Chapter Text
"Earlobes," Dean muttered in disgust. "What the hell takes earlobes?"
Sam ran a tired hand down his face. "I don't know man," he said, flipping the last book in his stack shut.
Sam stood up, cracking his neck in the way he knew Dean hated.
Dean scowled at him, but Sam merely smirked back, stretching his back out, bending one way, then the other.
“I say we ask Bobby,” Sam said when he was done stretching his back in increasingly ridiculous ways.
Those couldn't possibly work. Dean was sure Sam was trying to bait him into telling him that, and then Sam would launch into an hour and a half lecture about the boring muscles in the back and how best to stretch them.
Well not today, little brother. Dean was too tired from reading five hundred thousand books that were distinctly not about earlobe stealing creatures to kick Sammy into teacher mode.
Dean ignored the moves that couldn't possibly be stretching and latched on to the statement.
"Yeah, I vote 'call Bobby' too. Let's pack up the weapons and then go get some grub."
He walked over to the bed they had spread their weapons on after they had cleaned them that morning.
"A Tori Spelling marathon is on, so I should probably call him, since I'm his favorite," Dean said, turning to smirk at Sam over his shoulder before returning to the spread of weapons.
"What?" Sam asked, startled and a little hurt.
Dean didn't catch the change in tone, focused on packing the weapons strewn all over the bed back into their bag.
“Yeah, he told me on the truth spell case," Dean said casually.
A second later, he realized what he had said.
"Oh," Dean spun around and pointed an authoritative finger at his brother. "Wait, don't try to remember that!” Dean commanded.
Studying him for a moment, Dean eventually seemed satisfied that he wasn't ignoring the order and doing his best to remember, and turned back to the weapons.
“We were on a case for the Veritas goddess who cursed me to make everyone tell me the truth, and we ganked her, that's all you need to know. Don't scratch the wall!”
"And," Sam started, an oddly hesitant note in his voice, "Bobby told you that you were his favorite?”
Something in his tone caught Dean's attention and Dean spared him a glance.
"Uh, yeah, he told me some embarrassing stuff that you do not want to know, and then he went,” Dean cleared his throat, doing a bad impression of Bobby's voice in an attempt to lighten the mood, “probably because you're my favorite, wait, why am I telling you this?"
Sam's lips twitched up in an attempt of a smile, but his eyes betrayed his act. He looked down for a long moment.
"Oh." He said eventually, studying the stained carpet. "I guess I can see that.”
He stood up with a self deprecating huff. "Can't say I blame him.”
Dean opened his mouth, searching for a way to make this better, but Sam was already walking across the room, throwing the comment "I've just gotta hit the head before we go" over his shoulder as he went. And suddenly a door was between them.
Dean dropped onto the corner of the bed closest to the bathroom and stared at the door.
He told himself he needed to get up and actually make the call to Bobby that started this whole mess, but he couldn't help noticing that the bathroom was silent. Too silent. Dean continued sitting on the bed, staring at the door.
If he hadn't been straining to hear, he would have missed it. A small sniff, followed by a near silent sob.
That spurred him into action, and he was up and across the room, reaching for the doorknob in two strides.
He paused before he could make contact, hand hanging in the air as he considered.
So he goes busting in, then what? Does he kneel down, look at his brother and tell him, ‘Hey Sammy, sorry I made you cry. Bobby still likes you, he just likes me better’?
Or maybe, ‘Hey Sammy, I know that almost all our friends are dead, and we're down to like four people who give a damn about us, but even if I'm his favorite, Bobby still likes you, promise’.
Dean sighed, letting his hand fall to his side, cursing his big mouth.
He stared at the door for another long moment, flinching when he heard another muffled sob. This is not how he had wanted this day to go.
The phrase ‘can't say I blame him’ rang through his head on repeat. He turned, and walked back to the weapons laying out on the bed, contemplating the problem as he packed the weapons on autopilot.
The problem was that a small, selfish, part of Dean liked being Bobby's favorite, and he didn't want to change that. He hadn't meant to say it out loud, he had planned on it being his little secret, something to keep him warm at night.
‘But it did pop out,' he thought with a sigh, ‘and now my baby brother's crying in the bathroom.’
They'd been here too many times before. Dean cleaning and packing the room while his brother cried in the bathroom where he thought no one could hear him.
Dozens of memories of their childhood flashed through Dean's mind. Memories of Sam trying his hardest to keep up with his brother, and falling short, unable to compete with someone four years older than him.
