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Bobby figured he was probably a pretty blunt, cranky old bastard most of the time. He wasn’t the kind of guy who beat around the bush, he tended to forget about formalities, he called things as he saw them, probably more often than was good.
But even he knew, this kind of life, hunting, everyone had their shit you just didn’t talk about. He did. Everyone did. You don’t talk about the drinking, you don’t talk about how someone got into the life. You don’t ask where the money comes from. You don’t poke the sore spots. Everyone living this kind of life gets a little squirrelly in some way or another. As long as no one was getting hurt too bad, you pretended not to notice.
But by God, when it came to his boys, it was a hard line sometimes, between wanting to talk about it, and knowing how bad it would probably go.
Sam and Dean, they were like his own. And he figured most fathers went through this sooner or later. They were in that stage of life, old enough to make their own choices, young enough to be dumb as fuck, screwed up enough from their childhoods and their lives that neither of them would know a good decision if it bit them on the ass. He had to be careful, offer advice when they asked, but otherwise leave it alone. He’d already learned what happens when he pushes them too hard. Both of them, as stubborn as that damn obsessed bastard they called a father.
Honestly, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be asked about… this… or not. Really, he didn’t want to know.
How much was too much?
When should he have said something?
Sam, that poor kid, was what, 23? 23, too tall, too smart, too stubborn, in too damn deep for a kid that age, losing his mind over this goddamn car. He should have still been at college, doing keg stands or whatever it was college kids did. The car was toast, but this damn kid kept talking about his brother coming back, they’d need the car. How could Bobby have said anything then? The kid was losing everything.
It turned out, just like their daddy, Winchester boys don’t do so well at “losing everything.” It kept coming up, again and again.
What had it been, just a year later, that same poor kid, killed because of some demonic bullshit that had been put into play before he was born. Bobby couldn’t shake off the injustice of it, that Sam had to die, this young bright kid who should have been able to do anything he wanted with his life, while a drunken old fart like himself kept on like a cockroach. He stuffed his feelings, because Dean looked too much like he was planning to blow his own brains out. He did everything he could, and hoped to hell that leaving Dean alone was the right answer, that he wouldn’t be back there in a day or two to deal with both their bodies.
Bobby wished he’d thought of it first. It would have been better had he done it. He damn near could have killed Dean on the spot himself, when he realized, but what could he say? It was already done. What good lecturing the boy now, that this wasn’t okay, this was just too much?
And again, a year later, that time it was Sam standing there, dead-eyed and swaying. At least this time Bobby managed to convince the boy to bury his brother, but he knew, even then, that this kid wasn’t going to be okay. How much grief is too much. How was Sam supposed to feel about his brother burning in Hell, forever, for him?
Bobby knew he should have tried harder, but he wasn’t doing so hot himself. Curling up in a bottle every night, he never could really blame Sam. Bobby, older, wiser, grizzled, hardened, numbed himself however he could. Could he have expected any better from Dean Winchester’s baby brother?
With the fate of the entire damn world in the balance, was he supposed to sit these two down, sit them down with Bobby’s damn legs gone, for a chat, say they needed to get some space between them for their own good? Tell them it was too big, too much, it wasn’t healthy, they were still just kids, they deserved something better out of their damn lives than grotty motel rooms and each other? The world ending, these two in the middle of it, and somehow Bobby’s supposed to be telling them to be a little less close?
One more time, Sam in the ground, Dean standing in front of him looking haunted. The world was safe, the price was small, in the scheme of it, but it didn’t feel small to them. That time, Bobby was surprised. There was no spectacular self-destruction, there were no deals, and the kid didn’t even kill himself. He found himself a woman, a kid, a regular job, a civilian life. Bobby sighed and kept his distance. If one of them had managed to get out, Bobby would stay as far away as he could.
He didn’t tell him.
These damn boys, every time they died, they came back. Maybe they were the cockroaches after all. But something was always wrong. Sam was back, he was different, he was colder.
Don’t tell Dean. Bobby knew, Sam knew. He tried not to think too hard about it. What it meant. That Dean couldn’t know. What it meant that Bobby knew, low in his gut, that Dean would drop that woman, that kid, everything he had, to go back to his brother and their grotty motel rooms.
He didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to know. He hoped he would never have to know. But of course, eventually he had to fucking know. Dean, full of rage, his happy life upstairs sitting uncomfortable, he wanted Sam more than he wanted them.
Bobby swallowed down the bile. He’d hoped against hope, that the life hadn’t ruined these two. But Sam was just different now, and Dean, Dean was too far gone.
When you’ve hunted long enough, you just can’t do anything else anymore.
Suddenly it was too damn late. Whenever it could have happened, now there was no point. Dean’s line was in the sand, his little brother fast on his heels. When could he have said it? What good would it do to say anything now?
They weren’t really boys, never had been. And now, they were men, Dean in his 30s, and Sam not far behind. All Bobby could do now was watch, and help how he could.
With hunters, there’s shit you just don’t talk about. Everyone living this kind of life gets a little squirrelly in some way or another. As long as no one was getting hurt too bad, you pretended not to notice.