Disclaimer: The last time I checked, I don't own Supernatural.
Author's Note: Okay people, I know some of you are reading this and I have yet to get one single review. This is one mega PLOT BUNNY and it only eats reviews. So… let's not let this fluffy thing die or run away, shall we.
Also, I do not have a Beta reader. Volunteers may get virtual cookies. 8)
Chapter One
Shoes
It's the chill that wakes him. The small fire they had made together with broken twigs and dried leaves had finally gone out. He didn't think it was morning yet, but Bobby didn't know. He hadn't kept a watch in years.
Tiny whimpers distracted the old man from his thoughts. Cas was cold, soon he would wake and complain about his feet. Shoes were a luxury these days and the boy only wore a makeshift pair comprised of old milk box cartons and busted shoe strings. They both were wearing about three pairs of socks, but they all had holes and were wearing out fast. Every night both men had to remove their footwear and lay them by the fire to dry. Dry sore feet can go more miles than blood soaked stubs.
More whimpers filled the dry air. Bobby couldn't build another fire. What if someone saw it? If the butchers saw on flicker of a flame signifying life, those bastards would come in droves. Come for them, come for Cas. The ageing man knew what those barbarians would do if they got their hands on dear Cas. Those images haunt his dreams at night. They would first most likely kill him, he was old and useless to them. But Cas was young, handsome. They would take him, rape the boy, than perhaps kill him and eat him along with his own body. Such thoughts sent shivers down his spine. These were savage times.
He would not make a fire again tonight. Rowling over, Bobby crawled around the dead kindle to where his friend was sleeping. Castiel's coat, like his own, was threadbare and moth eaten as was the rest of their clothes. At least, they matched. The old man smiled at that. Sweetly kissing the young man's mated and dirty hair, Bobby gingerly unwrapped the kid from his thinning coat and blanket. Slowly to not disturb the him, the old man bunched up Cas's pant legs to examine how bad the blisters and frostbite were, but it was too difficult with the absence of the firelight. He would check his feet tomorrow. Tonight, the boy needed his sleep.
Removing his own raged oversized mittens from his calloused and frostbitten hands, Bobby guides his friends feet into his lap and cautiously drapes the mittens over them. They wont cover the heal and ankles, but he compensates by placing his palms against them, rubbing gently to warmth.
The whimpering slowly dissolves into the soft snores. Morning will arrive soon enough, along with the long road welcoming them to it's dangers for another day. But not now. No, now he will sleep; they both will sleep.