Destiny Interrupted

Supernatural. Dean/Bobby, John/Bobby, Sam/Dean. NC-17. 3300 words. Pre-series.

The moon and the wisteria are blooming tonight and he went and let a devil in his house.

Saturn’s Shadow

The Winchester boys have always stuck together, thick as thieves, and Bobby wonders where it is the younger’s gone off to. Not to hunt, that’s a sure enough call. The kid doesn’t have the drive without Dean hounding him. Sam lacks the passion that seized John when Mary got taken, escaped somehow getting the poison of the life in his blood like his big brother.

So Bobby figures it’s best to keep his trap shut and not let curiosity get the better of him. He won’t ask about Dean’s daddy, neither, since that’s a can of worms on a good day and liable to send the kid packing before he gets one foot on the porch. Word has it John’s been prowling the back roads as fierce as he did when he first took to hunting.

No sense dwelling on the one who didn’t come calling; the house is lonely enough tonight with the last of Helen’s wisteria blooming and thickening the air. Bobby opens the screen and offers Dean a beer as he steps over the salt.

“You old enough to drink?” Bobby asks, taking two from the fridge and cracking them open. It’s been a while since he’s had guests, but Dean doesn’t seem to mind scooping aside a pile of newspapers to make himself comfortable in a long-legged sprawl.

Dean licks his lips before raising his bottle. “Funny,” he says, a tiredness in his voice.

A switch flips and Bobby sees him as he is. There’s nothing mixed-up or angry about the deep furrow in his brow that doesn’t quite disappear. Dean looks nothing more than beat down, with the darkness under his eyes tallying up a few nights of missing sleep at the least.

“What’re you doing here, Dean?” That’s a question Bobby’s not going to shy away from.

“I dunno.”

Fair enough.

“Warm night,” Bobby says. If this were ten years back, he’d have a house full of Winchesters. John’d be down to his shirtsleeves, and they’d be out back, shooting the shit and throwing knives at the dying stump of a gnarled old oak that a thunderstorm had claimed. And Dean’d be holed up inside with Sam, a shadow hovering near the second-floor window trying to catch the conversation that filtered up with the smoke of Bobby’s cigarettes.

“Wanna go outside?”

Bobby looks to the door. He’s quit smoking since, though his lips remember the feel of holding a fresh cigarette and that first pull of smoke in his lungs. Funny how certain things stick with a man. “No.”

The plain and simple answer catches Dean off guard, like the kid was banking on a right cross and ended up with a fist in the gut. His eyes blink, and then he rocks back in his chair, smiling around the mouth of the bottle. Only the smile doesn’t sit right on his face, seeming more like a demon’s mimicry, skin forced to stretch in falsehood. “I shouldn’t be here,” Dean says.

Silently, Bobby agrees, but that doesn’t stop him from telling Dean that he still keeps a spare room up on the second floor. He’s not sure Dean’s going to go for the charity, less so when Dean’s stomping out to his car again with keys in hand, but that Winchester stubbornness bends enough that Dean collects a bag from the trunk and comes back inside.

“Same as always, second on the left,” Bobby tells him, and the flinch Dean can’t quite hide makes Bobby’s insides knot up like his supper didn’t agree with him. He curses his own stupidity, but there’s no excusing the bad form if something final had come to Sam. “Actually, why don’t you take my room and I’ll take the couch. Forgot I had started cleaning out that old room a month ago. Place is a mess.”

The set of Dean’s jaw plainly says he doesn’t buy the lie, but his pride’s already bent enough he doesn’t call Bobby’s bluff. His grip on the banister eases and he mumbles a rough, “Thanks,” as Bobby promises him breakfast and waves him on up.

He’s asleep on his stomach with his boots trailing their laces while still clinging to his feet when Bobby comes in with a bundle of fresh linens. Bobby hangs at the door, debating whether or not to make a sound or just leave the sheets near at hand as a gesture at least. Helen would have a fit about the boots if she saw Bobby letting the kid sleep like that, but there’s nothing smart about waking a hunter, and Dean’s built muscle since the last time John had brought his boys by.

