Wow. I wasn't expecting this much of a response for this one. Seriously surprised. Thanks, guys! It makes me kinda sad to say that this chapter's the shortest one in the story, but I think it's a good one, anyway.
Now that I've gotten that out of the way, is anyone going to WinchestMidwest in Chicago next week? If you are, I'll probably see you there. I'll be the big dork wearing the Supernatural Charlie The Unicorn shirt :P
He barely held back a gasp as he pulled the shirt off over the five-year-old's head. The child's chest and back were a sickening mixture of blue, black, and purple that stood out starkly against the boy's pale flesh.
"Dean," Bobby said slowly, reaching out a hand to tilt the boy's chin up in order to get a better look at his face, to gaze into eyes that told the whole, haunting story. The child flinched away from the hand. "Dean, look at me."
He did as he was told, turning sad eyes up to the man's face, looking at his current caregiver with a cautious trust.
"What happened?" Bobby asked, knowing that he wouldn't get an answer. After all, the kid hadn't spoken since the night of his mother's death.
Dean just looked into the rapidly cooling water that filled the tub, then turned back to Bobby, as if asking why the older man had drawn a bath if no one was getting in.
Bobby sighed. He was starting to wonder when John was getting back. The younger hunter had said it would only take a couple of days, a week tops. It had been nearly fourteen days since he'd left, and Bobby could tell that Dean was starting to worry.
Not that the boy had said anything about it. He just looked up at Bobby with those wide, pleading eyes, begging for his daddy.
Bobby knew that when John finally returned, he would most likely be drunk. Most hunters turned to alcohol to dull the pain, to forget the nightmares, to soften the memories of their own vicious deeds, but John was the only solo act that he knew of with two young kids. He was also a pretty mean drunk.
He reached out slowly to help the kid into the tub, gingerly wrapping a large hand around the skinny arm for support. The bruises, he told himself, probably came from training, or from doing the kinds of things that most little kids did- running and playing and rough-housing. John was a mean drunk, but he loved his sons. He would never hurt them.
Bobby chose to ignore the five circular bruises on Dean's arm, the ones that looked suspiciously like finger prints, as he began to help the child bathe.
See what I mean? Short! I hope that doesn't mean I get fewer reviews, though... :D
