Okay, so for timeline's sake, let's just say this is set sometime after Family Matters (obviously) and before Caged Heart (again, obviously), because I need Crowley for this fic and yeah, after last night...
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The shooting continues for longer than Bobby thought he had ammo lying around for. It's a steady assault of loud cracks, sometimes shattering of glass when the bullets hit another car window and Gates barking up a ruckus that Rumsfeld would have been proud of.
"He shooting at the cars because you upset him?" Sam asks while his eyes keep flying over the book he's scanning for information on mirror curses.
Bobby grunts a vague 'yeah'. It's what Dean does when he gets his feelings hurt. He goes out and beats up his car or his little brother or slaughters a couple of vamps. God forbid the boy come out and talk to anyone about anything.
"He should just calm down." Sam's eyes have stopped moving and his annoyed scowl might be the first real expression Bobby has seen on his face all day. "I can't focus with all this noise and it's not like you said anything wrong. He wasn't helping."
Yeah, Bobby figures that's sort of, kind of true. But Bobby also knows that there are one or two things you just don't say to Dean unless you're aiming for a complete fuckup of either the boy's psyche or your own face or possibly both. If that's what you are trying to do, though, Your mom jokes are a good way to go. As is any variant of I'm gonna hurt your brother. And of course We don't need you. Bobby has always argued that that one might actually the worst. The one that cuts the deepest, even though it is the one that is usually answered with a self deprecating grin and shrugged off with a smart-ass comment. But Bobby has to remind himself that thirty-two years of baggage crammed into the psyche of a ten-year old will lead to different responses.
But Dean's still Dean and once he's emptied every round that would fit his rifle he comes back, glaring daggers at Sam and Bobby to not comment and flops down on the floor with his book again.
He manages to hold still for almost an entire hour before he starts shifting around and shooting stray glances at Bobby and dropping his eyes the moment the old mechanic tries to meet his gaze.
"What is it?" he finally asks when Dean has been fumbling with a loose fiber from the carpet for a good minute and a half.
"Nothin', sir." Oh, crap-tastic. He's turned the boy into silent-invisible-soldier-Dean. "I don't wanna bother you."
"Just spit it out, kid." And he makes it just enough of an order that he knows it'll do the job.
That's the moment Dean's stomach decides to speak up in a loud grumbling noise and the kid kinda blushes and mumbles "'m hungry."
Bobby raises an incredulous eyebrow. They ate lunch two hours ago. There is just no way. He tries to remember that old running gag they had about Dean being infested with a tapeworm that had eaten a black hole, but before he can get out one word Sam is basically falling over himself with "do you have any Lucky Charms?"
Even Sam himself looks shocked at his uncharacteristic enthusiasm and Bobby makes a mental note to add 'childhood cereal preferences' to the list of things not attached to a person's soul.
But anyway, kids are hungry and Bobby's fridge is basically empty.
"You wanna go into the town and have some actual food?"
He gets two excited nods. Like back in the day when eating at a diner was still a treat for the boys and not part of their day to day routine. Then their eyes drop back to the books on the coffee table. The books that have been goddamn pointless so far.
"Nah, c'mon. We got all day to figure this out. Let's go eat."
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In hindsight he should have known it was a bad idea. That's the beauty about hindsight, he figures. But really, Bobby isn't a grade school teacher or a soccer mom or whatever and getting his panties in a bunch in fear of a sugar overdose just isn't something that usually enters his world. And it's not like the boys are 100% kids and he can just imagine the looks and 'the fuck?'s he'd receive if he ordered their food for them. So he doesn't comment on the two chocolate shakes or the cheeseburger with fries and extra onions and extra, extra, extra ketchup or the other two chocolate shakes and the pancakes with chocolate sauce, because Sam also orders a small tomato salad so that should balance out the rest, right?
The waitress even shot Bobby a questioning look as if to confirm the order and he just gave her a disinterested shrug, idiot that he is.
Oh, and then he popped across the street for just one second to get Sam his damn Lucky Charms from the grocery store and now he's back and…wow.
Dean has chocolate down the front of his shirt, the plates and glasses have been put (thrown) on the floor, a ketchup target has been painted onto the cheep plastic table, Sam is standing several feet away, tossing soggy French fries in the general direction of the target, Dean is hollering, there might be onions in his hair, the staff have taken refuge behind the counter, clutching each other with fear, a baby is crying.