Not a kid, not with the miles and kills Dean’s racked up, but no matter how hard he tries, Bobby can’t see him otherwise. He’s outgrown being all skin and bone, but there’s still a leanness about him, his ribs not carrying enough meat that they show as faint ripples under the worn stretch of his tee.

“Must’ve dozed off,” Dean says, shoving himself up and putting the heel of his hand to his forehead. He sucks in a deep breath and swivels into sitting, bending near in two to reach down and yank off his boots. “Sorry about that.”

Bobby can’t say how long he’d been standing there, just knows his arms have stiffened, his muscles faintly aching when he hefts up the linens and nods at the bed. “Fetched you some clean sheets.”

“Thanks, Bobby.”

He can’t escape it, seems like—Dean’s got just enough of his father in him that traces of John linger in his gestures, and it shows up most when Dean’s not trying so hard to be a carbon copy of the man. Bobby supposes that’s something Dean wouldn’t know, since if John Winchester was a brick wall to the world, those bricks came steel-reinforced where his own blood was concerned.

It rends Bobby to the core when Dean catches his arm and says, “Don’t leave just yet.”

“It’s getting on late.” Bobby pats Dean’s hand awkwardly, praying the boy’ll let go.

But Dean scoots closer to the edge of the bed, the covers dragging with him. His bare feet whisper along the floorboards, slender toes pale against the wood. He’s got broken written all over him, from the landslide slope of his shoulders to the way his eyes won’t lift. “Bobby, please.”

Lips touch to his knuckles briefly as Dean’s face turns to press against his hand. Warm breath stirs the hair on his arm in soft, anxious bursts.

“Look, son, you should get some sleep.” Dean makes this choked sound and Bobby’s stomach goes to knots all over again. It gets worse when Dean’s mouth opens, soft tongue licking just above the joint of his thumb.

Bobby tears his arm away, sets his grip firm on Dean’s shoulders to shake the boy out of his foolishness. “This ain’t the way,” he says, and it’s now that Dean’s eyes lift, hazy as morning fog and with a hungry sort of look that shouldn’t ever be turned towards a man like Bobby.

“Don’t care how you want me,” Dean says. He comes off the bed like a ragdoll, his knees knocking against the wood before they slip into a spread wide enough to level his mouth with Bobby’s belt. “I’ll do anything.”

With a shaky hand, Bobby lifts his cap to scratch at his scalp. His skin’s gone prickly and tight all over like a wool suit that’s shrunk in the wash. He’s got no right and it ain’t fair for Dean to put this on him. The moon and the wisteria are blooming tonight and he went and let a devil in his house.

“Doesn’t matter what you’re willing to do,” Bobby protests, fixing his cap back on his head, but nothing gets past whatever it is that Dean’s built up around himself.

“I know how to make it good,” Dean says, and Bobby doesn’t know what to make of that. Hopes it isn’t what it seems when Dean glances up, a sloppy grin on his face when Bobby doesn’t keep the boy from palming him through his Levis. A stronger man would draw a line and walk away. A smarter man would do the same. If John caught wind of this, he’d tan Dean’s hide, twenty-something or not. He’d be a measure less merciful to Bobby.

“He’s gone,” Dean says, undoing Bobby’s belt with steady hands. His voice had fallen so low and quiet it might’ve been the rustle of the curtains, but he says it again when Bobby’s warm and swelling in his hand.

It’s Sam. It’s Sam and not John, but that there’s an old wound that aches and warns about storms to come as much as the crack in his shin a Banshee left him. Bobby retreats a step and Dean has none of it, hand clutching at the front of his jeans like a lifeline. Might as well be another Banshee, another empty morning, for the high-pitched noise keening in his skull.

“No fault of yours,” Bobby tells him, half a guess, and gently pries at Dean’s fingers.

It’s unnecessary as it turns out. Dean flares up in a blink, the slow burn of his mood finally hitting gasoline. “Don’t you tell me that,” he says, scrambling to stand. His fist curls in Bobby’s shirt, and if it’s a bit of violence to come, that’s an easy fire to put out. “He’s gone. He left. Run off to college.”

The way Dean says ‘college’ turns it into a four letter word, but Bobby’s treated to a tiny trickle of relief that Sam hasn’t been reduced to a pile of ashes and a pair of dates on a cross. Dean’s muscles are bunched, and the seams of Bobby’s front pocket lose a few threads with a subtle snapsnap.

