Chapter Text
The highway stretched empty for miles.
Just dark asphalt, telephone poles, and the occasional pair of headlights cutting through the dusk before disappearing again.
Bobby drove one-handed, elbow hooked against the truck door, classic rock crackling low through blown speakers that gave up on decent sound sometime around 1998.
His shoulder hurt.
Actually, everything hurt.
Five hours to fix a transmission for a guy too cheap to hire local mechanics, another two wasted arguing over payment, and now three more hours until home because apparently Bobby Singer had forgotten how to say no sometime in the last twenty damn years.
He rubbed a hand over his beard roughly.
The truck smelled like motor oil, old coffee, and the cigarettes he technically quit six months ago.
Technically.
The cooler on the passenger floor rattled every time the road dipped.
Bobby glanced at the clock glowing faint green on the dashboard.
6:47 PM.
Still enough daylight left to make the road ugly instead of dangerous.
Barely.
He should’ve kept driving.
That was the annoying part.
If he’d had any self-control whatsoever, he would’ve ignored the shitty little motel glowing off the highway and kept heading home. But he was tired, hungry, outta aspirin, and running on gas station coffee and spite.
So.
Here he was.
The motel sat crooked against the road like it had given up years ago and nobody told the owner yet. Half the letters on the VACANCY sign were burned out. Gravel crunched under Bobby’s tires as he pulled in.
Tiny grocery store attached to the office.
Three gas pumps.
Buzzing neon.
Rotting wood trim.
Place looked like tetanus with electricity.
Bobby killed the engine and sat there for a second.
Something about the place made his shoulders tighten automatically.
Not danger exactly.
Just wrong.
Hunters learned that feeling early.
The instinct that told you:
leave.
Instead Bobby sighed heavily and climbed out of the truck.
Cold air hit him first.
Then cigarette smoke.
Then the sound of someone laughing too loud somewhere behind the motel rooms.
Bobby shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and headed toward the tiny store.
And stopped.
There was a kid outside.
Barefoot.
Bobby’s brain took a second too long trying to make the image make sense.
Basketball shorts hanging off sharp hips.
Oversized long sleeved shirt nearly down to his knees.
Skinny bare legs turning purple in the October cold.
Bruises.
Too many bruises.
The boy couldn’t have been older than nine.
Maybe ten.
Except something about the face—
Older eyes.
Terrified ones.
The kid flinched when laughter echoed from somewhere across the parking lot. Arms wrapped around himself immediately like instinct.
And around his neck—
A tag.
Bobby stared.
White cardboard.
Numbers written in thick black marker.
For one horrible second his brain refused to process it.
Then it did.
And Bobby felt sick.
Not angry first.
Not yet.
Just sick.
The kid kept his eyes down on the gravel like he’d learned eye contact was dangerous.
Jesus Christ.
Bobby had seen bad things before.
Seen what people could do to each other when they stopped thinking of someone as human.
But this—
This was a child.
The store bell jingled when Bobby shoved the door open harder than intended.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.
Tiny place.
Two aisles.
Beer cooler.
Old register.
Microwave that looked older than God.
And behind the counter—
Another kid.
This one younger.
Maybe six.
Seven tops.
Too thin too.
Dark circles under his eyes.
Oversized motel sweater with holes in the sleeves.
Pencil tucked behind one ear while he glared down at a ledger book.
The register drawer jammed.
The kid smacked it without looking up.
“Piece of shit.”
Bobby blinked.
The boy looked up finally.
Sharp eyes.
Smart ones.
And angry.
Mean angry.
Protective angry.
The kinda anger adults usually earned.
Bobby grabbed the nearest beer mostly because his hands needed something to do.
“Seven forty-two,” the kid said flatly.
Bobby stared at him.
At the bruises.
At the exhaustion.
At the fact that this child was running a damn register.
Outside, through the front window, the older boy flinched violently at some sound Bobby couldn’t hear.
