The dirtied white, spiraling phone cord seemed to stretch acres across the linoleum. Dean's fingers were sticky with peanut butter and a hint of grape jelly from his half-finished sandwich. He was more interested in catching snags of conversation from across the room where his caretaker was hiding behind the half-wall between the kitchen and the study than eating.
"Naw, I decided not to take 'em to shoot today," Bobby's gruff tone was hushed, hidden, but Dean could pick up the older man's voice anywhere in a crowd. "Took 'em to get haircuts instead. What—dammit, John, they're just kids! Besides, Sammy was startin' to look like a Samantha."
Dean's forest gaze flicked across the table at the mention of his younger brother. Sam was happily munching away on Goldfish; crumbs and slobber and snot sullying his round cheeks and chin. Just hours before, Sam's curls had almost reached his little shoulders, hiding his amber eyes and giving him the late-80's mullet look. Now his curls had been decamped, replaced with short little spikes across the span of his head. Dean rolled his shoulders, marveling for the seventh time at how much lighter his own head felt since it had been shaved close.
"Yeah, yeah. When you gonna be back? Another week? Balls. What's takin' you so damn long? Fine, fine. Yeah I've got 'em."
Bobby strolled back into the kitchen, setting the phone on the hook at the same time as he pulled open the fridge door to grab yet another beer. Dean had noticed that no matter how many cold ones the geezer downed he stayed sober. Unlike his own father. Dean massaged the faded bruise on his ribs thinking of the last time his father'd had one too many.
Bobby eyed Dean's plate. "You gonna finish your supper?"
"Uh, yes sir." Dean hastily picked up his sandwich and took a bite. "W-Was that my dad?"
"Yup. Said he'll be back sooner than you think." Bobby settled in the chair between the two boys. He set down his beer and replaced it's spot in his hand with a napkin, turning to Sam. "C'mere, boy." Sam squirmed and squealed as Bobby wiped his face clean; Dean quietly finishing off his meal. "Alright. Now go on upstairs and brush your teeth now, kid."
"But iss too early!" Sam protested, lisping without either of his front teeth. Dean had to yank the remaining one for him the other day.
"Sam," Bobby warned gently. "Your dad said your bedtime's eight. I've broken enough of his rules already today, kid."
"I'll be up in a minute, Sam," Dean encouraged. He wiped his hands off on his jeans; downed the last sip of his soda and stood. "Lemme wash our plates and I'll be there to tuck you in."
Sam glanced back and forth between his superiors for a moment before hopping out of his chair, hugging Bobby, and dashing off for the second floor. Dean dumped their dishes in, grabbing a rag and turning on the water as he listened to Bobby move about behind him. The older man was constantly at his desk reading huge, ancient texts or talking to his "colleagues" on the phone. This was only the third time Dean and Sam had stayed with Bobby—so far, Dean liked Bobby's rickety pile-of-junk house better than any motel they'd stayed in.
Dean set the dishes on the rack to dry overnight. "Bobby?"
"Yeah, Dean?"
"When is my dad really coming back?"
Bobby sighed, shutting the book he was studying. "'Nother week I'm afraid. Said whatever he's hunting is givin' him hell."
"Is he okay?" Dean paused in the threshold of the study. Unsure what to do with his hands, he examined the already forming calluses on his thumb and fingers. Not many kids his age had hands like that.
"He's still tickin' if that's what you're askin'."
"But is he okay?" Dean huffed. He was past exhausted with this dance, this entanglement of lies and falsehoods and just tiny enough white lies you couldn't see the loophole in them unless you looked very closely.
Bobby met Dean's eyes at last. The brim of the man's hat shaded most of his face.
"Well, he's nursin' a broken arm and a few scratches but other than that—yeah, he's fine."
"Dean?" Sam's chubby face peeked between the bars on the stairs. His Batman pajamas were getting small—they had once been Dean's. "Come tuck me in."
"Come tuck me in what?"
Sam sighed, stomping his foot. "Come tuck me in please."
Bobby watched the two boys as Dean met his brother halfway up the staircase; as Dean grabbed Sam's hand and mumbled, "You know you're getting too old for this, Sammy." Only then did Bobby return to his Egyptian text with a small smile.
Dean cracked the door behind them. Sam climbed into the bed, curling up on his side as his brother dragged the thin cotton sheets up to cover his frame. Dean made sure the ragged picture of their family was propped up against the lamp's base for Sam to see as he fell into unconsciousness and once again in the morning.
Dean ran his still damp hand over Sam's hair. The younger boy was already halfway asleep.
"Angels are watching over you. Sleep tight, Sammy."