a/n: Thanks for clicking on this story, and thanks in advance for reading.
However, I really hate having to say this, but although I love reviews, I don't need constructive criticism. I have others who help me with that. And I am not interested in art proposals for my work. First of all, because of the explosion of AI generally and bots on this website in particular, I can't even be sure if someone who asks to collaborate is truly human. In addition, I do not make money for my stories, and I don't want anyone else to do that either, so don't bother leaving a review if that is your main reason for commenting. So as long as you want to make a comment on my story without trying to get me to pay you for illustrations, I definitely welcome it.
Also, as much as I love reviews, I am terrible at responding to them. Depending on what's going on in my life, I might respond or not. I don't want you to think I'm ignoring you; RL just sucks a lot of the time. So if you really want a response from me, mention that in your review and I'll pull myself together enough to answer. And if you just want to chat, you can find me on tumblr. I use my ao3 penname on that website. I'm rarely there, but I do answer messages that are polite and not an appeal for money.
Left Behind
They didn't want to be here.
And frankly, Bobby didn't blame them.
After all, what shy eight-year-old wants to be dumped off with a near stranger? What twelve-year old wants to be left behind by the father he adores?
John slipped into the driver's seat of his car and started it up. As he gunned it, the engine roared, then settled into a smooth purr.
The Impala hadn't done that when they'd arrived; the engine had rattled and coughed as they'd driven up the road and into the gravel lot of the Salvage Yard, sputtering with a pop, pop, pop and a hiss of the radiator before finally dying in front of his house in a cloud of bluish gray smoke. John'd been lucky they'd made it here; the carburetor'd been shot, a couple of belts'd needed replacing, and he'd been burning oil like crazy. More serious, his radiator'd been cracked. On the trip from Albert Lea, he'd been stopping every twenty miles or so to pour water in it in an effort to prevent the engine from overheating.
Bobby and John had worked on the Impala for days, repairing the engine and dropping a rebuilt radiator into a car that had been purchased used more than two decades ago and with enough miles on it that he might as well have driven to Mars and back. Twice. Most people would have junked it, but not John. The car meant everything to him: far more than simply a source of transportation, it was the only home the man had these days, and one of the few links he still had to the only woman he'd ever loved.
The other two links stood before Bobby now: Sam, sniffing, his face pale and drawn, trying hard to hide the fact he was on the verge of tears; and his older brother Dean, a mass of contradictions if he'd ever seen one. Bright, but he swore the kid had never met common sense. Angry and defiant, but with one of the biggest hearts of anyone he'd ever met if how he treated his brother was anything to go by. But if he could only use one word to describe Dean, he might have said fierce, because that's exactly what he was: fiercely loyal to his habitually absent father; fiercely protective of his younger brother; fiercely independent, born out of weeks and months and years on the road, growing up way too fast after way too much time alone and way too much responsibility being put on his young shoulders.
Both boys were clearly suffering from a lack of regular sleep and nutritious food, the bare minimum required for any healthy human being, let alone a growing child. For John, when he wasn't in the field training the boys or on a hunting trip, shelter was a cheap motel room in the bad part of town, and food was an afterthought, a meal in a cheap diner just before closing time, hours after his kids should have been in bed. Things like school and friends and a stable home life, they just weren't on the radar.
Honestly, sometimes he thought John loved that car more than his kids. He certainly treated it better.
John's life was no life for a kid, and Bobby had told him so. Frequently. And loudly. He knew John didn't agree; John was raising the kids with one goal, to be hunters. That's it. Everything else was superfluous. But when he needed to, when he was going to be gone for weeks rather than days, when his current job was too dangerous for the kids or too dangerous to him to have them there, he'd drop them off somewhere. And when it was here, even though he was pissed off at John, Bobby always took the kids in.
After all, it wasn't their fault their dad was an ass.
Sam, to Bobby's surprise, inched closer to him, close enough that the boy's shoulder bumped into his arm. He looked down. Sam was looking up at him, a tentative smile on his face. A boy trying to make the best of a bad situation.
Bobby smiled back. "It'll be all right. He won't be gone long."
Sam nodded.
John gunned the engine again. He drove off without a backwards glance, the wheels of the Impala catching loose gravel in their treads and flinging it into the air. It landed on the ground with a clatter.
Once the car was gone, Bobby put a hand on Sam's shoulder. He jerked his head in the direction of the house.
"C'mon, I'll get you boys some lunch."
When he and Sam reached the front porch, Bobby turned back.
"Coming, Dean?"
Dean didn't answer. Instead, he stood there in the lot: stoic, spine stiff, shoulders back, staring at the spot where the Impala had disappeared.
Bobby's heart went out to the kid.
John Winchester was a real piece of work.
But as long as he was alive, Bobby Singer vowed to himself, he'd be there for Sam and Dean Winchester whenever they needed him.