The younger boy noticed instantly.
His entire body tightened.
Protective.
Oh, hell.
The pieces started fitting together all at once and Bobby suddenly wished very badly he’d kept driving.
Not because he didn’t care.
Because now he did.
And that was gonna become a problem real damn quick.
“You work here?” Bobby asked before thinking better of it.
The kid gave him a look that could strip paint.
“Kinda obvious.”
And then the office door slammed open.
“What the hell’d you do now?” a man barked.
Mid-forties maybe.
Sweaty.
Mean-eyed.
Half drunk already.
The younger kid rolled his eyes instantly.
“Maybe if you actually tracked inventory—”
“We’re going bankrupt because the numbers never match!”
“That’s not how profit margins work, asshole. You can’t drink half your inventory and then act surprised when the numbers don’t match.”
Bobby almost snorted despite himself.
The man did not appreciate the economics lesson.
“I said shut your damn mouth when adults are talking.”
“Well maybe adults should know basic math then.”
Oh, this kid had a death wish.
The man stormed forward.
And the older boy moved so fast Bobby barely processed it.
One second outside.
Next second throwing himself between them.
Bare knees hitting dirty tile hard enough Bobby winced.
“Please don’— please sorry—”
The kid shook violently.
Not dramatic.
Not fake.
Pure terror.
Trying to shield the younger one with his whole body.
The younger boy’s anger vanished instantly.
“Dean—”
The man raised his hand.
And something inside Bobby snapped.
“How much?”
Silence.
The drunk looked confused.
“What?”
Bobby slammed the beer onto the counter hard enough the kid behind it jumped.
“How much for both boys?”
The older kid froze completely.
The younger one grabbed his wrist instantly.
Protective again.
Like Bobby had just confirmed every nightmare he already expected from the world.
The drunk laughed slowly.
“You serious?”
Bobby didn’t answer.
Didn’t trust himself to.
The man leaned against the doorway.
“Well, the older bitch ain’t worth much anymore,” he said casually.
Bobby saw the older boy flinch like he’d been punched.
“The little one’s useful though. Smart little bastard. Keeps the books.”
Something ugly and furious curled in Bobby’s stomach.
Not monsters.
People always talked like evil looked obvious.
Truth was evil usually looked ordinary.
Cheap beer breath.
Sweat stains.
Complaining about money while destroying children.
Bobby hated that.
Hated that he understood it too well.
The negotiation itself blurred afterward.
Cash.
Too much of it.
The younger kid watching Bobby like a cornered animal the entire time.
The older one trembling so hard Bobby wondered how he was still upright.
Then suddenly—
They were outside.
Free.
And neither boy looked relieved.
The younger one climbed into the passenger seat immediately without being told.
Strategic.
Putting himself between Bobby and the older boy.
The older boy hesitated beside the back door.
Bare feet against cold gravel.
Bobby looked down automatically.
No shoes.
Jesus Christ.
“You get carsick?” Bobby asked roughly.
The kid startled hard like he’d forgotten adults could ask questions without yelling.
“N-no, sir.”
Tiny voice.
Broken-up speech.
Wet eyes.
Bobby had to look away for a second.
The kid climbed into the back carefully, making himself as small as humanly possible against the door.
And just sat there waiting.
Like a dog expecting to be hit for climbing on furniture.
The younger boy immediately pointed at the seatbelt.
“Dean.”
The older boy blinked at him.
Confused.
Then looked around the truck uncertainly.
Right.
Never used one before.
The younger kid sighed dramatically and leaned over the seat, grabbing the belt himself.
“Like this, idiot.”
Gentle hands.
Careful voice.
Completely different from the one he used with adults.
The older boy ducked his head instantly.
“Sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize for not knowing things,” the younger kid muttered.
But he sounded tired when he said it.
Bobby gripped the steering wheel harder.
The drive started in silence.
Not normal silence.
