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Author's Note: Bobby!
It's amazing how accurate Murphy's Law can be, how the universe has impeccably terrible timing, every time. Because this is an important case, on a personal and professional level. Wrongful death. Of a four year old girl. At the hands of her drug addled older sister who was supposed to be watching her.
For a father, it doesn't get much more personal. And for a lawyer who's coming up for partner soon, taking on a case that, while it may pull at the heart strings, is a bitch to litigate, it doesn't get any more professional.
But now there's Maya. And Sarah's father. And whereas his focus was on this case before, had been for weeks, now his attention is being pulled from all different directions.
They had just gotten back from New York, the whole family – even the possibility of a plague of demonic dreams falling upon their youngest daughter not being enough to keep the clan away from Grandpa Blake's funeral. After all, he was the only grandfather the girls had ever known. And admittedly, even while trying to comfort Sarah, make nice with all her father's friends, relatives and acquaintances, logically discuss certain issues with Dean over the phone when he called in a near panic every five minutes, and be there for his children who were sad, scared, and worried – because even Rachel knew more was up than everyone was letting on – he couldn't keep himself from working.
And now it's really crunch time, closing arguments start tomorrow, and while he's been prepared, having had his little manipulative speech ready since first receiving the case, he's going through a bout of self doubt, knowing something's wrong, yet not knowing what.
Well, he's not stupid, he got a full ride to Stanford after all. So of course he recognizes the fact that his uncertainty has more to do with other things in his life. Because Sarah's barely slept in days, Maya's been needy as hell, and Bobby's set to show up any minute. But all he keeps coming back to is one sentence in his closing that is entirely off, that he just knows will lose him this case – Implied obligations are often considered the greatest of responsibilities.
And he can't figure out a damn thing to do about it.
"So," Maya says, skulking around the perimeter of his office as she lazily touches and handles random objects on the shelves – a biography of Picasso, an ashtray made by John years ago, a photo of the girls from Rachel's sixth birthday.
He doesn't look up from his computer screen when he says, irritated and impatient, "What?" Because though he's been used to being interrupted, having to work with various distractions, since long before the girls, what with Dean being so…Dean, he really does have to work.
But Maya's nonchalant in her speech when she says, "If he's such a good friend, how come we never see him?" either not noticing or simply not caring about her father's tone.
He scans the document again, thoroughly searching for just that thing, whatever it is that is so horribly off. "He sends Christmas cards," he mumbles absently.
"So?" she asks blithely.
"So…Bobby has a life. He can't just come here whenever he wants."
She picks up another photo, this one of Sam and Sarah at their wedding – a fairly large and elaborate affair due to the insistence of Grandpa Blake – she was his only daughter after all. "How come we never went to see him?"
"Because he lives in a junkyard," he says without preface. Maya rolls her eyes insipidly, assuming he's just messing with her to make her quit the twenty questions. And Sam must just sense her contemptuous little reaction, because he looks up quickly and says, "No, really."
She sighs, long and drawn out, before going silent, just long enough so that Sam starts to get back into his task. "He's not gonna, like, do any tests on me or anything, is he?" she asks suddenly, disturbing him once more.
"Yeah Maya, he's gonna strap you to a table and probe your brain." She shoots him a disdainful glare, earning only a sigh and a shrug from her father. But he gives in, realizing that there's no way he's going to finish his work tonight. "Come here," he says simply, pushing away from the desk.
She moves to stand in front of him, arms crossed defensively over her chest as she bites out, "What?"
"He's Bobby," he says, a small smile pricking his lips, because, really, if she knew him… "He's not going to hurt you. He's not going to do any tests or experiments on you. He's just a friend, a good friend, who might be able to help."
"How?" she asks, bitterly. "Does he have some kind of prescription for heavy duty sleeping pills?"
"No," he says slowly.
"Then what? He's some kind of psychic? Or psychic researcher or something?"
