids recently, Winchester? They're not looking so hot."
"Hunting's rough."
"Balls, Winchester!" Bobby exclaims, "Neither of them are even ten. They shouldn't be hunting. Take this from a veteran." Your kid was going to stab me, he doesn't say, your kids was squatting, your kid walked for miles by themselves to get help, your kid can't sleep without a weapon tucked under their pillow, there's a gun in his backpack. A gun.
"We don't get a choice." John snaps. "Do you think I want this life for my kids?"
"Haven't given me a lot of evidence otherwise."
"Well, I don't. But my wife was gutted open and I gotta find the thing that did that. And on top of that Sammy—" he stops himself. His teeth press together, clicking. What about Sammy? Bobby wants to shout into the universe. This entire situation seems to revolve around that four-year-old.
But what the hell happened?
"Look. You're a hunter. You know that this isn't easy. I'm doing what I can."
Bobby glances at Dean, then meets the steel eyes of the other hunter. "No. You get out of this life while you can. Take your kids, settle down. Put them first. Trust me, Winchester, you don't want to be here."
John's jaw clicks. He looks at his son. "Go get your brother."
"I don't want—" Dean starts.
"It was an accident, Dean. I won't let it happen again. Go get your brother. We're leaving—That's an order." John says, voice hard. Dean wavers, rocking on his feet before he releases Bobby's leg and disappears behind him.
Bobby stares at John. "You're making a mistake. You wanna hunt? Leave them here with me."
John scoffs. "I can take care of my own kids, thanks."
"Damn your pride, you idjit!"
John shakes his head, "They're mine. Look, thank you for keeping them alive, I'm grateful, but we can deal with this ourselves." Bobby opens his mouth to say something, then slowly closes it, realizing that any fight he has is going to be futile. Damn ass isn't listening.
His jaw shifts, lips pressing together with resolve. He rips a piece of paper off of a nearby newspaper clip and scribbles two separate phone numbers onto it. He holds it out to Winchester. "You need a babysitter? You call me. You need answers on lore? You call me. You've probably heard my name a few times if you're worth any salt." John gives a bare nod of his head.
John reaches out for the paper, and Bobby holds it back. "And if anything happens to those kids, John; you'll be answering to me."
John takes the paper with force, huffing quietly. "You've known them, what? A week?"
"And you've known 'em they're whole lives." Bobby says firmly. He hears footsteps behind him and sees the two boys. He squats down as they approach, meeting their eyes. He tries for a wispy smile. "You be good for your daddy, boys," he says.
Sammy looks up at their father with something like apprehension in his wide eyes. Dean has the black backpack strung over his shoulders. Sammy hesitates, then walks forward and wraps his arms around Bobby's neck. Bobby wraps a hand around his small frame, drawing Dean in with his other hand.
"Thank you, Mr. Singer." Sammy whispers.
"Gave your daddy my number," Bobby tells him when he pulls back, "you call if you need something, alright?"
The two give them solemn nods. They turn back to their father and Bobby raises up back to his whole height. He watches the three disappear into that Impala, the engine rumbling in a way that seems vaguely familiar.
He watches them until they're long gone.
Then he turns around and closes the door, mouth bitter with the taste of regret.
000o000
Bobby picks up the phone later that night, after having spent a good portion of the evening getting drunk. "Singer," he growls into the receiver.
"Bobby Singer?" Comes a soft voice from the other end. Male. Older. "I'm Jim Murphy. You said that you knew where two hunter's children under the age of ten were? Winchesters?" He sounds hopeful, and for a moment, Bobby's stomach sinks. He takes a swig of his beer.
"Father picked 'em up a few hours ago," he says gruffly, "sorry."
A small sigh. "I see. How...was John?"
"That ass? He seemed fine. Drunk, though." Bobby mutters the last part.
Murphy sighs again. There's a pause, as if he wants to agree, but then says, "That is often his state, the Lord bless him. Dean and Samuel, have they been with you since they ran away?" He still sounds soft and hopeful.
"Dunno. Depends when they left." Bobby answers obliquely, "I found 'em about eight days ago."
Murphy is silent for a moment. "I see. They left us two weeks ago. You're in South Dakota?"
"Yeah."
"We were as well, John asked me to meet him up here. You...Dean didn't explain what happened, I imagine?" Bobby snorts. As if anyone could wiggle information out of that child he didn't want known. "No. He wouldn't. Thank you for taking care of them, Mr. Singer—"
"Hey, now." Bobby snaps. "I took care of those two, fed 'em, and made sure they didn't keel over. I've earned that right to know what made 'em book it."
Murphy is silent. Bobby can hear him breathing. He releases a long breath. "There's something not quite right with Samuel. I don't know if you noticed, but it's impossible not to."
"Beyond his IQ of two hundred?" Bobby asks.
Murphy snorts. "That is his gift from God. To make up for his curse, I reckon. He's severely sensitive to salt. Consuming it, salt lines, anything. He's in pain when he hears Christo." Bobby twitches, thinking about Dean slapping his hands over his brother's ears when they met before he said it. "John thought he was possessed."
Bobby takes a moment to process that.
Sam walked well into two hours to find him when his brother was dying.
"You...he's not." Bobby says. "He's...just not."
"I agreed, but John was insistent we perform an exorcism. Nothing happened. John became convinced he was some sort of devil's spawn, and…" another sigh, "given what happened to his wife, I understand. Whatever killed her was there for Samuel that night. But what he did...his attempt to—I suppose baptize of purification is the only term I can think of, some ritual he found—Samuel didn't go over well. He almost drowned. Dean was furious and stopped it. There was some physical blows thrown and yelling. Dean wrapped Samuel up in his coat and ran out. We didn't see them until you called."
"Dammit." Bobby hisses, clutching at the phone. "I shouldn't have let him walk off with them. Dammit."
Murphy makes a soft, sad, but bitter noise. "I've called social services to little avail. Believe me, Singer, you're not the only one who thinks that every time he leaves."
Bobby's teeth press.
(You shouldn't have to.)
He grips the phone and scowls into the tabletop, thinking darkly, I hope you enjoyed your life of solitude, Winchester, because I am going to haunt your ass until the day those kids are eighteen.