Fear-filled silence.
The older boy sat curled into the corner of the backseat, knees against chest, hands shoved under his arms for warmth. Every time headlights passed too bright through the windows, he flinched.
The younger one tracked the road signs constantly.
Watching exits.
Distances.
Turns.
Calculating.
Like he was memorizing escape routes.
Neither kid spoke.
An hour in, Bobby finally turned the radio lower after noticing the older boy twitch every time the static cracked too loud.
The kid blinked.
Looked confused by the adjustment.
Then stared down at his own hands.
Like he didn’t know what to do with consideration.
Christ.
An hour and a half before Sioux Falls, Bobby pulled into a drive-thru.
Neither boy reacted much until bags started filling the cab with the smell of grease and salt.
Then the older kid went perfectly still.
Bobby ordered burgers, fries, waters.
The younger kid watched him suspiciously the entire time.
Like free food had to be a trick.
Probably did before.
Bobby handed the bags over once they parked.
“Eat.”
The younger boy immediately checked the wrappers first.
Then handed one burger backward without looking.
“Dean.”
The older boy took it carefully with both hands.
Like it was fragile.
Or expensive.
Bobby unwrapped his own burger quietly while watching through peripheral vision.
The older kid stared at the food for several seconds before taking tiny bites.
Too small.
Too careful.
The younger boy noticed too.
“Dean.”
“I’m eatin’.”
“That barely counts.”
The older boy shrank slightly.
“Sorry.”
The younger kid closed his eyes briefly like he was exhausted.
“You don’t gotta apologize every five seconds.”
The older boy whispered something too quiet for Bobby to hear.
The younger kid looked away immediately afterward.
Guilt.
Complicated guilt.
Bobby suddenly had the deeply unpleasant feeling he was missing entire years of context between these kids.
The older one only made it through a quarter of the burger and some fries before stopping.
The younger boy didn’t touch his own food.
Just watched Dean eat with tense shoulders.
“You’re supposed to eat too,” the older boy whispered eventually.
“I know.”
“You didn’.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Lie.
Obvious one.
The older boy looked distressed immediately.
In his head, Dean failed something important.
Bobby stared out the windshield for a long moment before speaking.
“What’re your names?”
The younger boy’s eyes snapped toward him sharp as knives.
There it is.
“Why?” he asked flatly.
“Because won‘t be callin’ you ‘kid.’”
The younger one laughed once.
Mean little sound.
“That’s what they all say first.”
The older boy whimpered softly from the backseat.
“Sam…”
Fear.
Not at Sam.
At conflict?
The younger boy ran a frustrated hand over his face.
“No, Dean, I’m not doin’ this.”
Bobby stayed very still.
The younger boy glared at the dashboard.
“You buy us, act nice for a while, then start asking questions like you’re somehow different.” His voice sharpened. “You’re not.”
The older boy started shaking harder.
“Sam, stop—”
“And Dean falls for it every damn time because he thinks if he just acts good enough people won’t hurt him—”
“Sam—”
“How can you still believe this crap?” the younger boy snapped suddenly, turning around. “You really think this guy’s different? Like all your clients?”
The older boy flinched like the words physically hurt.
Tears gathered instantly.
“I-I’m sorry.”
And Bobby realized with sick certainty:
The kid wasn’t apologizing for arguing.
He was apologizing for existing wrong.
Which—
Jesus.
Bobby had absolutely no idea what the hell he was supposed to do with that.
He’d dealt with cars.
Not crying children.
Certainly not fighting crying children.
Was this even a fight?
One kid was yelling.
The other looked ready to throw up from guilt.
That couldn’t be normal.
Bobby cleared his throat awkwardly.
“Hey now,” he said, trying for firm and landing somewhere near confused substitute teacher. “Don’t— uh. Don’t do that.”
Both boys froze instantly.
Wrong move.
The younger one turned slowly toward him.
“What does that even mean?”