"No, Maya, he's just…" he struggles to think of what to say, because Bobby knows about demons isn't really gonna work, seeing as how they hadn't even discussed the issue of demons. And Bobby knows about strange and unusual powers probably wouldn't do much to quell her anxieties. He tries to find the right words, knowing that somewhere in the back of his mind there's a description for just who and what Bobby is. But before he can find it Sarah peeks her head in the door and announces that their old friend's arrived.
Dean and Bobby are laughing about something when he enters, Maya looming cautiously in the background. And from the look on Ava's face, he'd guess that the two have been merrily reminiscing since welcoming Bobby at their place a few hours earlier.
They shake hands, appropriate manly gesture, each commenting on how good it is to see the other, how it's been far too long. But both their tones are rough and clipped, words carrying sincerity, but also covering for a mutually felt truth – that neither wants to see the other now, not like this, not for this reason.
Maya looms in the background, lanky form hiding behind her father, eyes directed at the floor. Bobby chances a glance at her from the corner of his eye. She looks a lot like her older sister – the cautiously upbeat young woman he'd met earlier over at Dean's. They had the same long dark hair, same big round eyes, same regally lithe limbs.
But where Rachel had been strong and proud, standing at full height before him even with a toddler on her hip, Maya's length seems awkward, foal like. Where Rachel's eyes took him in graciously, sized him up hesitantly, stared him down assuredly, Maya's fail to even meet his gaze.
Sam pulls her forward, grips her shoulder tightly as though he fears she might turn and flee. "This is Maya," he says, a hint of apprehension to his otherwise casual tone.
Bobby extends his hand, chuckles deeply when all he's met with is an odd glare from the girl, eyes bouncing from his open palm up to his face. She's not so shy, he realizes, she simply doesn't feel the need to make eye contact unless it's on her terms. Sam gives her a slight shove and she reluctantly takes hold of Bobby's hand, offers up a limp shake.
He leans forward, says, low and conspiratorially, "We've met before.
"I don't remember," she replies, voice steady and even.
"Let's sit," Sam offers, dragging Maya over to the couch and placing her between himself and his wife.
"How've you been Bobby?" Sarah asks, an awkward smile attempting to cover the droll sullenness she'd taken on as of late. Understandable, of course, first losing her father, now fearing she may also be losing her daughter. Anyone can see how powerless she feels, clueless and useless. It practically oozes from her pores.
He smiles at her gently, Sarah always having had a special place in his heart. She was the first to tame a Winchester, tamed them both in a way. She was the one, above all others, who was responsible for turning their family around, settling them down, building them up. She was the one who gave both those boys what they always craved – a home.
"Oh, you know me," he offers shyly. "Same old, same old." He drops his head slightly, somber and sincere, before saying, "I'm sorry to hear about your father."
And she does what comes naturally, what's been like a nervous tick of a habit for the last week and a half. She shrugs her shoulders, smiles wide and says with glassy eyes averted, "Thank you."
"So," Sam starts, pulling the focus away from his wife, where he knows she doesn't want it to be. "You heard from any…old friends lately?"
And Bobby knows, both the boys having warned him over the phone, that Maya's not yet been entirely let into the loop. So he's cautious with the answer, careful not to reveal too much. "Talked to Jo the other day. She seems to be doing all right."
"She still on the road?" Dean asks, earning him merely an affirmative nod. "Man," he sighs out, unable to keep his face from betraying his thoughts. Jo's the one still out there hunting things, and he's sitting around here with a family and a job and a mortgage. Crazy.
"Who's Jo?" Maya asks quietly, leaning into her father.
"Just an old friend," he says, a bit too quickly to be anything less than suspicious.
"Well," Ava chimes in, all but clapping her hands together in mock enthusiasm. Everyone looks over at her, eyebrows raised, waiting for her to go on. But her eagerness to get the proceedings under way only allowed her mind to think as far ahead as well. No other words come, and she turns a bit, letting her eyes dance awkwardly around the room.
Sam takes over for her, "Okay," stuttering from him in multiple syllables. He turns to his daughter. "Well, My, you know we called Bobby here to…help."
"With what?" she asks, faux naivete dripping from her innocent little face.
