A/N: I just wanted to make clear that Sam's time in the cage was practically non-existent. Raphael was much faster getting him outta there than Cas was in canon. So no Lucy-hallucinations or scars for Sam in this fic. ('Cause my heart can't deal with a broken Sammy!)
Also, this is a bit short (Bobby's POV), but I think we all want things to progress :) Please review!
Welcome to Heartbreak
Part IV: Devotion
Written by oneofyourfrenchgirls
Bobby Singer goes to bed early after a hard day working in the sun. His neck is red and sore, unprotected from the sunrays, and his joints make cracking noises to accompany the creaking of the bed whenever he moves. It takes him a while to find a comfortable position, his mind still awake even though his body is tired and ready for a few hours of rest.
He listens to the sounds of stray animals rummaging around on the yard, slowly winding down and trying not to think too hard of the work he still has to do. His study downstairs is in need of a serious cleaning and organising; books and papers and photographs scattered in a frenzy.
Bobby is just about to turn around and reach for another pillow when he hears something. It's a distant sound, sort of a growling, and he can identify it immediately. It's the low purr of a Chevrolet Impala, almost gurgling as it makes its way down muddy gravel roads.
With a sigh and a soft curse, he gets up and puts on his sweaty clothes again, because the boys showing up at this unholy hour can only mean one thing. Bad news.
The knocking on the door isn't urgent or harsh, however, and it calms Bobby's nerves just a tad. It means that no one is bleeding. He is going to tear them both a new one if they just decided to show up for a social visit in the middle of the night, though. He's getting old - he really needs his beauty sleep if he wants to be able to get up in the morning.
"What ya idjits up to know?" he barks out as he unlocks the door and lets it swing open by itself. It makes a whining sound, but he barely notices because it's just Castiel standing there. "Where're the morons?"
Castiel steps aside, cold eyes flickering towards the sloppily parked car. Bobby grumbles and steps out on his porch, hoping that no one actually is bleeding, but he is only met by the sight of the two brothers clinging to each other. Nothing unusual, especially not since Dean looks like he's been on one hell of a bender.
"What's with the kid?" Bobby ask once Sam is close enough, practically dragging his drunk brother up the small set of creaking steps. Dean makes a weird sound, almost like he's choking on his own tongue, but Sam doesn't seem too worried.
"We need shelter," Castiel says seriously, avoiding Bobby's question entirely. He shrugs awkwardly, his trench coat barely moving with the movement. "We must see to the salt lines once more and I insist that you let me paint new sigils."
Bobby closes his eyes, unable to stop the small sigh that escapes his mouth. When he opens them again, Castiel has zapped himself inside and Sam is still standing in front of him, holding his brother close to his chest. There is a smudge of something on Dean's cheek, some kind of liquid, and it's covering one of Sam's sleeves.
"Yeah... He puked on me."
"Fuckin' college girl," Bobby mutters and walks back inside. Sam follows, frog marching his brother without complaint. It doesn't look like that much of a strain - Sam is built like a house and Dean is... not. Huh. "Where's his jacket?"
"He kinda puked on that one too." Sam makes a strange face, obviously aware of the weird physique his older brother has adapted. It's not skinny or even slim, but the collar bones are slightly more visible and the short sleeves of the t-shirt hangs limply around Dean's biceps. It looks wrong - strange - on someone as strong as Dean.
"He pukin' a lot?"
Sam doesn't answer, just puts Dean down on the couch and watches him snuggle into the never-washed pillow. Great, Bobby thinks and hears himself let out another sigh. They stand in silence for a while, hearing the quiet sound of an angel walking around upstairs.
"C'mon, boy," Bobby finally orders and gestures for Sam to follow him to the kitchen. He points at one of the wriggly chairs and offers beer from the fridge. The kid shakes his head, and Bobby isn't as surprised as he should be. Watching someone drink themselves to death (not once, but twice) does give alcohol a bad rep. "Spit it out."
Sam squirms, the way Bobby has seen the kid do before, when the boy doesn't know how to start and how to voice himself without upsetting his brother.
"Dean ain't here now, is he? Get it off ya chest."
It's all the prying that Sam needs - he is the only Winchester that actually doesn't mind talking, doesn't mind sharing, after all- and then the floodgates open. Sam inhales deeply, preparing for a rambling.
"Crowley's after Dean. Some kind of deal, but he doesn't want Dean's soul. Everything's so fucking weird, Bobby. You won't believe this, but... I think Crowley's got a crush on my brother. Like, he told me he wanted my brother as his consort. Y'know, I kinda understand why, 'cause it's the biggest 'fuck you' to the angels ever, and having the Righteous Man on a leash? That's gotta earn him a lot of points down under."
