Brothers

Royal rebels discover you.
Trust? you turn there is no truth.
And circle, circle, why are you scared?
Why a smile instead of tears?
I'm gulping smoke to fade away.
Figures floating down to lay.
Meet the joker and the thief,
The king and queen but-no relief.

Comrades. Best friends. Brothers. They’d been all of those things to each other, and most nights that was what mattered. Most nights, Bobby would spend a few seconds thinking of the people he’d lost, the people he missed, and John was always one of them.

Then there were nights like this, and Bobby wished he’d never met John Winchester.

The boys were asleep now, in an empty room that hadn’t been used since the last time they’d had to spend the night. They’d only arrived a few hours ago. They smiled and laughed and said they’d rather not talk about the reason they were showing up at his place in the middle of the night with no warning.

“But what the hell did you boys get into this time?” Bobby had asked as Sam and Dean entered his house, looking a little worse for the wear.

“Nothing we couldn’t handle,” Dean replied, all bravado and not much to back it up.

“A demon,” Sam replied. “We took care of it.”

Bobby offered them dinner. They declined, but they took the beers he held out.

“Sammy’s gotten real fast at exorcizing them, Bobby,” Dean said. “I was out back, looking for the bitch, and by the time I got inside he’d already done it.”

Sam laughed nervously and shrugged. “I had practice.”

Bobby knew better. Something was going on. Something bad.

Dean knew better, too. But neither of them said anything. It wouldn’t help. Sam was too much like his father.

He was too much like John.

Sam thought Dean took after their father, and he did, to an extent. But the truth was, Sam was the one that resembled him the most. He’d gotten his father’s pig-headedness, refusal to follow anyone else’s advice or orders, and ability to shut down and flat-out lie to anyone he decided he wanted to hide the truth from, and hide it well.

“Well, give me a chance next time,” Dean said, slapping Sam on the back. “Man, I’m out of practice!” His expression frayed slightly, and Bobby could tell he was exhausted. Well, coming back from Hell wasn’t exactly a vacation. “And maybe if we worked together, we’d have time, and-”

“There was nothing I could do,” Sam said. “You know they almost always die.”

Bobby sat back and watched, adjusting his baseball cap. The boys gave up more information when you just sat back and listened. Asking questions would just shut them down.

“Yeah, I know,” Dean said. He looked a little shaken. He looked more than a little worried.

Bobby knew Dean saw exactly what he did. Little Sammy wasn’t reacting the way Dean expected him to. He’d killed someone when he removed that demon, and he didn’t have much – if any – remorse.

Of course, Bobby knew that just like himself, Dean expected Sam to be that way after Dean died. He’d lost his brother, and the two of them shared a bond that was unnatural close.

But now Dean was back. Bobby supposed that Dean had expected everything to go back to normal. He supposed that for that year that he’d been waiting to die, he’d thought in the back of his mind what Sam would be like after he went, and what he’d be like if they found a way to bring him back.

“Could we crash, Bobby? I’m pretty tired,” Sam said.

“You know the way,” Bobby said, finishing off his beer. “And try not to make a mess this time, ‘ya idjits.”

“Thanks, Bobby,” Dean said. He got up and followed Sam upstairs to hit the sack.

They’d both expected Sam to freak out, to die a little inside, to maybe go a little crazy, when Dean finally went. After all, he was just like his father. When Bobby had first met John, he’d been just like Sam had become only days after Dean died.

Distant. Focused. Determined. Disconnected.

They’d both expected that if Dean ever came back, though, Sam would go back to being Sammy again. Sam would be like he was before.

They’d both been wrong.

Damn John. Wasn’t losing his wife enough? Had he really needed to be a full time hunter? Had he really needed to raise his boys the way he did? Had he really needed to sell his soul just to give Dean more time?

He taught his sons well, and they’d become just like him. Especially Sam.

So on nights like this, where Bobby could sense the presence of those two boys that he’d known ever since they were children sleeping in the room next door, and something dark, and something evil, and something wrong all at the same time following them around, he hated John. On nights like this, he wished he’d never met John Winchester. He knew in the morning, he’d see Sam and Dean and they’d smile and he’d make them breakfast and it would be back to normal, whatever that was. In the morning he’d be glad he knew them. He’d be glad things turned out the way they were.

But it wasn’t morning yet.

If he hadn’t helped lead John down this path, would those boys be somewhere else right now? Would they be in college? Married? With jobs – real jobs – to go to? Would they be able to sleep without salt around the bed?

Maybe it wasn’t John he hated. But you can’t change the past, and they’d been comrades. Brothers in arms. Brothers.

Much like Sam and Dean.