Summary: Bobby suspects that Dean and Sam are romantically involved. He casts a spell to help determine if dark magic is making the Winchester brothers a little too fond of one another. Dean/Sam (references only).
Author Note: This is my first fan-fiction story, ever. Right now, it is just one chapter, with the possibility of a second. If this chapter is well received and I have time to devote to the task, I will write a second chapter soon. I also have several ideas for other related stories. Again, if my schedule permits, I will share those stories as well, under separate cover of course.
Reviews are welcome. I enjoy writing fiction and would like to improve my writing skills so all constructive feedback is encouraged and will be well received. I promise my feelings are not easily hurt.
Please be aware, this story is Bobby-centric. Sam and Dean, and their developing romance, are referenced but Bobby's at the center of the action. Bobby's thoughts are in italics.
Disclaimer: Bobby Singer, Sam Winchester, and Dean Winchester are characters in the Supernatural television series. They are not of my creation. I make no claim to them whatsoever.
Troubling Truths
It was a Herculean feat, wrapping his mind around the truth. The old hunter, seated at his shaky kitchen table, downed a goodly amount of scotch to grease his mental wheels, to help them turn in the wobbly ways that they needed to turn if he was going to see the situation for what it was. The orange light of autumn sun setting filtered in through the half covered window as Bobby took yet another long swig, letting the memories from the last three days flicker and stutter as they replayed in his mind.
Tuesday afternoon, was it an accidental brush or a sentimental caress when Sam's large hand found the small of Dean's back when Dean reached in front of the younger man to retrieve a can of green beans from the kitchen cupboard? Accidental brush! It had to be accidental, Bobby thought. Dean couldn't have offered Sam a warm smile and leaned back into the touch. That boy's about as affectionate as a hellhound. Of course he didn't lean in!
Wednesday night, was it Bobby's imagination or was the dust still hanging in the air where Dean and Sam broke apart with lightning speed in order to avoid being seen doing God-knows-what on the couch in the living room? Was there a hint of teenaged defiance in his boys' faces when he quickly rounded the corner to see them flushed and panting on the couch, sitting as far away from each other as possible? Deanlooked so scared, so guilty when he finally pulled himself together and glanced in Bobby's direction, the older man reflected while taking another large gulp of scotch.
This morning, were his aging eyes playing tricks or were Sam and Dean basically breathing each other's air, smiling, and chit-chatting over their respective cups of coffee? They barely noticed him staring stunned from the kitchen entrance. Their closeness shocked him. When Dean and Sam finally did notice, had some of the light drained from their eyes as they casually distanced themselves from one another? Sam wouldn't even look me in the eye this morning, been avoiding me all day. Bobby grabbed the bottle of scotch and let another inch of liquid spill into his glass.
The answers hit the keen-eyed hunter like a blast of rock salt.
Sam had caressed Dean's back and Dean had let him. Bobby hadn't imagined the lust and defiance gleaming in the boys' eyes and filling the air with each labored breath they took. The interaction he'd witnessed that morning was, in fact, romantic. Those smiles, the warmth in their eyes, the caresses and suggestions thereof, it was all so palpable. Bobby pushed his empty glass away and stood quickly, too quickly given the amount of scotch sloshing through his veins. He wobbled. The intoxicated hunter's left hand dropped to the table to steady him. He blinked once, twice.
"Shit! Fuckin' idgits!"
He tried to keep his voice low because the boys were just outside the kitchen, out in the yard collecting a few spare parts for the Impala. But Bobby's rage was building. Thanks to the scotch, he couldn't reign in his fury, wasn't sure he wanted to, or should. Deep breaths, Singer. Before you get all worked up, think, he mumbled to himself. Could be some kinda spell. Yeah, probablylust or love magic.
Bobby strolled into the living room with the kind of well-rehearsed grace one would expect from someone who's used to walking while intoxicated. He'd struggled through the destabilizing effects of inebriation enough times to know how to do something as simple as walking to the next room without falling on his face. Besides, Bobby Singer shit-face drunk was still sharper, faster, and more agile than your average 30-year-old Joe stone-cold sober!
He collapsed into his desk chair, spun around to face his latest mountain of reading, and got to work. He sifted through six texts before his blurry vision settled on the tome that he needed. He figured there was no point in looking for the specific spell that might be affecting the boys. That could take the better part of a week and Bobby wanted this dealt with, fast. Instead he sought out the spell he'd found two months ago when a hunter out of Jersey called him asking for help to find out if his sister was bewitched.