And it's Bobby who responds, locking narrowed eyes with her from across the room. "With your dreams."
She glares back at him, both threatening and beseeching. "Can you make them stop?" she asks, not letting her eyes drift from his for even a moment, staring him down with an icy intensity the likes of which he hadn't seen in years.
"No, darlin'," he drawls. "No, I can't."
She leans back, either deflated or oddly satisfied, both her demeanor and expression being too hard to decipher. "Thanks for your help," she mutters bitterly.
Sarah jabs an elbow in her side, ordering her in a stern yet soft tone to, "Sit up."
"Maya," Dean says from across the room, drawing her attention with the rich sincerity of his voice. "There are some things we need to talk about. Things that haven't come up before, that we haven't told you before."
Sam sighs long and hard while placing a hand on her back, forcing her to turn to him. "We never really told you much about your grandmother," he starts. "Or about how she died." He shares a quick glance with Dean, notices the pained expression on his face, and goes on, knowing just how much his brother does not want to be the one to explain this. "When I was a baby, she died in a fire."
"Sam," Sarah interrupts. Because while they'd decided that Maya would have to know certain things, about the possible origins of her powers, about the potential dangers to her as a result, she didn't realize just how much detail he was going to go into.
Sam looks up at her, unprepared to respond, when Maya says, barely a whisper, "I know."
Dean tries to keep his face unreadable, tries not to betray any shock or surprise, or emotion at all, when he says, "You do?"
She nods simply, feels Sam's hand snake up to her shoulder and offer a quick squeeze. "Did you dream about it?" he asks, voice soft and low.
Again, she nods, the most typical response any of them had gotten when discussing her dreams – either a nod or a head shake, very few words.
"What happened in the dream?" Bobby asks, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, genuine interest crinkling his brow.
She looks at him coldly for a moment, unwilling to share such a thing with a veritable stranger. But Sam squeezes her shoulder again, nudging her forward, a mute order to answer the man. "I recognized her from the picture," she says, eyes drifting over the photo of John and Mary sitting on the mantle, the only one of either of them in the house.
"What happened?" Bobby probes, tone commanding yet, somehow far from harsh.
She shrugs, rolls her eyes, all weak attempts to downplay her words. "She was on the ceiling. On fire." She stops short, catching the wince from her uncle, the teary, far off look in his eyes. And she shakes her head, not wanting to go on, not wanting to upset him or anyone else anymore.
"What else, darlin'?" Bobby asks, his gaze once again capturing her attention.
There's something in his eyes, some sort of intense scrutiny, assured safety, like they're saying, don't worry, you can tell me anything. Like they're capable of making her believe that, it's just you and me kid, tell me everything. "The man…the one with the yellow eyes…he was there. He did it," she says knowingly, not a question to her voice.
Bobby takes a breath, looks up at Sam. He only nods in response, giving permission for him to go on questioning his daughter. "This man, with the yellow eyes, he the same fella who talked to you in a dream?"
She sputters for a moment, turning back to look at her father, also glaring at Ava, whose eyes are conveniently averted. Because she didn't realize just how much they'd told Bobby. "I don't know," she says finally, realizing that neither Sam nor Ava could be driven to guilt over their betrayal, both clearly deciding it was something that apparently needed to be said.
"What do you mean you don't know?" Dean snipes.
And she turns, open mouthed, at her uncle, as she indignantly shoots back, "I don't know." Then, turning to Bobby, "He changed a lot…looked different. Only his eyes were ever the same."
"So it was different people, all with yellow eyes?"
"Yeah," she responds, before wrinkling her brow in confusion. "Only not. Because, I think, he was always the same." Then, shaking her head, "I don't know."
Bobby leans back into his chair, stares at the ceiling, deep in thought when he mutters, "Hmm."
And it's Ava who speaks up then, "Hmm?" humming off her lips in questioning mimicry. "What does hmm mean? Because if it means what I think it means, if it means, oh yeah, well maybe he's back even though he's really dead and we should all totally watch out, then I'm gonna be a little pissed. Just so you know."
"Wait," Maya interrupts, before anyone can respond. "He's dead?"
