Tag 2: Out of His Hands
Summary: Bobby's POV on Dean's junkyard breakdown
Bobby watched Dean from the front window, his heart aching in sympathy for the kid like he was his own son. He had known Dean was bad off the second he and Castiel had arrived with a detoxing Sam in tow. It was the look in Dean's eyes. Somehow this last job had broken him.
He wanted to comfort him in some way, but Dean appeared too fragile. Bobby didn't want to risk pushing the wrong move on him that might hurt him further. So he had given the boy his space. Sat up in the living room in his metal chair and listened while Sam screamed. Hadn't said a word when Dean had come up the stairs with an almost empty bottle of whiskey in his hands and wordlessly slammed through the front door as if his very existence depended on it. He contemplated wheeling himself out after him, but decided that Dean needed to find his footing on his own terms. But he sat by the window and watched him anyway, just in case Dean fell. He'd be out there in a second to pick him back up and try and put the wrecked boy back together again.
He watched as Dean trekked slowly to the Impala, the one thing in the kid's miserable life that hadn't failed him. He watched as Dean raised the bottle to drink and then lowered his arm in pointless defeat. Aw hell. Bobby swallowed back a lump as he watched Dean's tear filled eyes raise to the heavens and plead upwards in complete and utter helplessness. Then he watched as the kid crumpled, his face cracking in despair, his eyes running in streams of misery, his body quaking in fear and hopelessness and his sobbing wails echoing the desolate void that was Dean Winchester's insides.
Bobby's own face was now damp with tears. It had never been this bad. Not when John had died. Not even when Sam had died. He thought he was going to lose the kid then and probably would've if Dean hadn't made the deal. That was bad enough. But this…this was just gut wrenching to watch. He wanted to go out there and take Dean in his arms and hold him and comfort him and tell him that everything would be alright. But he couldn't do that because he knew he'd be lying. And he would not lie to Dean. Not after everything this poor boy…this man had gone through in his life. So instead he just watched him…silently, anonymously, grieving for a tortured life right alongside him, hoping to give him strength, praying that Dean knew he wasn't all alone.
It went on for hours. Bobby waited with morbidly baited breath to see if the hand of God would sweep down and make Dean whole again. But it never did. No one came for him. Nothing answered his prayers. Instead, Dean continued to weep for a lifetime of painful crosses to bear. Bobby wept right along with him.
It finally stopped at sunrise. Dean picked himself up from where he had fallen on the cold wet ground and clamored back inside the house. His tear ravaged puffy eyes briefly met Bobby's as he headed back down to the panic room.
"Son," said Bobby, returning the gaze, silently telling him that he was there for anything that he needed.
Dean paused and gave him a quick nod of appreciation. Then he continued down the gauntlet to the panic room, the sounds of broken sniffles lingering behind him. Bobby's heart wrenched in sympathy, but there was nothing to do for him. It was out of his hands.