puchuupoet: (open road.)
[personal profile] puchuupoet
Title: drive until the morning light
Author: Puchuupoet
Pairing: John/Bobby
Word Count: ~940
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine, never happened, completely fictional. Un-beta'd.

Notes: Encouraged by [livejournal.com profile] moltobene1925 over at the [livejournal.com profile] ontd_spnparty tonight. Title from the Cancer Bats' "Lucifer's Rocking Chair". Takes place pre-series (I'm picturing Dean ~12)

As he eases the Impala through the piles of cars, John's pretty sure he can see Bobby sitting in front of the house, that massive dog chained up next to him. When he finally parks in front of them, Sam and Dean are squealing with excitement, pointing at the dog and sticking their faces up against the window.

Dean waits, twisting his head around to watch John, til John dips his head down in a nod. Dean and Sam tumble out of the back seat, more hesitant now that the dog's in front of them, but Bobby's there, encouraging them on and cupping their heads with calloused fingers.

Now that he's here John's acutely aware of how he really looks, unshaven and ripe, having run out of quarters for his own clothes at the last laundromat. He runs his fingers through his hair before glancing over at the boys and finds Bobby staring at him.

John snags the keys and stiffly climbs out of the Impala, back sore from the fourteen hour drive. Once he had left the message that he was coming to South Dakota, bringing the boys along with him, John hadn't given himself an opportunity to back out. Kept pushing himself with every reason he could come up with: that the boys could do with a break, that he could even, even though it hurt to admit that.

Bobby's already walking around to the driver's side, so John just stands there, awkward and waiting for something to happen. A rightful accusation for keeping the boys away for far too long, some sort of comment on how John's driving himself to an early grave, the way he's going after the monsters out there. But Bobby just reaches out, grasps John's hand in a quick shake before he's pulling him closer, voice muffled in John's collar. "Ya look like shit, you know."

John huffs out a laugh, the noise catching Dean's attention and a curious glance and John feels a quick stab of guilt for how attentive Dean is to him. It's for Dean's own good, John's mantra goes, but when he's tangled in his memories in the bottom of a bottle, he's quicker to admit that it's his own ass that needs looking after more than the boys' sometimes.


Bobby insists on cooking, happens to have half a cow in his freezer that Dean and Sam look at with wide, hungry eyes. John barely remembers the last time Dean cooked something for them all, let alone himself, and he picks at the food on his plate as Dean and Sam tell Bobby about the road trip over. He nods when Dean asks if they can play outside, and he doesn't move til Bobby kicks at his foot, waving a beer in his face.

John follows him outside, to that rickety porch covered in rusted rims and scrap iron. Bobby sits down on the wooden bench and stares at John til he does the same. The wood groans when Bobby leans back, arm slung along the length of the wood, and John can feel the noise echo throughout his body.

John hates this, how Bobby can say everything without saying a goddamn thing, and he waits til he sees Dean and Sam on the far side of the lot before leaning back himself, stretching his legs til his thigh is pressed tight against Bobby's. There's a moment where everything pauses, where John wonders if he read things wrong, that things have changed, but then Bobby's fingers are curling in his collar, pulling him closer, letting go long enough to tangle in John's hair. Fingertips trace over a hidden scar, a Wendigo fight almost gone horrifically wrong, and John gasps against Bobby's mouth.


It's dusk when the boys come in, dirty and grinning with scraped up knuckles and Sam with a pocketful of stuff only a magpie could have collected. John hugs them both from where he's seated on the couch and sends them off with a "Dean, get yourselves ready for bed." Their footsteps echo in the house, up the stairs and across the second floor, and John's glad for the distraction. He's on his third beer with his head tipped back against the sofa, almost convinced he could doze off until the cushion next to him dips and squeaks and then he's on the defensive, breath short and his fingers twisted around the bottle, ready to crack it against the closest hard surface available.

Bobby's low chuckle does nothing to calm him, pisses him off more even, and right when he tenses up is when Bobby grabs his upper arm and pulls, dragging John down with him til they're both tipped over on the couch. John's awkwardly leaning low on Bobby's chest, can hear how rapidly his heart's beating and he tentatively moves up til his forehead brushes Bobby's cheek.

"You need to get some sleep." Bobby's matter of fact about it, but John presses his head back against Bobby's palm and is rewarded with sharp pressure, fingers kneading and scritching John's scalp.

" 'm doing fine," he murmurs against Bobby's collarbone, enjoying the way his lips drag across his skin, and how Bobby still tastes like the soap that John used to use.

"Bullshit." Bobby's fingers tighten, pulling John's head back til he's staring Bobby down. "You're staying here til you can say that without lying to me."

"I dunno," John pauses as he leans forward, ghosting his lips over Bobby's. "That could take awhile."

Bobby just pulls him closer, arm wrapping around John's waist, fingers slipping underneath his t-shirt. "I'm not letting you go that easily this time."

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