She looks to her aunt first, gaze gradually moving over to her uncle, who responds with a clearing of his throat and a rather intense glare. "We killed him," he says, voice deep and rumbling. Then, correcting himself, "It."
She cocks her head, questions hesitantly, "It?"
"It's not human, Maya," Sam says, soft words filtering into her ears.
"Okay," she concedes, more curious than surprised.
But it's Dean who finishes the thought, catches her off guard when, attention still on her father, she hears him say, "It's a demon."
And maybe it's because so much of what was seen in her dreams, all of which she knew to be true, was crazy – monsters and villains and ghosts. Or maybe it's because there was something entirely off about this yellow eyed guy from the get go, something obviously supernatural. Or maybe it's just because she's young, ten-years-old being an age where, though cynicism begins to take root in a child's mind, wonder and a desire to simply believe still run free. "A demon," she mutters, word tasting strange on her tongue, like a bitter truth she always knew without ever realizing.
"He'd been after our family for a long time," Dean goes on. "He killed our mother. Me and your dad, and our dad, we searched for him for over twenty years before finally finding and killing the evil son of a bitch." He snarls when he speaks, unable it seems to keep a straight face when discussing such a heinous beast.
"He wanted me," Sam says softly, hand still resting heavily on her shoulder.
She turns to face him, looking into his eyes for only a fraction of a second before turning away sharply after noticing the pain and grief behind them. "Because you had dreams?" she asks, already knowing the answer.
"Because he's special," Sarah chimes in, leaning forward and collecting her daughter's face in her hands. "Just like you."
Maya winces at the words, wanting to be neither special nor sought after by a demon. But Sam's voice soothes her when he says, "I didn't want to be this way," low and soft and just for her. "I didn't ask for this. Neither did Ava. Neither did you. I know that. And I know that it's hard…confusing and scary and just plain weird. But we're going to get through this. All of us."
She looks up at him, seeing nothing but her father's honest eyes, noticing no one else in the room. "Is he going to come for me?"
And Sam prepares himself to speak the truth, to say, Even if he did, I wouldn't let him have you. I'd never let him have you. But he doesn't get the chance, Dean's voice booming from across the room. "No."
Sensing the tension in the air, scared little girl, too protective adults, Bobby speaks up, tries to calm everyone with a bit of rationalization. "We don't even know that it's him. Could be another demon, a different one."
"Who?" Dean asks bitterly. "Can't be his kids, we killed one, exorcised the other."
"Demons don't have kids like we do. It's not the same. Those kids he had, probably just his minions, next in command. Doesn't mean he didn't think of them as his children, they're capable of making bonds just the same as you and me. But they don't reproduce like us," Bobby responds, gruffly displaying his expertise.
"So…" Ava encourages.
"Well," the old man goes on, "Could be that there's one for each generation. Or another one was born to carry on the ways of the old after you boys did him in. Balance and all."
"So it didn't even matter? Us killing him, didn't even make a damn bit of difference, that what you're saying?" Dean asks defensively.
"No," he replies, shaking his head low and sorrowfully. "No, I'm not."
"But…"
"Certain demons grow in power as time progresses. Just like people. They learn more about what they can do, try out new skills, get better at it. The one you killed was mighty powerful. This one?" He looks over at Maya as he speaks, "This one hasn't done anything yet but hop into her dream world."
"What else could he do?" she asks, working to mask the panic.
"Maybe nothing," he responds. "We don't know."
Dean lets out an indignant snort. "Well, that's just great."
"Hey, I'm not a magician here," Bobby defends. "I'm just an old man with a few ideas."
"Any of those ideas gonna be useful to us, Bobby?" he snipes, earning him a ferocious glare.
"Don't be smart with me boy. I might be nearing the end of my days, but I could still kick your sorry ass."
"Can we maybe get back on track here?" Sam interrupts, all eyes drawn by the sound of his impatient voice. "What do we do?"