Their dad would make a snide comment, and Sam would mutter "I just gotta hit the head before we go," before locking himself in the bathroom where Dean could hear his muffled cries.
Dean wasn't sure if his dad had heard them. He wasn't sure if his dad had cared.
Sam could do a disturbingly good job of covering up the fact that he'd been crying. He'd come out ten minutes later without red eyes or flushed cheeks, and they'd all go on as if nothing had happened.
Well, twenty minutes later if their dad praised Dean before ripping Sam's efforts to shreds.
Sighing for what seemed like the hundredth time, Dean zipped the bag shut, but left his hand on the zipper as he continued to stare at the weapons bag as if it could fix this.
‘And that was the crux of it, wasn't it?' Dean thought morosely. Another father had chosen Dean over Sam, only this time, Sam and Dean were equal.
Dean wasn't chosen because he was older and actually capable of doing what was being asked of them. Dean wasn't the favorite because Sam was constantly having to play catch up.
No matter how smart or fit he was, a fourteen year old Sam just couldn't compete with an eighteen year old Dean. That was true when dad tore into him, but they were both adults when Bobby had made his proclamation. They were equal adults, and Bobby still liked Dean better.
'Can't say I blame him' echoed through Dean's head.
Suddenly it didn't make Dean feel warm or special to be the favorite, because what the hell, Bobby?
Dean had always thought Bobby didn't play favorites, that he and his brother were equally loved.
Dean's brow furrowed as he thought about that more. The equal favorites thing made sense to him, but if you were going to pick a favorite, how could you possibly look at Dean, and look at Sammy, and not choose Sammy?
Sammy with his floppy hair, and his big soulful puppy eyes. Sammy who looked at Dean like he hung the moon, and Bobby like he was the best dad in the world. Sammy who tried so hard in everything he ever did, and never expected to be praised for it. What the hell, Bobby?
The weapons were packed and the default ten minutes were almost up, so if Dean wanted to call Bobby before Sam came out, he'd have to do it now.
Maybe he should also ask what made Bobby pick a favorite, because what the hell, Bobby? Sammy was a choice, and -
Dean cut off his train of thought with a shake of his head. He'd waste the remainder of his time if he let himself ponder that decision, and the phone call would be exponentially more awkward if Sam was sitting at the table reading his books again and making failed attempts not to show his feelings were hurt.
For someone so smart, sometimes his little brother was an idiot. As if Dean wouldn't notice his brother was hurting.
He'd always had a good radar for his little brother's pain, physical or emotional, but after working with the soulless douchebag's unemotional personality for months, Dean's radar had been honed to perfection, automatically noting the little twitches and body language cues that said so much more than Sam probably realized.
Dean shook his head and wondered, not for the first time, what on Earth went on in Sam's head. Didn't he know that he was the most important person in Dean's world?
Anyway, Bobby. Dean needed to call Bobby, he reminded himself.
He cast a glance at the bathroom door, still nearly silent, and realized that taking a call in the bedroom before Sam came out would do no good considering how thin the bathroom door was.
He grabbed his phone and motel key off the table and quietly slipped outside to make the call.
As the door clicked shut behind him, Dean punched in Bobby's number, looking around the parking lot as it rang.
Spring was on its way. The sun was warm, and the breeze was the perfect amount of cool... it would have been a beautiful day if his brother wasn't crying in the bathroom.
"Singer," Bobby answered gruffly, pulling Dean out of his thoughts of how unfair it was that this happened on a day with such nice weather.
"Hey, Bobby, it's Dean. We've got a research question for you.”
"’Course you do,” Bobby said, and Dean just knew Bobby was rolling his eyes at him.
Something sizzled and popped on Bobby's end. He must be cooking. Bobby couldn't cook much, but what he could cook, he was damn good at. Dean was uncomfortably reminded of how hungry he had been before this whole mess. This day just got better and better.
"We're in La Grande, Oregon,” Dean rattled off. “We have ten dead. The spleen, pancreas, and earlobes were missing from every victim."
"Earlobes?" Bobby asked. "You're sure?"
Dean rolled his eyes, not bothering to hide his exasperated sigh. "Yeah, Bobby, I'm sure. There's been ten vics in the past two weeks, and none of them had earlobes when they were found."
Bobby ignored his attitude, moving on to the answer instead of making a futile effort to get Dean to behave. “Ok, well, that means it's a Scryalird, nasty son of a bitch. They eat the rest, but they use the earlobes to pad their nest, and let me tell you, it is ain’t pretty to stumble upon that little nursery."
