Listening In
K Hanna Korossy

Sam was pushing his mug in circles across the scarred wood of the kitchen table when Bobby walked into the room. He eyed the kid briefly before getting a mug of his own and filling it with the surprisingly un-sludgelike contents of the coffeepot. Apparently, there were some perks to having the Winchesters stay with him, besides being able to keep an eye on those two. Someone had to now that John was gone. Though, come to think of it, it wasn't like their dad had been doing a great job of that, anyway.

"Dean outside?" Bobby asked carefully as he lowered himself into the one other chair in the room that wasn't covered in books. Dean only passed through the kitchen the rare times he ate, always in the bedroom or the yard otherwise, never even sitting down. Bobby hadn't seen a need to clear the chair. Dean would know he was welcome when he was ready.

Sam started painfully at the sound of his voice. Bobby caught his aborted wince at the movement, then Sam offered him what they'd both generously pretend was a smile. "Where else?" Sam asked wryly.

Right. As soon as he could move without Sam helping him, Dean had disappeared outside to work on that wreck of his. The car, not the life, although Bobby had his thoughts on which needed more attention.

Sam pulled in a deep, slow breath and pushed himself to his feet to shuffle over to the sink. He moved like an old man when Dean wasn't around, battered by the "accident" that had mangled his brother's car even if he hadn't ended up critical like the rest of his family. Still, the kid was tough, trying to patch up both himself and his brother, and Bobby had to admire him for that.

Bobby gulped at his coffee and scratched under his hat. "You got any plans for today?"

A soft huff that was probably some distant kin to a laugh. "Try to make sure Dean eats and gets some sleep before he falls over?" Sam offered, his back to the room. He was pouring himself a fresh cup of joe, but as the smell of it hit him, his shoulders went stiff and he dumped it back into the pot.

Bobby just raised an eyebrow and kept drinking.

On the floor next to him, Cheney raised his head, then dropped it onto his paws again.

Sam had also paused, head tilting slightly. Then he came over to sit with the weariness of someone three times his age. "I wish I could do more for him." His voice rose a little.

Bobby also hesitated, then nodded slowly. "You saved that car for him, Sam. He'll appreciate that when he gets his head a little more together. And you're here. Don't sell that short, either."

"I know, I just… He always wants me to tell him what's bothering me, Bobby, you know? But when it's his turn, suddenly it's all, 'Dude, I'm fine.'"

Bobby's mouth twitched. "That boy's more his daddy's son than I think he'll admit."

Sam's eyes shifted to one side, then back to Bobby. "I just wish he'd believe that I'm here for good this time. He's not alone in this—I'm not goin' anywhere."

Outside, one of the back porch floorboards creaked softly.

Sam's eyes didn't flicker.

Neither did Bobby's. "Give him time," he said, brow raised knowingly. And smirked when Sam at least had the grace to flush pink.

00000

Sometimes he forgot he had a TV, until he had houseguests who rediscovered it.

Still, it wasn't the high-pitched voice squawking from the idiot box that made Bobby pause as he walked into the room. It was the fact that I'm fine!-Sam had apparently given in to his not-so-fineness and was sprawled across the length of the couch. He'd probably have been hanging off the end if his feet hadn't been jammed into the lap of his brother, while Dean sat blinking drowsily at the TV.

"You know, I've got beds for that," Bobby said gruffly, but fact was, he was probably as glad as Dean to see Sam sleeping. He hadn't heard all the details of their latest escapade, but something about a psychic ghost and a heavy bookshelf had left both boys shaken and hurting. Bobby had seen the edges of the almost-black bruising as he'd helped Dean pack bags of frozen vegetables against Sam's chest hours before, bags that were squishy and damp on his rug now. Sam had probably rolled over in his sleep, although he was back to supine now.

Dean cracked a thin smile. "Choose your battles, man—I learned that lesson when he was about two. Don't care where he goes to sleep as long as he sleeps."

Bobby chuckled quietly at that, dropping into the lounge chair between the TV and the couch. "I remember that—you peeled him out of the weirdest places sometimes when you two were still ankle-biters."

"Yeah, well, he was a little easier to carry to bed then," Dean said ruefully, gaze tracing six-foot-four of little brother.

"You want a blanket?" Bobby asked, eyeing the party in question, too. But he knew Sam's paleness had nothing to do with cold.

"Naw, I'll get him upstairs in a while. His neck's gonna hurt if he spends the night here."

They were talking softly, but Sam stirred anyway, head rolling to one side and mouth sagging open. It was an expression only a mother could love. Or maybe a big brother, given the fond look of amusement Dean was throwing him.

"She was a real piece of work." It was soft, but carried even over the shrill volume of the TV.

Bobby glanced over at the set, saw it was some sort of stupid soap opera and, with a grimace, turned it off. He looked back at Dean, who didn't even seem to notice the sudden quiet. "The ghost?" Bobby hazarded.

"She said Sam was like she'd been, a seer."

Huh. Bobby mulled that one while he watched Sam's mouth close. His breathing grew more shallow. Bobby's gaze flicked up to Dean, who gave him an impassive look. "He may be a seer, but you did tell him he's nothing like her, right?" Bobby asked carefully.

Dean's eyes narrowed but, for God's sakes, it wasn't like Bobby knew what the right answer was here. He was winging this stuff, too. "He has…dreams, Bobby—"

"—visions—"

"—not some kind of inside track to the future. He can't even turn it on and off."

"That's not the point, Dean, and you know it. Sam's got a gift—"

"—curse," it was Dean's turn to interrupt in a grumble.

"—but what counts is what he does with it. He's a good man, he'll make the right choice."

Finally, approval in Dean's dark eyes. He nodded, hand curling around Sam's ankle. "Yeah, he will. Sam'll go evil the day I sell the 'pala for scrap. And none of this changes anything—he's still my snot-nosed, whiny little brother."

Both of them pretended not to notice the twitch of the sprawled figure.

"Yeah, I'm sure that'll be comforting for him," Bobby said dryly.

And was rewarded when Dean's face shone.

00000

Bobby was not a man who let himself be used. But for some rare occasions—some rare people—he made an exception.

And hoped that in doing so, his feelings for them were overheard just as clearly.

The End