A huge thanks to my beta morrismsteph!
Tony pulled the car into the garage. After closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he turned to look at Dean...who apparently hadn't noticed their arrival.
"Dean, we're home." The teen continued to stare out the window. Tony sighed and started shaking Dean's shoulder, jumping back when the boy reacted suddenly–he flinched violently away from the touch, pressed himself against the door of the car, and watched Tony with wide eyes.
The man froze, aware that the slightest of movements could set off the teen. Hell, Dean probably didn't even know where he was right now.
"Dean, you're safe. We just pulled into the garage, and now we need to get out of the car. How about we get you into bed? Would you like that?" Tony spoke gently, approaching Dean as he would a young child or perhaps a skittish deer.
Dean nodded and opened the car door. He started to climb out but stopped when he got caught in the seatbelt. The teen stared at the strap in confusion, like he couldn't quite remember what it was.
"Let's get that off you, eh, sport?" Tony reached out and unbuckled the safety feature, then watched as Dean slowly unraveled himself and climbed out of the car.
"Okay, off to bed now, Dean." The man exited the car himself and guided his son through the house until the boy collapsed face down onto his mattress.
"Oh no, that is not a good idea," Tony said, hearing Dean groan as the man started to shift the boy onto his side. "We are not having you choke if you puke. Not a good experience, I can tell you. I'm gonna be right back, Dean, okay? If you need me, just yell."
Dean was floating. He couldn't feel his head anymore, and that was weird. He understood Tony perfectly, though. Why was he being so nice if he didn't want Dean?
"Okay, Dean. I'm putting this bucket next to your bed; if you feel the need to puke, just lean over and have at 'er. I'm also putting a bottle of water on the nightstand. Do not be shy about drinking it; nausea's a bitch, and it's better to have something in there.
"I think you have everything you need now. I really shouldn't be leaving you alone, but I still have the codeine in my pocket, and it's getting really hard not to take it myself. I'm going to go in the hall and call my sponsor really quick. If you need me, you just need to call for me, and I'll be here in a second.
"Can you nod to let me know you understand?" Dean slowly nodded his head. "Okay, then." Tony quickly left the room and shut the door, already dialing.
Shit. Tony was close to relapsing because of him–there was no way he would want Dean now. Forcing down his tears, the teen propped himself up until he could reach his backpack, which had been unceremoniously dumped beside his bed. After finding the paper with Bobby's number, he lay back down and tried to make the numbers stay still long enough to dial.
Come on, Bobby, you really have to pick up now, Dean thought as he listened to the line ring.
"Hello?"
"...Bobby?"
There was a long silence, then a sigh. "Dean. You sound rough, boy. What'd you get into this time?" The grizzly voice of the one and only Bobby Singer was music to the teen's ears.
Dean swore he could hear glasses clinking on the other end of the line.
"Bobby, do you know where Dad is?"
"No. No, I haven't heard from him or about him for a couple of years now." The man sounded tired–not as rough and gruff as Dean remembered.
"Oh." The line went quiet. "Bobby? Can you pick us up?" Tears started to well up once more. He wanted to be with someone that wanted him, and Bobby never said no to watching the boys.
"Dean," Bobby said. The man swallowed, followed by a dull thud. Dean knew that sound. It was the sound of a whiskey glass hitting a wooden table. "Are you in any danger?" Bobby asked.
The boy sniffed, attempting to keep from crying even harder. "I don't know," was his honest response.
"I saw you and Sam in the media, Dean. Seems some billionaire has taken in two more foster kids, and that makes interesting news or some shit. Are they hurting you?"
Not yet, Dean thought. "No."
"Have any creatures attacked you?"
Again, Dean replied, "No."
A long, deep sigh came from the phone. "Dean, this is your chance to get out of the life. You're still young; you've got your whole life ahead of ya! Carry holy water and a knife at all times, but forget we exist!"
Dean jerked upright, ignoring the blood rushing to his head. "What? No! Bobby, I'm not going to–"
"I'm telling you to. Play the rich kid game: go to college, buy a house, have kids–have a life!" Bobby didn't sound tired anymore; he sounded desperate. "If I could go back and make sure you never found out about any of this, I would do it, no question!"
"But Bobby–"
"Trust me, boy. Keep my number, but only call if you think someone's gonna die, or worse. You got that?"
"Bobby, I–"
"You got that, boy?"
Dean squeezed his eyes shut as he felt a few tears slip free. He nodded slowly, before remembering that Bobby couldn't see him. Dean cleared his throat, then whispered, "Yeah, Uncle Bobby. I got it."
Another deep sigh, paired with the sound of a bottle meeting glass once more. "Okay, Dean. You–you live the best life you can." The phone disconnected, and Dean dropped it to the bed, not caring to stop the flow of tears anymore.
Even Bobby didn't want him. His dad abandoned him, all of his foster parents hated the sight of him, and now even their Uncle Bobby didn't want him.
Dean let the hurt surround him. The pain that he never permitted himself to feel now coursed through him, every nerve on fire and every thought a razor blade. The codeine in his system only enhanced the sensations, smashing the mental walls that usually kept such emotion at bay.
Dean was in so much agony that through his tears, he never noticed Steve's soft words in his ear or the man's delicate fingers carding through his hair, easing him into slumber.