Yep.
Definitely wrong move.
Bobby gripped the steering wheel harder.
“I’m just sayin’ there ain’t no need for yellin’.”
“There is if people don’t listen.”
“Well, screamin’ at each other ain’t helping much either.”
The younger boy scoffed loudly.
“Wow. Incredible advice.”
“Sam,” the older boy whispered desperately from the backseat.
The younger one whipped around immediately.
“What?”
The older boy shrank further into himself.
“S-sorry.”
And there it was again.
That awful automatic apology.
The younger boy’s anger cracked instantly.
His shoulders dropped.
“Dean,” he said tiredly, “I wasn’t yellin’ at you.”
The older boy rubbed at his face quickly with the sleeve hanging over his hands.
“O-okay.”
No.
Not okay.
Nothing about this was okay.
Bobby took a slow breath through his nose.
“Look,” he said carefully, “nobody’s gotta scream and nobody’s gotta cry, alright?”
The younger boy muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like:
“Easy for you to say.”
Bobby pretended not to hear it.
Mostly because he didn’t actually know how to answer.
Silence settled again.
The older kid sniffed quietly in the backseat, trying very hard not to make noise about it.
Like crying too loud might get him in trouble.
God.
Bobby rubbed a hand over his beard again.
“Names,” he tried again, gentler this time.
The younger boy eyed him suspiciously for another few seconds.
Then:
“Sam.”
He jerked his chin toward the backseat.
“That’s Dean.”
Dean immediately looked panicked.
Like maybe Sam wasn’t supposed to tell people that.
Bobby kept his voice even.
“Alright. Nice t’meetcha, Sam. Dean.”
Dean stared at the back of Bobby’s seat like direct eye contact might kill him.
Sam crossed his arms.
“You always talk like a cowboy or is that a medical condition?”
Bobby barked a surprised laugh before he could stop himself.
Sam looked mildly offended, he didn’t mean for him to laugh, he wanted to offend him.
Dean blinked rapidly from the backseat, startled by the sound.
Bobby noticed immediately and lowered his voice a little before answering.
“Mechanic. Not cowboy.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“Smartass.”
“Takes one to know one.”
Dean made a tiny distressed sound.
“Sam—”
“What?” Sam snapped automatically, then sighed when Dean flinched. “I’m not starting anything.”
Dean still looked unconvinced.
Bobby glanced at them through the mirror.
The younger one all sharp corners and teeth.
The older one folded into himself so tightly he barely looked human anymore.
“How old are you boys?” Bobby asked.
Sam answered immediately.
“Seven.”
Bobby nearly drove off the road.
Seven?
He looked tiny, sure, but—
Jesus.
Bobby glanced toward the backseat.
“And Dean?”
Silence.
Dean looked at Sam first before answering.
Like checking permission.
“Th-thirteen, sir.”
Bobby stared into the darkness ahead.
Thirteen.
Christ almighty.
The kid looked half that.
“You don’t look thirteen,” Bobby muttered before thinking better of it.
Dean immediately curled tighter into himself.
“S-sorry.”
Sam looked ready to commit homicide.
“For what?” Bobby asked quickly.
Dean blinked.
Confused.
Like the answer should’ve been obvious.
“I dunno.”
That one nearly broke something in Bobby’s chest.
Sam looked away toward the window.
“He says sorry when he gets nervous,” he muttered quietly this time. “Or scared. Or when people look at him too long. Or when he breathes wrong.”
Dean’s face crumpled slightly.
“Sorry.”
Sam smacked a hand over his own eyes.
“Oh my God.”
Bobby cleared his throat again, trying to think of literally any normal thing people asked kids.
Problem was, Bobby had never really spent time around kids before.
Especially not kids that looked like frightened stray animals somebody had accidentally taught to talk.
“So,” he started awkwardly, eyes on the road, “either of you got allergies?”
Silence.
Bobby glanced over briefly.
