"You boys wanna talk?" Bobby tried, after he and Sam had helped Dean to the table, getting settled with their ice cream.
Sam cleared his throat. He wasn't sure about bringing anything up with Dean still around. He didn't want to upset his brother by making him relive any of the recent horrific events he'd been through. "Bobby.." He started, swirling his ice cream with his spoon. "So, uh, I figure we'd stay at this hotel for a while, then maybe move closer to you? I just thought it might be good, until we can get Dean some help.."
"Nonsense. All three of us'll just head up to my house, okay? No sense in you two staying at some crappy motel for god knows how long. I'll have the couch and you two can share my bed upstairs? Sound good?"
Sam couldn't help but smile, glancing down at his ice cream. He appreciated Bobby more than the man would ever know. Dean, however, took Sam's silence as him being unsure and answered for him. "Yes, sir."
"One rule, though. You don't call me that. Don't make me older than I am, boy. Bobby's my name, I'd appreciate it if you'd use it."
It was Dean's turn to smile. He messily scooped another bite of his ice cream into his mouth, leaning back in his chair. "Yes, Bobby." He corrected himself.
"Atta boy." Bobby laughed quietly to himself at the ice cream all around Dean's mouth. "Kid.." He started to tell him, but before he could finish Sam was leaning over, wiping his brother's mouth with a napkin. "You're a mess." He mumbled affectionately as he finished cleaning Dean up.
Bobby shook his head at the two. These boys deserved so much better than John, and he planned to show them that. He'd give them what John never had. He'd do his best to give them the childhood they'd never had, if they'd let him. He wanted to give them the world. 'God, I adore you two.'
Dean was pushing his brother's hands away, mumbling something about people being able to see them. Sam just rolled his eyes. "Yea, well I'm sure they'd love to see you with that ice cream all over your face, huh?"
Sam got a gentle shove from Dean at that, his brother already smiling again. "Stop it."
"Boys?" Bobby hated to interrupt the interaction, but he knew what was going on was going to have to be addressed. "Hey, you guys know we're gonna have to get Dean to a doctor?"
"No." Dean answered, not even considering the option. "Bobby, I thought you could just try and fix me up.."
"Boy, I can do stitches and occasionally broken bones, but you and I both know you I can't fix this. We're gonna have to get you to an eye doctor and—"
"And tell them what?" Dean interrupted. "How do we explain to them what happened? How do we tell them that some witch put a spell on me to take away my vision and—"
"Dean." Sam murmured, gently trying to remind him they were in a public place. "Can we talk about this in the car?"
Dean was quiet for a long moment before glancing back in the general direction of his brother. "Sammy?" He brought his hand up to briefly touch his own shoulder—a gesture he had developed to tell his brother he had to use the bathroom without the embarrassment of having to ask him. Sam started to stand up without question, leaning over to take his brother's hands in his own, assisting him in standing up. "I've gotcha."
Bobby watched the two silently, understanding that whatever this matter was, it was a private one. He understood as Sam steered his brother towards the bathroom what was going on, and leaned back in his chair to wait on the two.
Sam figured it easier for Dean to just use one of the stalls and sit down like he had him do at the motel rather than try and figure… everything out whilst standing at a urinal.
Sam only got one disapproving look as he and Dean exited the stall together—something he quickly blew off. Obviously the man understood nothing what was going on. After helping his brother wash his hands and washing his own, Sam took Dean back out to the table where Bobby was waiting.
"You kids ready to go?" Bobby asked, standing up.
"Yessir." Dean answered automatically, bringing a hand out in front of him when he realized Bobby had been asked not to be called that. "Bobby, I mean. Sorry."
Bobby could only shake his head at the kid. He wished more than anything Dean wouldn't fear him. If the kid respected him, that was great. He wanted it to be out of love, though; not fear.
"Get your ass over here, kid." Bobby had scolded a 20-year-old Dean, beckoning him forward with a finger.