“He’s gone and noth-” Dean cuts off in a snarl, and lists forward, head dropping against Bobby’s shoulder and fist loosening its hold. Lax fingers slip down Bobby’s chest. He draws away, and a shiver lances through Bobby at the flatness in Dean’s tone when he says, “Sorry I came here, I’ll get out of your hair.”

There’s nothing good down either fork in the road, and Bobby’s got about half a second to make the choice. “I invited you in,” he says, a prayer in the back of his head that he’s not doing more harm than good. He sets his hands to Dean’s shoulders again, slides them slow down his arms until his touch rests light at Dean’s elbows. “House is too big for one man most of the year. Company’s welcome.”

Dean’s eyes are dangerously guarded, no lust in them now, but worse than that, no spark of anything lively to speak of. “Bobby….”

“It’s just been a while. You understand that, right?” Bobby swallows around the dense lump in his throat. “You caught me off my guard.”

Pink flashes as Dean wets his lips. He draws in a slow breath and then his mouth turns in a lazy smile that knocks the wind straight out of Bobby’s lungs. Whine louder and the boys’ll hear you. Bobby blinks just as Dean says, “Yeah?” and Dean’s smile changes quick enough. It’s not much better to see his face go smug as a hustler’s, and yet it keeps Bobby from backing down again, lets him hold his ground while Dean searches out his prick. Dean’s eyes head towards glittering again.

“Want to feel you hard,” he says, voice smouldering and crackling like banked coals. His fingers tease and pull, and the tip of his nose nudges the edge of Bobby’s jaw, tongue flicking out to taste the spot where Bobby’s pulse is hammering along right under the surface. “Yeah, that’s it. Gonna suck your nice fat cock.”

True to his word, Dean slinks right back ot his knees, and his mouth is warm and wet and ohhh so very willing as he takes Bobby full in, tongue soft and lips firm, and there’s no question the boy knows what he’s doing as he works Bobby’s flag higher than half-mast. His fingers curl at the base of Bobby’s dick and Bobby tries not to look, but can’t drag his eyes away from the gravity pull of the mouth working so skillful on him. He finds Dean gazing up at him, and the kid is into it, so much it makes Bobby’s erection droop. Dean doubles up his effort and Bobby sees the dichotomy beyond the surface of that eager gaze turned up at him. There’s an obsidian sharp edge riding up alongside something bird-fragile, and it’s a trigger, sure as when John had first kissed him, stubble-scraping and harsh, with a grated, “We could use this,” as excuse and plea all at once.

Bobby gasps, and it’s wrong enough to let the kid continue, but it’s worse to put his hand on Dean’s head and feel how the texture’s not much different than his daddy’s. He’s done a lot of things he ain’t proud of, and a principled life hasn’t always been his way, but this is skirting a line Bobby’s not sure he can come to terms with. What really carries the nettle’s sting is suspecting it’s old wounds making him toss his cap aside and haul the boy up for a kiss. His hands splay over Dean’s taut belly, slide up and drag his tee-shirt with until his trembling fingertips are spread over the curve of Dean’s ribcage. Kid’s wolf-lean and outside in the gloom, he’s every bit a predator, but here…. Dean’s heartbeat mirrors his own, and the kid kisses like it’s the last time he ever will, mouth hungry and needy as the fullness of his lips slide wet against Bobby’s.

“Gonna fuck me?” Dean asks. His hands settle on Bobby’s hips, stance shifting to rub the bulge of his crotch against Bobby’s thigh.

“You want me to?” Bobby knows that’s the wrong answer, but it’s the one that comes natural. He goes against the grain, manhandles Dean around and shoves his face down, holds him bent forward over the bed. He steels his voice a second time, and it’s not his own voice he hears in his head as his mouth moves in a parody. “You want me to? Just like this?”

Dean sways, a moan pouring out of him that’s wanton enough it raises Bobby’s temperature a bit on its own. “Yeah. Yeah, c’mon.” The kid twists his head to the side to drop his weight onto his chest, and reaches back, fumbling with his jeans and shoving them down over the perfect curve of his ass. “Just stick it in me.”