Sam's voice seems loud in the quiet house as he continues rambling, but Bobby isn't sure he's hearing right. Surely Sam isn't saying that the King of Hell is after them again? He doesn't know what to think, really, because they have come across an army of Hellhounds and demons once, what feels like eons ago, when they tried to get to Dean.
And they failed.
Bobby can sense the same kind of panic that is written over Sam's face, spreading inside of him. It should be funny - it is kind of funny - but it's mostly just terrifying and numbing. Neither Sam nor Bobby actually knows what it's like, being trapped for decades in such a place as the Pit, but they know what it did to Dean.
"Man," Sam breathes after a moment of silence, "it feels good to talk to someone who actually listens."
Bobby shrugs, taking a swig of his beer. "So, what's Crowley offerin' us?"
Sam sighs, back to squirming. "He's gonna tell us how to kill the leviathans," the kid tells him easily, but there is something he's keeping to himself. Bobby can tell by the way Sam's lips ease into a thin line, the way John's always did when he decided not to share.
Stupid kids.
Bobby wakes up with a crick in his neck and a headache.
It gets better, sort of, after a shower and discovering that someone is making breakfast downstairs. It smells like burnt bacon and artificial lemon, meaning that the Winchesters are still in the house. Most likely, Sam hasn't slept all night out of worry, probably dusting and wiping every room clean. Bobby isn't going to complain, but he dearly hopes that the kid didn't mess with his stuff.
Bobby may feel like a train wreck when he comes downstairs after a quick shower, but Sam looks like someone just strangled his puppy right in front of him. Nevertheless, the boy is cooking breakfast - burning bacon, putting milk and cereal on the messy table, preparing too strong coffee and trying to tidy up at the same time.
"You sleep anythin'?"
"Nah," Sam replies easily, back towards Bobby as he searches through the fridge for eggs. "I cleaned your bathrooms, though."
"Did your brother get any shut-eye?" Bobby doesn't really like asking these questions, doesn't like the way it makes him feel too much like a parent, but someone has to show their concern.
Sam stays quiet, putting all his focus in opening a can of beans. Once the beans are poured in a pot to be heated up, Sam sighs and murmurs, "Cas stayed next to him all night."
Bobby leans back in the kitchen chair, hiding his smile behind his hand and glancing towards the empty living room. He can imagine it, clear as day since it's not the first time Cas stayed the night. Dean on the lumpy couch, restless even in his sleep, thin blanket over his legs and sweat running down his forehead. Cas next to him, on the most uncomfortable chair that Bobby owns, watching silently and offering some kind of angelic sleeping pills.
He knows that Sam likes Castiel. Sam appreciates all that Cas has done, all that Cas does, but Bobby can see how it wears on him sometimes. How Sam feels inadequate when Castiel can offer his brother things that Sam doesn't even know his brother need.
"So. What's the plan of today?" Bobby asks, and he sighs in relief when Sam lights up.
"Research."
After breakfast, Bobby feels lethargic and ready to go back to bed, but Sam has other plans. The kid goes downtown in order to raid the library, leaving his laptop in the house for Bobby to use. Of course, Bobby doesn't really know how to use the things properly - he can turn it on, off, open a tab and google something, but Sam is much more effective and experienced with the technology, so he leaves it for later.
Instead, Bobby heads upstairs. The guest bedroom is prepared now, with new sheets and dust bunnies under the bed, and that's where he finds Dean and Castiel.
The angel is sitting in the ratty armchair that is randomly placed by the door, watching out through the dirty window. Cas can probably see past all the cars and wrecks in the junkyard, past the trees and even further, but Bobby isn't curious. His eyes flies to Dean immediately when he enters the room completely, his stomach clenching and his throat convulsing.
Dean is sweating, his fingers twitching by his sides and his mouth open as he pants harshly. He isn't trashing around or making any other sounds than his loud breathing, but it feels obscene nonetheless. Bobby almost wants to head back downstairs, attempt to boot the computer up and get something done, but Castiel suddenly averts his eyes from the view.
"The fever will be over soon," the angel promises, his eyes cold when he looks up. "It is the stress."
"Stress?"
"Yes. I believe that Dean is carrying a lot on his mind right now," Castiel clearifies, as if Bobby might not have realised. "This isn't the first time-"
"Yeah, yeah. Save it for someone who doesn't know."
Castiel looks away, this time stopping at the barely-sleeping Dean. They both look in silence for a while, Bobby remembering exactly what it was like before. Before the angels and Hell - when Dean was just a regular hunter, eager to kill and scarily good at it. It looks like the last week before the hounds came from the Pit to catch their prey.
Sweating and shaking in bed, vomiting from the halllucinations and nightmares. Bobby knows that the nightly terrors were worse for Dean than the actual death. Sam knows it too, because he was the one to tell Bobby how bad it was. How his big brother would hold onto his gun too tightly, how his big brother would stare at the razor for too long while shaving himself.
