Not on my watch

14. Time to forgive

Is it my fault?

Is it my fault?

We've been missing each other.

(Imagine Dragons, "My fault")

On the afternoon of a very warm day of July, Bobby Singer opened his front door to find himself face to face with John Winchester. The hunter, whose forty-five years of rough life showed on his grim wrinkles, was apparently wearing the same clothes he had murdered something with: his pants were ripped from the knees down and his jacket was so stained with blood that one couldn't guess its original color.

Bobby didn't even raise an eyebrow, he just kept chewing the last bite of his sandwich.

- You're late - he pointed out.

John shrugged, as unimpressed as him.

- Those bastards wouldn't die.

Bobby stayed still, looking into the eyes of the man responsible for all the trouble he had had to go through during the last few weeks, but finally he stepped aside to let the third Winchester of his life enter his house. He walked his way to the kitchen, slowly but steadily, and stopped to lean on the counter, his arms crossed, while John stalled by the threshold and took a look at the nearby living room.

- No point in looking around, the boys aren't here - Bobby informed him, gazing at the other man's face to be able to witness every reaction. - I sent them to the movies.

John sighed, putting his duffel bag on the floor, at his feet.

- I suppose they aren't enthusiastic about me coming here.

- I think Dean can't wait to see his family back together - replied Bobby, still stiff but sincere. - Sam doesn't know you would have come here yet. That's whom I would expect a fierce opposition from.

- Hm.

John had just nodded and something about it made Bobby's stomach hurt. He suddenly felt he needed to shake things up a bit, or he would have ended up jumping down his friend's throat before achieving anything.

- And you can't really blame him for that - he added.

There came a dangerous sparkle in John's eyes.

Got you, old man.

- Of course I can. And I do - John exclaimed, looking bewildered. - That boy disobeyed me, to say the least. He left home at night, without saying anything to anyone, drank irresponsibly and as a result he nearly got himself killed. What was I supposed to do?

- Something else - the oldest answered without hesitating, as cold as ice. - Not what I heard and saw.

John looked at him with pure exasperation.

- I don't recognize you anymore, Bobby - he confessed. - You never were against the idea of punishing the boys. On the contrary, for Christ's sake, you kept my sons in line just reminding them of the last time you had spanked them!

- I still do, actually. Ask Dean - Bobby specified, after closing his eyes for a moment to scrape together some calm. - I'm not the one who changed, John.

- What do you mean?

The amazement on his face seemed genuine, but Bobby was on the verge of a burst of anger and felt the urgent need to speak frankly. That broken man would never have figured it out on his own.

- What do I mean? You really have no idea? - he asked, frowning. - Sit down - he said, gesturing towards the table. When John complied, Bobby got them two glasses of whiskey before joining him. - Before I start listing the ways in which you risked screwing up your relationship with your sons once and for all, let's make something clear: unless I decide you really deserve another chance, I won't let you anywhere near Sam. Dean is twenty years old, if he wishes to follow you there isn't much I can do, apart from using my powers of persuasion. But Sam came here in tears, asking for my help. He's sixteen. And unless I see you can be the man you were once again, I'll be a father to him - When John tried to rise up, Bobby silenced him with his next words, deadly serious: - Tell me you won't let me do that. Get mad. Come on, give it a try. I took pictures of Sam's bruises and your son is still very angry. In this state, he would be happy to talk with a social worker. You'll need all my help to get him back, dude.