Let me put it on the table right away...I like John a lot. This story may seem like I don't like him but I really do. His protectiveness of his family is what I like most. So keep that in mind, because he doesn't exactly come across in the best light here. Please review, and then go off to my website. Also keep in mind, the boys and the men aren't mine.
It was a hell of a storm, one that the old-timers would talk about for a while to come. The power had long since gone, so Bobby Singer was making do with firelight and lanterns, straining his eyes in the dim light. A pile of newspapers, subscriptions from all over the country, surrounded him. It was his daily ritual to peruse each one, armed with a sharpie, eyes alert for any sign of supernatural activity. Tonight was no different, except for the bone-jarring thunder that rolled every few seconds.
Then there was a different sound, the sound of slamming car doors and running feet, and of Rumsfeld barking wildly. Bobby's hand went quickly to his waist, where there nestled a small, six-shot revolver. He crouched a little lower in the armchair, hiding his profile, eyes on the front door, fingers gently touching the gun. Waiting.
The door slammed open, rebounding on its hinges, and Bobby leapt to his feet as John Winchester rushed in, shouting, crying out for help, panic in his voice. Dean lay limp in John's arms, dripping with blood and rain, eyes rolled back to show only the whites. Behind John followed Sam, his young face pale and frightened, carrying a rifle slung over his shoulder.
"Christ almighty, John," barked Bobby, hurrying forward to help his friend lay Dean's body on the kitchen table. There was an angry looking gash in Dean's forehead, and a livid bruise had already begun to form beneath one of his eyes. Bobby shoved John out of the way and bent to gently examine the damage to the young hunter. "What happened?"
"Poltergeist," gasped John, hovering over Bobby's shoulder. "Fucking came out of nowhere, knocked him over a banister and down a flight of stairs."
Bobby took Dean's hand in his own, shuddering at how cold and clammy the skin was. He bent low and placed his mouth next to Dean's ear. "Can you hear me, Dean? Squeeze my hand if you hear me." Dean's hand remained limp, unresponsive. "How long has he been unconscious?"
"Since he fell." Sam's voice was quiet, quivering with emotion. Bobby turned to see the youngest Winchester standing in a corner of the kitchen, his eyes fixed on Dean's white face. He looked younger than his thirteen years, gangly and thin, scared and helpless.
"Did you see how he landed, Sam?" Bobby turned back to Dean, unable to look at Sam's fear any longer. A well of anger and regret was boiling in him, and he was afraid that looking at Sam again would cause it to erupt. "He didn't land on his head, did he?"
"He landed on his side, but then his head came down and hit the floor pretty hard," Sam replied quietly.
"Sam, go get some pillows and blankets, and heat up some water," barked John, more to keep his youngest son busy than anything else.
"Yessir." Sam hurried from the kitchen and up the stairs toward the bedrooms, his tennis shoes slapping the wood stairs as he ran.
Bobby snagged a dishtowel from the chair and brushed it gently across Dean's face, clearing away blood and rain to get a better look at the injury. He smoothed an errant thatch of hair from Dean's forehead, his anger growing. He tightened his mouth to keep back the words that he was just dying to say. It did not go unnoticed.
"Got something to say, Bobby?" There was danger in John's question.
"You already know what I got to say," replied Bobby, the muscles in his jaw twitching.
"These boys have to learn what's out there. They have to know how to protect themselves," growled John, shouldering Bobby away from Dean and leaning down to stare at his son's pale face. "Wake up, son. Gotta wake up, now."
"They're just boys, John. They're too young to be hunting," said Bobby, anger overwhelming his better judgment. "You can teach them without just throwin' them to the wolves. They're your sons, for God's sake…"
"Don't tell me about my sons, Singer!" John's voice thundered as he straightened and strode forward to loom over Bobby, and at that moment a roll of thunder rattled the dishes in the cupboard. "Don't tell me how to raise them, and don't you fucking dare tell me…"
"Dad." Dean's voice was weak, raspy, but it stopped both men cold.
"You okay, Dean?" John stepped to his son's side, squaring his shoulders, feigning unconcern. He softly touched Dean on the shoulder, trying to be reassuring.
"Head hurts," whispered Dean, closing his eyes. He slowly licked his lips, trying to summon moisture to a mouth as dry as cotton.
"Think you can walk?" John started to slide his arm under Dean's shoulders, to lift him up, but Bobby stopped him with a firm hand.
"John, the boy probably has a concussion. He don't need to be up walkin' around until we're sure he's okay."
"What did I just say to you?" asked John in a threatening tone, dropping his chin to glower down at Bobby. "Let me handle this."
"You stubborn, arrogant bastard. You'd as soon kill those boys than let them be weak," Bobby snarled, all caution gone. He squared up with John, balling his fists at his sides. "You didn't let 'em be kids, just stole their childhood away…"
"Bobby…" Dean's plea went unheard. Sam reappeared in the kitchen, eyes wide and darting back and forth between Bobby and John.
"I'm protecting my sons the only way I can! We can't afford for them to be children, not with everything that's out there! I'm doing this to save them, and you have no right to…"
"Dad…" Dean rolled onto his side and sat up, ignoring the wave of nausea that accompanied the action. His mouth started watering and his stomach rolled as he swallowed back the urge to vomit. Sam dropped the pillows and blankets he had been clutching and darted to his side. He grasped Dean by the elbow, supporting his weight, and for just a short moment Dean leaned into him, willing his stomach back into submission.
"You're not movin' that boy, John. Not 'til we know he's okay." Bobby backed away from John, not out of fear, but out of a desire to distance himself from the man he once called a friend. Now, he felt like he didn't even know John. But he sure as hell knew he had a responsibility for the two boys that were as close to being sons as he would ever get.
"You're not telling me what I can do with my own son." John's voice was low, thick with menace, like the growl of a protective animal.
"Dad, stop it." Dean was now on his feet, pale but steady, ignoring the blood that was dripping from his forehead and rolling down the curve of his jaw. Sam was just behind, ready to catch Dean if he fell, but the older boy was like a rock.
Bobby rested his hand on the barrels of his shotgun, suddenly glad that he always left it leaning against his armchair. Some would call that paranoia. He called it common sense. He hefted it into his hands, taking care to point it at the floor. "You're not taking the boy."
"You son of a bitch…" John was sizing Bobby up, rage on his face. "Dean is my son. And you will not take him."
Bobby racked the shotgun, eyes on John, his own determination clear in his gaze.
"Both of you, stop it!" Dean's shout stopped both men, though they kept their eyes on one another. "Dad, let's go. Sammy, get the rifle, now." Sam obeyed Dean's order, his eyes still saucer like. Dean stepped forward and grabbed his father by the hem of his jacket, pulling backward gently. "Let's go, Dad," he repeated firmly. Dean looked in Bobby's direction, apology clear on his face, and then turned to give John a shove toward the door.
John turned his back on Bobby and stamped out the door into the rain. Sammy followed behind, rifle back over his shoulder. Dean stopped and gave Bobby a sad smile, then turned to follow his family back out into the storm, leaving Bobby alone in the firelight.