"You keep your eyes on the boy?"
"Of course," Cas answers, his tone almost demeaning as he pulls his eyes from Dean. "I will not leave Dean's side until he is safe from Crowley."
Bobby leaves the room feeling cold and uncomfortable, his skin buzzing a little with the power from the angel's voice. Despite this, he heads downstairs to go through his own library for clues and ideas, knowing that Dean is in good care.
By the end of the day, Bobby is just a few steps away from committing homicide. Sam came home a few hours ago, tired and worn, and says, "I met Crowley."
Castiel has been compulsively checking the sigils and salt lines since then, setting up devil's traps here and there on the junk yard in case someone should be able to make their way through the protective wards that Bobby put up a year ago.
"And he didn't say anything else?" Bobby asks, knowing fully well that he is being annoying and distrustful, but Sam is clearly not telling the full truth.
"No. He just told me the perks. It was, like. For every downside I could come up with, he shot me down with a positive aspect." Sam makes an ugly grimace, the one he makes when he has a hard time not sharing his opinions. "Even when I said that Dean hasn't gotten over his first trip downstairs, he told me how different it is now. Barely the same place, apparently. A whole new, clean, system and a bigger class difference. Tighter leashes on everybody."
Bobby clears his throat, trying to find a better position in his office chair. "So... What ya make of this?"
"I've been looking into the history of consorts all day. Everything is a mess in my head and I haven't even been close to find any supernatural ones. I mean, there is no legit lore on any lovers or consorts for the devil. Lucifer has been in the cage for too long for there to be any written facts. Well, before I, uh, we freed him anyway."
There is a short silence before Bobby notices the way Sam is drumming his fingers on his thigh soundlessly, nose twtiching as if the burnt smell of their dinner is still bothering him. "Boy. What is it ain't you tellin' me?"
Sam makes another grimace, the one he actually managed to keep on his face for an entire week during a summer in the nineties, when John had dumped him here with the stomach flu. Then he opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again.
"What if... uhm. Crowley told me. What it'd be like. I think it might be-"
"You better get yourself together and explain yourself this very minute, boy, or I might hafta kick your ass out," Bobby threatens, wary of what he is about to hear.
"Maybe you should talk to him yourself. I mean, maybe, at least after hearing me out, maybe you'll consider it too. Hell is completely renewed, the demons are totally Crowley's bitches, Cowley promises to take care of Dean like-"
Bobby takes off his cap and hides his face in his hands, sighing deeply. Sam's track record with demons isn't exactly spotless. "Listen to me very carefully now, Sam. We ain't selling your brother's ass to the devil for anythin'. Ya hear me?"
"Yes, sir, but he offered a trial week-"
"You better shut up this very second, ya idjit, or I'll throw you out with your ass first," Bobby grumbles, patience slowly wearing thin.
They go to bed without saying another word about it, Castiel watching over them all as they fall asleep.
"That might not be a good idea," Castiel says the next morning, just as Bobby is about to open the front door.
Sam is in the kitchen, puttering around and trying to make some kind of breakfast with the few fresh groceries that Bobby has at home. Personally, Bobby can't see what's wrong with eating canned bolognese first thing in the morning, but Dean had woken up half an hour ago moaning about some 'real-ass food'.
"It's not safe out there," Castiel says impatiently.
"Thanks, Captain Obvious," Bobby answers before slamming the door shut behind him. The world haven't been safe in a very, very long time. Going downtown for bacon, milk and edible bread doesn't sound all that dangerous after diverting armageddon.
He gets in his car and heads down the gravel road, stomach grumbling and face setting in a irritated frown. There might be some level of stupidity going on right here, leaving the sanctuary that is the Singer Salvage for something as silly as junk food; but if the skinny kid is hungry, you feed his skinny ass.
"Stupid kids and their stupid food," Bobby grumbles as he gets the car out on the main road.
"My thoughts exactly," an all-too familiar voice agrees.
Almost steering off the road, Bobby swears loudly and tries not to lunge out at his supernatural passenger.
"Of course, my doggies prefer to catch their own food. Less work for me."
"Get the fuck outta my car, you-"
"Is that really the way to talk to me, Robert?" Crowley prods sweetly, looking pointedly at Bobby's knees. "I'm here for some friendly conversation, that's all. Really, Singer, you wound me!"
"Oh, I'll wound you all right. Get out." Bobby eases his foot from the gas pedal, slowly coming to a halt by the side of the nearly empty road. He pulls the handbrake, giving the demon an impatient look. He really, really doesn't want to hear what the devil has to say.
"I don't understand why you are so against hearing me out," Crowley says tiredly. "You have never faced any downsides with deal making."
"I ain't stupid! Get outta my car. Now."
Crowley smirks, lips thin, and snaps his fingers.
To Be Continued