“Stay there,” Bobby says, and keeps his own pants up with one hand as he goes towards the dresser.

A low whine comes from the bed. Whine louder and…. Bobby glances over his shoulder, and he can almost see it, the time-eaten memory still strong enough to recall the smell of John’s sweat, the weight of his body and the way he’d trembled after, so faint Bobby’d expected the worst. That came later, a lot later, but guns and regret are the way of things in this life.

“Not leaving me, are you, Bobby?” Dean asks. His legs shake, and his hands are hooked to the back of his thighs like he needs to offer himself up more than he already is.

“Just getting something to make it easier,” Bobby tells him. He fumbles through a drawer full of odds and ends, screwdrivers, and old papers, and a couple bottles of aspirin rattling around before he finds a jar of vaseline. The thing is old enough the lid’s made of metal not plastic, and there’s a rim of rust, but it opens up and Bobby scoops out a generous amount with his fingers. Dean’s back stiffens in anticipation as he comes back, and the petroleum smell wafts up as Bobby greases up his cock and spreads the rest over Dean’s hole.

“No fingers, just give it to me,” Dean says, repeating himself a second time under his breath.

Bobby doesn’t argue. He lines himself up, and Dean does half the work, the kid shoving back, tight enough that Bobby’s dick does more bending than anything until something gives, and then he’s two inches in and Dean’s writhing and begging for more. Christ.

“Deeper, Bobby. Fill me up. Want you in me so far I’m gagging on it.”

Bobby grits his teeth, Dean’s dirty litany lags in second place behind the furnace that is the kid’s body. Dean’s shirt is rucked up above his shoulderblades, and Bobby only has a moment to admire the line of shadow tracing across the valley of Dean’s spine before Dean is moving, tugging the shirt off over his head and leaving it tangled in one fist. Dean’s good as naked before him, and it’s not quite true that everyone looks the same face down, but it’s enough of a lie to get Bobby pumping faster.

It was never like this, ’cause John would go to Hell before he went easy for anything, and he never lay back and spread his legs, neither, but that hadn’t kept Bobby from thinking about how it’d feel to have his dick somewhere other than John’s mouth.

“Oh God, Sammy,” Dean shudders, raising up on his hands to fuck himself harder on Bobby’s cock, and Bobby feels this sickening thrill rise up behind his breastbone at the way Dean calls out his brother’s name.

Bobby holds his tongue and only slams into Dean harder, the force of it knocking Dean flat to his chest again. Dean’s hands claw at the sheets, and he moans his brother’s name again. Bobby closes his eyes and gives in to his own lie, because if the sound of Dean’s voice threatens to break the illusion, the sound of his breathing and the harsh grunting noises he makes mends the damage and then some.

“We could use this.”

Bobby feels the echo of a kiss, the abrasion of more along his chest, and a snarl of lust so strong his fingers clamp on Dean’s hip bruising hard. He comes deep inside the kid, and the subtle fog lifts enough for him to see Dean came a long while back, slid messy against the sheets while Bobby fucked him a good ten minutes after. He’s worn out, glad for it by the noises he makes even after Bobby pulls out and wipes him clean with the edge of his shirt.

Dean crawls into the bed, and leaves space enough for Bobby to fall in alongside him.

“I could’ve stopped him,” Dean says, with a certainty that resonates. He curls towards Bobby, and some last-remaining shred of tension eases out of Dean’s body when Bobby holds him close. John had left those tremors in his care, too. Bobby swallows hard and looks at Dean, intent on staying with the kid instead of slipping back into a fool’s wishful thinking. “I could’ve kept him from leaving. He would’ve stayed if I’d asked.” After a beat, Dean adds, “Would’ve followed him if he’d asked.”

Bobby doesn’t know which of John’s boys to envy more. “Gotta let some things go,” he says.

“Yeah.”

Later, with the lights off and Dean’s warm body pressed up tight against him for the night, Bobby lifts his hand. His fingers refuse to quit their shaking until he forms a fist. His knuckles ache he holds it so long. The shadow beside him sleeps restlessly, calls out every so often in an anxious voice for his brother (his wife).

Bobby relaxes his fingers, blood rushing back to each digit with an even deeper ache.

Some things are too important to let go.

*

End