Bobby thumbed through to the appropriate marked page, mentally noted the ingredients, and then stomped through the house, crowding the necessary supplies into his arms. He gathered three red satin cords each nine arm lengths long, blood of crow, tongue of goat, tooth of man, eye of cat, and skin of serpent. Grimoires and their dramatics. He hauled the items to the kitchen and began to prepare the spell.
The seasoned spellcaster quickly poured the corvine blood into an iron pot and brought it to a boil. He then powdered and added the man's tooth, mashed and scraped in the goat's tongue and cat's eye, powdered and added the snake's skin, stirring the putrid brew all the while. After a few minutes he lifted the iron pot from the heat, poured the contents into a bronze bowl, and carefully carried it back to his desk in the living room.
The hunter lit a black candle and the room fell darker than night. Bobby wasn't sure he'd ever get used to that part of this spell. He let himself indulge in a long blink allowing his eyes to adjust to eerie light emitted by the candle, then cleared his throat and steeled himself for what was coming next. Slowly, quietly, Bobby chanted the spell, the Latin rolling off his tongue like honey. With the completion of each line in the verse he added an item to the hot, red brew still steaming in the bronze vessel. First he cast in asafetida, then a charred black hen feather, followed by rue, and woody angelica root.
The mix began to boil right in front of him. That's my cue. Bobby dipped the red satin cords into the mixture. When his thumb and index finger came into contact with the molten liquid – Fuck! – he yanked his hand back, along with the bloodied cords. He circled the cords around two strands of hair - one belonging to Dean, the other to Sam – atop a silver paten engraved with the astrological symbol for the planet Mercury,. A tiny smirk spread across Bobby's face: Knew those hairs would come in handy. He let his hands drop to his sides as the air grew heavy. His already aching head began to throb more. Bobby blinked and his vision went red. A pulsing energetic web formed across his entire field of vision. The brilliant, multi-colored web was composed of the cords that connect people to places, to things, and to each other.
If there was a spell on the boys, he would see it here and now, he'd see the inky black cord joining them to the truly evil thing making them love one another in a distinctly non-brotherly way. With the energy field clearly visible to him now, Bobby jogged to the kitchen window over the sink. The scotch was losing its fight with his limbs so he made short work of the distance between his desk and the window. He peered into the yard and saw Sam and Dean examining the Impala's engine. The older man scrutinized their tender glances and playful laughter. It would have seemed innocent if Dean's hand weren't working a lazy, loose oval across Sam's back. The scene would have been casual and appropriate if Sam weren't leaning against Dean's left side, soaking in the warmth radiating from the older Winchester's body, obviously a welcomed counterpoint to the chill autumn air.
Bobby looked on with blood red vision. He could see the thick, bright white lines of energy that linked each man to him, could see faded grey cords of dim energy linking each man to their fallen family and friends. And, lit up like the noon-day sun, the weary hunter could see the golden cable of energy that linked the two of them to one another. The cord burned so bright Bobby thought he might go blind. The link was so strong, so steady. Balls!
It wasn't the power of the bond that was worrisome. What made his eyes burn and his throat cry for more scotch was the color of the cord. Social bonds burn white, intense love relationships also burn white but they are often brighter than your average friendship or family bond. Lovers in a notably strong relationship will sometimes have more shimmer or shine in their relationship cord, but it's still white, 999 times out of 1,000. Of course Dean and Sam would have the rare relationship that blazes match-made-in heaven, soul mate gold. To his dismay, inky black was the one color that Bobby did not see. This was no curse; no one was compelling them to be together like starry-eyed lovers. B-A-L-L-S!
The troubling truth was the troubling truth. Dean and Sam were closer, physically and emotionally closer than brothers were ever meant to be. Bobby exhaled and with a simple incantation ended the spell he'd cast. He knew, since the first time he worked the spell for Jersey, that he'd have a pounding headache and see energy echoes for the next three days, but that was a small price to pay for the truth. He dragged a hand down his face, fatigue evident in every shadow and valley. His strength was gone.
"How? Why would they do this?", Bobby lamented. The older man was momentarily relieved that no one was inside the house to hear the consternation and sadness in his weary voice. He took one last glance out the kitchen window, figured he had five, maybe six minutes to clean up the spell remnants before the boys trod into the house looking for cold beers and left over burgers. Bobby hung his head low, let out a pathetic sigh, and got to work.
He had the living room and kitchen pristinely clean in four minutes flat. He found his way to the rest of the bottle of scotch and crumbled back into his chair at the unsteady kitchen table. With a swig of liquid courage, Bobby decided then and there that he had to confront Sam and Dean about whatever this thing was between them.