Sam frowned.
Dean looked anxious immediately.
“What’s that mean?” Sam asked carefully.
Right.
Right, okay, that was apparently not a normal question either.
Bobby tried again.
“Uh. Food stuff. Medicine. Things that make you sick.”
Dean’s shoulders hunched harder.
“S-sorry, I don’ know, sir.”
Bobby immediately regretted the question.
“It ain’t a test, kid.”
Dean nodded too quickly anyway.
Sam kept staring at Bobby suspiciously.
“No one’s ever asked us that before.”
That sat heavy in the truck.
Bobby grunted softly and kept driving.
The highway had gone almost completely dark now, trees blurring black against black outside the windows.
He tried again after a minute.
“What grade are you boys in?”
The silence this time felt different.
Sharper.
Bobby saw Sam’s posture lock instantly.
Damn it.
What’d he say now?
Sam answered first.
“I’m supposed to be in second,” he said flatly. “But I’m ahead a year.”
There was challenge in it.
Defensiveness.
Like Bobby might laugh.
Bobby just nodded once.
“Smart kid, huh?”
Sam shrugged one shoulder like the compliment physically annoyed him.
Then Bobby glanced in the mirror toward the backseat.
“And you, Dean?”
Dean froze.
Not metaphorically.
Actually froze.
His hands tightened hard around the sleeves covering them.
Eyes dropping instantly.
“Oh, ummm...” Bobby said quickly, not understanding. “You don’t gotta answer if—”
“He’s never been to school.”
Sam’s voice cut through the truck sharp as glass.
Bobby looked toward him carefully.
Sam was staring straight ahead now.
Jaw tight enough to crack teeth.
“He can’t read,” Sam continued. “Can barely count past ten sometimes because nobody ever taught him shit except how to work.”
Dean whispered again.
“Sam…”
Not stop talking.
Please don’t be angry.
Bobby could hear the difference now.
Dean leaned forward slightly from the backseat, eyes locked desperately onto Sam’s profile.
Like if Sam would just look at him, everything would calm down again.
Dean made a tiny broken sound.
Pleading this time.
Sam finally turned his head.
And all that fury softened instantly the second he saw Dean crying again.
“Jesus, Dean,” he muttered quietly.
Dean rubbed at his face hard with his sleeve.
“S-sorry.”
“You didn’t do anything.”
But Dean still looked terrified.
Like somehow the entire conversation had become his fault.
Sam looked away sharply, furious at something much bigger than the truck.
Then he turned back toward Bobby.
And the look in his eyes changed completely.
Cold.
Dead serious.
“If you mock him,” Sam said quietly, “or take advantage of him because he doesn’t know stuff, I’ll kill you.”
The words should not have sounded believable coming from a seven-year-old.
But they did.
Every single one.
Dean whimpered softly.
“No.”
Sam never looked away from Bobby.
“He’s not stupid,” he said. “So don’t treat him like he is.”
Bobby gripped the steering wheel tighter.
Something ugly twisted in his chest again.
Because the kid sounded practiced saying that.
Like he’d had to defend Dean before.
A lot.
Bobby looked back at the road.
“You know,” he said slowly, “I ain’t exactly got a great track record with people myself.”
Sam narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
“But,” Bobby continued, “I do know nobody learns things without someone teachin’ ’em first.”
Silence.
Dean had stopped crying hard enough to hiccup now.
Still staring at Sam like he was waiting for permission to breathe normally again.
“And for the record,” Bobby added gruffly, “any grown man makin’ fun of a kid for not knowin’ somethin’ oughta get his ass kicked.”
Sam blinked.
Just once.
Like he hadn’t expected that answer.
The truck turned onto a smaller road.
Gravel crackled under the tires.
Tall trees swallowed the headlights on both sides.
Dean tensed immediately in the backseat.
Sam noticed too.
“Where are we?” he asked sharply.
“My house” Bobby answered.