"The basics," Bobby sighs. "Recon." He turns to Maya, catches her eyes and holds her gaze as he says, gruff and commanding, "You need to tell us every detail of every dream you have, no matter silly or small it might seem. Write it all down, just as soon as you wake up so it's still all fresh in your mind. If anything else happens, when you're not asleep, you tell your dad, right away. Or your mom or uncle. You tell. Understand?"
"Anything else, like what?" she asks, words holding both confusion and trepidation.
He shrugs, frowning deeply. "Anything…weird."
"Great," she mutters, flopping back into the couch cushions. "Weird, that shouldn't be tough around here."
"Maya," Sam warns, recognizing his daughter's moody tone.
"Well, come on," she whines. "I don't know what that means."
"Neither do we," Bobby says simply. "We don't know what might be normal everyday stuff, some kind of coincidence. Or what might be a demon acting in mysterious ways. That's why we've gotta know everything that happens to you."
And in typical independent, indignant, ten-year-old fashion, she scoffs, rolls her eyes thickly and says, "What a load of – "
"Finish that sentence and you're grounded for a year," Sarah threatens quickly, one long finger jabbing through the air at her precocious daughter.
Bobby shakes his head and chuckles, deep and raspy. "She's just like John, ain't she?" he inquires with a smile.
Maya pulls herself upright, a flash of bitter indignation crossing her features as, "I am not," comes out in a quick, shrill tone.
Sam turns to her and places a hand on her knee – calm down and check the attitude. "Not John," he says, knowing immediately she was thinking of her cousin, the only John she knows. "Your Grandpa John.
"Oh," she ekes out, relaxing her shoulders again. Then, after coarsely crossing her arms in front of her and raising a single petulant brow, she says, "I wouldn't know."
Sarah shoots her a death glare, having had just about enough of her daughter's attitude for one day, especially with company in the house. But it's Bobby who speaks up, "No, I guess you wouldn't," falling casually from his lips. "But I'll tell you one thing about your Grandpa John," he says, leaning back a bit. "He always managed to let his mouth get him into trouble. Cocky bastard," he mumbles, returning quickly with, "Pardon my French."
"I hate when people say that," Maya gripes under her breath. "If that were French, then Uncle Dean would have been made an ambassador to France by now."
And he knows it's wrong, Sam does, to encourage that sort of audacity in his young daughter, especially after working so hard throughout the years to instill some manners in his children. But it's so rare that Maya's candor comes across as anything less than petty, so rare that she says or does something truly funny – insolence rarely giving way to wit. So he laughs, long and hard and utterly delighted.
"I resent that," Dean says plainly, ignoring his brother's guffaws.
"But you don't deny it," Ava singsongs next to him.
And Bobby…well, Bobby just sits back and watches, takes in the family before him, soaking up the light laughter and easy ribbing. He stares straight ahead at the girl in front of him, slowly memorizing the contours of her face, ticking with the urge to bite back a smile. He observes the way her dark hair falls haphazardly over her shoulders when she shakes her head in awful embarrassment – these adults making fools of themselves as they continue to banter. He notices her dramatic roll of the eyes, so like her father at that very same age.
He takes it all in and stashes it back somewhere deep in his mind. Back with the images from Sam's wedding, and those from the day Rachel was born. Memories of watching these boys he's known for years, since they truly were boys, coddling babies and chasing after toddlers, smiling fondly, lovingly, graciously, at their wives. He stores them all back in a place reserved for someone else, someone who should have been there to see every moment, every smile and grin. Someone who should have been there now, to deal with every worry and fear.
Because this is John's family. These are his boys, his babies. And this is his granddaughter, full of crooked smiles, arrogant glares, and sad, beaten eyes.
The last time he saw John Winchester he'd chased him off his property with a shotgun in one hand and an empty bottle of Bourbon in the other – son of a bitch just had that effect on people, made them want to drink and murder. But he was a friend none the less, one of his best really. And he must have known that Bobby would always honor that friendship, always be there when needed. It was why, Bobby was sure, John entrusted his boys to him, laid them in the palms of his hopefully capable hands, upon his death. For safekeeping.
And Bobby's never let a friend down yet.