Dean shuddered at the thought. Why were supernatural creatures so gross? Who pads a nursery with earlobes? He shuddered again.
"They're birds," Bobby continued. "Ugly birds. Talons the size of hedge trimmers, don’t let them catch ya, because it ain’t pleasant. Since it's nesting, there'll be two around. Find the nearest woods to the attack sites, that's where they'll be."
Dean nodded, even though Bobby couldn't see him. "Does it take anything special to gank 'em?"
"Nothin’ special," Bobby said confidently, and Dean took a second to marvel at how much about hunting Bobby knew off the top of his head. "Regular old guns will do it, but the shot has to be through the eye. Either eye will do."
"Ok, got it," Dean said. "Anything else?"
"Yeah there's something else!" Bobby shot back, unexpectedly annoyed. "Now, I know I told you that you could keep some tools at my place, but I didn't mean you could leave ‘em everywhere! You're cleaning up my garage next time you're here."
That was the perfect opening. "Aww, shoot," Dean drawled jokingly, "did I lose my favorite status?"
"Oh, don't flatter yourself, boy," Bobby scoffed. "You're just lucky you got hit with the truth spell while Sam was a soulless dick."
Dean paused for a moment, both surprised and ashamed of the hurt he felt at that.
He took a deep breath and made sure none of it came through his cheerful tone.
"Aww, that didn't last long. I'll tell Sam he's once again the champion of that dubious honor.”
Bobby paused. "Did you hit your head?” he asked finally, "Or have you always been this stupid? Sam's not my favorite.”
Dean blinked, knowing there was a point, but not quite understanding what Bobby was trying to tell him.
"So, what? You have a third kid running around?"
The word kid popped out before he could stop it, but it was too late to shove it back in now.
Dean clenched his eyes shut and hoped Bobby wouldn't comment on that little slip. Dean didn't know if he could handle Bobby telling him that they were just hunters that consistently needed help, not his kids.
Bobby finally put Dean out of his misery and answered in a strange tone, like he didn't understand how Dean's response connected. "No I don't have a third kid running around, ya idjit. What's gotten into you? You boys give me more than enough grey hairs, thank you very much. I think a third kid would kill me."
'I shouldn't have gone outside,’ Dean thought to himself as his eyes watered, ‘it's messing with my allergies.'
"You are not my favorite," Bobby continued. "Sam is not my favorite, parents shouldn't have favorites.”
‘Damn allergies,’ Dean thought as his watery eyes spilled over.
Bobby seemed to realize that this was serious, because his next words were soft and sincere.
"Dean Winchester, I love both of you boys. Equally. Neither of you boys are my favorite, but you are both my favorite boys."
Dean swallowed hard and replied in a hoarse whisper, “Thanks, Bobby.”
"Don't thank me, kid," Bobby said fondly. "Just clean up your crap next time you visit.”
Dean huffed a laugh and shook his head ruefully. “Ok, Bobby."
"Good," Bobby said, "now go tell your brother you're hunting a Scryalird, and then shag ass up here and clean your crap before I decide to sell it."
"Don't you dare sell those," Dean demanded, only half jokingly, “it took me forever to build that collection!”
"Then get up here and clean it up, ya idjit." Bobby said before hanging up the phone.
Dean huffed a laugh, indescribably grateful for Bobby Singer.
‘The man is efficient,’ Dean thought to himself as he looked at the blinking ‘call ended’ message displayed on his phone. Barely even a four minute phone call and Bobby had fixed both of his problems.
Feeling lighter, Dean dug the key out of his pocket, letting himself back into the room. He glanced at the small mountain of books sitting on the table and felt another wave of gratitude to Bobby that they wouldn’t have to keep researching.
His spirits fell as he looked around the room and saw no Sam and a still shut bathroom door. They were creeping up on fifteen minutes. Damn it.
It was alright though, Dean reminded himself. All of this was fixable and he had a plan.
Step one, go get some freakin food before he wasted away to nothing but a pile of skin and bones.
Step two, tell Sam it’s a Scryalird and gank the earlobe stealing freak.
Step three, convince Sam that Dean had misunderstood what Bobby meant while they were on their way to convince Bobby not to sell his carefully gathered collection just to make a point.
Piece of cake. Even better, this was gonna be easy as a piece of pie. After all, now that he had a plan, what could go wrong?