Through Hell and High Water
Disclaimer: The muse may be mine, but the boys are someone else's entirely
E/O Challenge Word: remote (use it twice)
Spoilers: 7.10 – Death's Door up to 7.19 – Of Grave Importance
Words: 374
A/N: This drabble might've gotten a bit out of hand, but when muse strikes me I am little more than a vessel and can't do all that much in the way of arguing.
Sorry this is a day late. I spent my Sunday at a Nickelback concert, which was completely and utterly amazing! Such an experience. I was blown away.
Cheers all!
Bobby had never taken the boys for fools, but weeks of watching the idjits drop the ball on one hunt after another makes him want to reconsider. God knows he set 'em on the right path every once in a while – shoved 'em, more like – but dammit they've always been mighty fine hunters on their own.
If he were still alive instead of nothing but a tub of ectoplasmic goo and unfinished business, he'd give 'em both a good smack upside the head for not figuring it out already. Children dying, dead bodies walkin' outta their graves, people sane one day, stark raving mad the next. All signs point in one direction.
He hates feeling so remote, so cut-off from Sam and Dean, and heaven forbid he give 'em a hint or two. Last time he tried, he blacked out for days. He's better where he's at, just keepin' an eye on 'em.
That doesn't mean he don't have half a mind to throw the damn remote at Dean's head. Maybe that'll get the idjit's attention.
"I wish Bobby were here," he catches Sam mumble, quiet enough so his brother doesn't notice.
"Me too," Dean says anyway. Bobby outta give the kid more credit. At least some of his senses are working.
Balls.
"I'm right here, sons."
But the boys stay silent and Bobby stays dead, so looks like it's time for plan B.
He waits 'til Sam gets up to grab a beer before shoving his arm into the kid's laptop, channelling all his pent-up anger down through the wiring.
The screen flashes just before Sam sits back down. He blinks, swearing he'd been at a different website. Then a word catches his eye.
"Vetala?" He wants to smack himself. He should've known.
"What?" Dean comes to look. "Holy crap, that's it!"
Sam pauses, sniffs. "Does it smell like whiskey to you?"
"Ain't me, dude." Dean shakes his (well, Bobby's – and thank god for that) flask. "It's tequila Tuesday."
Bobby laughs as he fades away (doesn't bother fighting; his job's done for now). This time he's not worried, 'cause he'll fight his way through hell and high water to come back to these boys again and again.
After all, that's what family does.