He'd never forget the way Dean had looked at him that day. Dean and 16 year old Sammy playing too rough, and Dean tripping over the coffee table and breaking a shelf full of glass.
"Was an accident.." Dean had slowly made his way to his uncle, never making eye contact.
Bobby couldn't forget the way Sam had cowered against the couch, wrapping his arms around himself as some sort of comfort mechanism.
"You boys know better than to pull crap like that in the house. What do you suggest we do about that, huh?"
He'd never expected the answer Dean had given him. Bobby was going to suggest The boys mow the lawn, or do the week-old dishes. What the boy had suggested broke his heart then and there.
"You gonna belt me?" Dean had asked, reaching back to anxiously rub at the back of his neck. "Sammy, go upstairs." He had ordered gently, never casting a glance to his brother.
"Bobby, I'll fix the glass." Poor Sammy was practically whimpering, reaching to open a drawer, looking desperately for something to fix the shattered pieces with. "I asked Dean to wrestle, please don't whip him. Bobby, please don't tell Dad."
"Sammy, I said get the hell upstairs." Dean had snapped, unbuckling his belt to hold it out for his uncle. "You gonna tan my ass or my back?"
Bobby brought his fingers up to pinch the bridge of his nose at the memory, closing his eyes. He swore to himself if he ever saw John Winchester raise a hand against those boys while he was around, he'd shoot the man then and there.
Bobby tried not to see the leather held out expectantly. He tried not to see the green eyes boring into his own.
"You boys, just—" He had cleared his throat. "Go upstairs and turn on some TV. I'll get this cleaned up. Just don't let it happen again, yea?"
He'd taken Sammy grocery shopping with him the next morning. They decided to let Dean sleep—Sam told Bobby they'd been up past three watching TV. The kid had gone on and on about how Dad never let them do anything like that, and how great Bobby was. What they'd come home to, however, was a nightmare. Bobby heard the yelling before they'd even gotten through the door. He'd dropped the grocery bags to bust through the front door, horrified at the sight in front of him.
Bobby had lay awake many nights with the sight etched into his mind. He couldn't get rid of the horrifying image of Dean—sweet, obedient Dean—braced against the kitchen table, his chin tucked to his chest. He couldn't unsee the red marks that has been laid across the bare skin of the boy's back—couldn't unsee the way Dean had jolted forward at each strike his father laid down.
Before Bobby could even think to figure out what any of this was about, he'd snatched the leather from John's hand—his only advantage being the element of surprise. He'd swung it in John's direction relentlessly, cursing at the man and landing a few good blows to his shoulder and arm before reaching for his shotgun, aiming it and even cocking the gun. He'd driven John out of his house by swearing he'd shoot if the man didn't leave.
Apparently Dean had told John everything as soon as the man had arrived to pick the boys up. Bobby knew he'd never understand that boy, or why he took John's word as gospel and laid himself down to be beaten whenever he didn't.
Bobby'd never spoken of that night again, not to either of them. He'd called John to make more than a few threats, but never spoke a word of it to Sam or Dean. He'd never talked about that god-awful night he'd had to pull Dean up from the table, fighting the boy to get him to the couch.
He'd never mentioned again how Dean had attempted to get away, tossing his head backwards and swearing at him in a desperate attempt to follow his father out the door.
He never talked about the way he'd found Sam cowering against the kitchen counter in the corner, his tears spilling over silently, the boy's brown eyes wide and terrified.
And he never spoke of the way he'd led Sam into the living room to be with his brother—the silent awe he'd been in when he watched the younger brother go straight over to his sibling- who lay face down on the couch- and start rubbing his back. The manner was so practiced, so automatic—it relieved Bobby and made him feel a little sick at the same time.
Dean had relaxed against his brother's touch, turning his face the opposite direction as he swiped at his tears, doing his best to make sure nobody saw.
Bobby saw all of it, but he kept the boys' secrets. He'd never tell anyone about that awful night of their lives. No—that was between him and the boys.