It's visible to Bobby, even under the multiple layers that Dean's wearing: the kid's lost weight in the seven months since Flagstaff, since Sam ran away for two weeks — and more than just a little bit. The heat's on in the house (has to be; South Dakota's gone brutal for this winter), and Dean has on two t-shirts, heavy jeans, and a flannel anyway, and one of John's old leather jackets hangs around his shoulders, all but drowning him and looking utterly dispirited — and still Bobby can see the way that Dean's collarbone protrudes, all the notches done up on his belt, the bones in his wrists. When he shifts his legs, Bobby can see how skinny they've have gotten, and from the sharp angles of the kid's cheeks some part of him can't believe that John didn't notice it sooner.
And, more than anything else right now, Bobby wants to do something. He wants to reach out and smack Dean upside his lolling, unstable head, then hug him and tell him how fucking stupid he's been, not asking for help when he clearly needs it, and how all anybody in this house — from his brother, who ratted him out, to his father, who's making him eat, to his "uncle," who's just standing by and watching, letting this go on — wants is for him to just be well.
But John's giving Dean one of his patented Intent Looks over the plate, untouched and full of spaghetti, chicken, and vegetables — all that Bobby could scrounge up on the short notice he got when Sam tugged on his shirt, looking pale and sleepless after God only knew how long of having nightmares about the werewolf John and Dean had killed at the beginning of last summer, and said that, "Dad wants something other than burgers or pizza or your special stew for dinner tonight, he didn't say why but Dean passed out on a hunt this weekend…" — and for all he keeps letting his eyelids droop, Dean returns the favor, glaring at his father. The urge to soundly thump both of them's getting to be unbearable and Bobby's fingers itch to punch something in the same way they usually itch to fumble with John's jeans or shoot a werewolf in the heart.
One thing, though, that Bobby Singer has learned during his time with the Winchesters is that only a damned idjit tries to intervene when they're having a moment of domestic drama. Because Dean is not Bobby's boy, for all Bobby's done for him, his brother, and their daddy, and he never has been. Never will be. He's John's boy, through and through, right down to being a stubborn ass about the most insane things.
John sighs. He puts his elbows on the table, folds his hands and bows his head like he's in church, praying for his own sake instead of listening to Pastor Jim go on about salvation. "Dean," he mutters. "Just eat. You don't even need to eat all of it. Not even half. But…" John pauses, and his voice cracks into something that he disguises with a series of percussive coughs, the sort that just make Bobby glad his idjit doesn't smoke like all the other ex-Marines Bobby knows, because he's not sure if he could handle John with smoker's cough. Emotionally stunted bastard cough's not much better, but it's something. "Son, please. …Come on. You don't wanna sit here all night, do you."
There's a flash in Dean's eyes that recognizes this as something other than a question, but in response, he only shrugs. "Well, I don't mind, Dad. Think it'll get pretty boring when I have to nod off — and if you really want to keep me down here when Sam needs someone with him… Well, I think that's pretty stupid, but hey, you're the boss, right?"
Both parties wrinkle their noses at the other, furrow their brows — but neither breaks eye contact or speaks again until a set of footsteps thumps down the stairs, and another voice pipes up from the doorway, "Dad? Dean's still got an assignment for—"
"Shut up, Sam!" Dean and John snap in unison. Their eyes flash in his direction, but they turn back to each other before too long.
Bobby looks down into the expression on Sam's face, the one he gets that makes him resemble a stray dog that's just gotten a kick to the face on Christmas. "Go on," Bobby urges the younger boy, begrudgingly keeping his voice down, as though he and Sam might interrupt something important. But his conviction wavers on the words, "Back upstairs." He doesn't even attempt to argue when Sam asks him to come with, just follows Sam to the room he and Dean use during their visits — the one Bobby and Karen's kids would've slept in, had they ever had kids — and sits with him for a bit, until he asks the questions that must've been kicking around his head all night:
"Uncle Bobby, is Dean ever going to get better?" With a pat on Sam's back and without really listening to himself, Bobby says whatever reasonable sounding thing first comes to mind. Sam cuts him off: "…Did I do something wrong? When I told Dad?"
Even though he isn't sure about how to answer that without making someone into The Bad Guy, Bobby tells Sam, "No, no — of course you didn't, boy." He pats Sam on both shoulders and says, "Go on, now. Get your schoolwork done."
Sam frowns. "But Dean's supposed to help me… I mean, I don't need him to or anything, but… he's better at math."