Well, maybe Bobby's exaggerating. But not much.
He lets out a yell for them to "freeze and drop that French fry" and at least they still react to that tone in his voice. A waitress hurries over with a murderous scowl on her face (but seriously, lady, they're just two little kids. You could'a stopped'em if you'd tried) and asks Bobby to take the boys and leave because there are other people here who are trying to eat and blah blah blah.
He pays for their food and gives a generous tip, because just maybe he will want to eat at this place again and he'd really prefer his food to be free of any and all bodily fluids. He tells the boys to apologize and they do, even though Dean looks anything but sorry – looks like he's having the time of his life, actually – and Sam's pathetic imitation of his puppy dog eyes might be even worse than his new trademark blank look.
He'll never know how he gets both of them back into the backseat of the truck without knocking their heads together trying to get them to quiet down. Or kill them. Whatever.
"I should tan your scrawny little asses, you know that?" he growls into the rearview mirror and Dean smirks and Sam actually giggles like it's the most ridiculous threat ever. Which it is.
"Really, boys, what were you thinking? I thought you said that was still you in there."
"It is." Dean shrugs, poking at a scratch in the dusty window. "We were just playin' around, you know?"
Bobby decides not to comment on how much is wrong with that defense. He continues muttering vague threats of murder in the general direction of the backseat and tries to remember if the boys ever were such brats when they were little'uns the first time 'round. He really doesn't think so. He remembers stubborn and noisy and smart-ass but in the end they were well behaved enough. Not the quick, jumpy obedient marionettes they were around their daddy (yup, even Sammy. In the beginning at least) but easy enough to handle. Of course back then, Sammy still had a soul and Dean had a little brother to be a good role model for. In this new context they're like half trained hunting dogs that have been set free to terrorize humanity. Or just their Uncle Bobby. Whatever floats their boat.
They're still riding on their sugar highs when they get back to the salvage yard and Bobby tells them to stay outside and play soccer or something while he goes back to doing research on what to do about this goddamn curse. Because this? This is in no way, shape or form an acceptable situation.
He has worked his way through four decidedly unhelpful books on age spells and blood rituals and whatnot by the time the boys come back inside, their hair and jeans dusty and Dean's shirt so far from its original white, Bobby has to wonder what possessed him to only buy one set of clothes for each boy. He hasn't bought them any sneakers, either. Kids shouldn't be running around barefoot in the yard, this time of year. There's no snow yet, but still.
At least is looks like they've exhausted themselves out there and Dean doesn't even pull a face when Bobby pushes a collection of essays on the powers of children's blood in his hands.
They fall into silence, each reading through their own set of books.
Not that any of them find anything even remotely useful. There's mirror spells that make you see crazy things, there's mirror spells that stop you from aging, there's de-aging spells that have nothing to do with mirrors.
At some point after they've had supper, Bobby looks up to massage his tired eyes and his gaze settles on Dean out cold, collapsed on top of his book. Drool is slowly but surely seeping into the ancient pages and Bobby thinks he should wake the boy because if he goes through with what he wants to do and Dean wakes up on his own…Bobby doesn't even want to imagine that shit storm. But he's an old, eccentric, esoteric hillbilly and he's allowed to be whacky and sentimental from time to time so he scoops the tiny weight that is Dean up in his arms and lays him down on the plush, red sofa and covers him with blankets.
Bobby and Sam keep leafing through book after book and Bobby feels weirded out beyond belief that this ten-year old boy doesn't show a speck of exhaustion when Bobby calls it a day at 3 in the morning.
"Good night" Sam shrugs. "I'll try and come up with something till morning."
"Uh-huh."
Bobby gets up and kinda wants to ruffle the kid's shaggy hair except that he really doesn't, because this kid is just plain wrong and who knows if by touching him Bobby will get part of his own soul sucked out. Maybe, just maybe Bobby can understand Dean's constant bitching about how freakishly scary his brother has become.
"Try not to be staring at your brother when he wakes up." Bobby mutters and makes his way upstairs into his bedroom.
His head has barely hit the mattress (okay, maybe it has, because when he checks his watch it's two hours later, but it feels like he hasn't slept a second) when the frantic screaming and yelling from downstairs has him sitting upright and scrambling down the hall.