Bobby sighs. "I'll send him up when he's ready for it, alright?"
Turning his eyes toward his shoes, Sam nods. It might not be the resolution that he wants, but he and Bobby both know better than to push things now, when the tempers downstairs are running hotter than Hell and twice as stubborn as normal. Because John's not here to do it himself — nor would he necessarily do it, anyway — and because Sam and Dean are practically Bobby's own, he wraps his arms around Sam's shoulders and pulls the younger boy into a tight embrace. Sam returns it, clinging to Bobby, burying his face in Bobby's flannel.
Whispering little nonsense noises to calm him down, Bobby promises: "It'll be alright, Sam. Not right now, but... soon, okay?"
As he descends the stairs again, Bobby feels his faith in that statement drain away, first at the raised voices and then on the scene he walks right into. John's on his feet by the time Bobby stops in the kitchen doorway, Dean's sulking like the kid who got coal for Christmas, and neither of them seems to notice that they aren't alone anymore. Bobby waits there as they have it out, tries to think of something else that he could do… but the Winchesters have to go and explode first.
John thumps on the table, and snaps, "What am I supposed to do if something like that happens again, Dean? What's your brother supposed to do—"
"He sure did fine on his own in Flagstaff! For two weeks!" Dean crosses his arms over his chest. He looks down at his plate, then back up to his father.
"This family can't work unless we're all in it together — and we're not all in the hunt together if you're so wrapped up in... whatever's got your head screwed on wrong—"
"'scuse me, but seems like you do pretty good hunting without me—"
"That's bullshit! If you were dead weight, I wouldn't take you along—"
"Well, that's what you. said — when we were hunting that ghost in Kentucky, you said I was dead weight and you'd've done better if you'd left me at the motel!"
"That was your first hunt! Everyone's dead weight on their first hunt!"
"Well, that's not how you said it!"
"For God's sake — just eat your damn food!"
Dean and John lock eyes and screw up their faces, each daring the other to make the first move, trying to feel out who's angrier, who has more control over the situation. And there's a look on Dean's face that Bobby's never seen before, especially not aimed at his father: his eyes are burning with resolve, his lips pressed into a thin line; he looks like he could try anything right now, even against John, even to his own detriment, just as long as he's making the calls and John isn't. The air between them crackles — Bobby considers retreating, but he stays. The Winchesters might be having their own moment, but it's in Bobby's kitchen and if anything happens to either of them and he could've done something … he couldn't live with that on his soul.
John snaps, "Now, Dean! That's an order!"
Dean's lips curl into a sneer and he shouts, "Make me!"
There's no time to react — John lunges across the table and smacks Dean clear across the cheek — the force of the impact cracks; Bobby freezes up until John hits his boy again. That second noise gives him control of his limbs again and he jumps between them, pulls Dean out of John's reach and snaps for the boy to get upstairs. As his footsteps head to his and Sam's room, Bobby rounds on John; the look he gets almost stops him cold, but there can't be an excuse for that — even with the life they lead, even when they're doing what Dean's up to, refusing to eat, you never hit your kids.
Bobby barely keeps it together as he shakes John by the collar of his coat; trying to figure this situation out, searching John's eyes for whatever reasoning he might throw out there, Bobby demands, "What the Hell was that?"
John tries to speak, makes a choking noise and looks away. He shakes his head. "Dammit, Bobby, I'm trying — what the…" His voice breaks off; he turns his gaze back up and for the first time that Bobby can remember, John Winchester looks vulnerable, like he might break at any minute. "It's not like you get fucking lessons on this when you knock somebody up, you know?" Bobby nods, supposes that he knows what John means — and even though Dean and Sam aren't his blood, they're still family. "…What are you supposed to do when your kid won't eat, Bobby? He's not sick — Caleb's doctor cousin looked him over, nothing's wrong — he just won't…"
John trails off, and his eyes mist over; Bobby pulls him into a rough kiss to get his attention. "You know what you do? …You give yourself and Dean time to cool off, then you go up there and apologize for what just happened. And you mean it, understand?" Even after John nods, Bobby pauses to let that sink in; John Winchester and the concept of making amends get along about as well as demons and rock salt. "Then we get back to working on this in the morning. Start slower. Stop trying to shove it at him all at once."
"What about now?" John asks. "There's supposed to be some ghost that needs hunting down in town, right?"
Bobby rolls his eyes — ain't that just like John, trying to run off on a routine salt-and-burn by way of cooling off. "How's about you just clean up after dinner, Hot Shot?"