Chapter Text
First time John dumps him and Sammy off on Bobby’s doorstep, Dean’s not sure what to think.
Dean gives the grouchy middle-aged hunter standing on the front porch a once-over, noting the rottweiler sprawled out at his feet. Dog daemons are a dime a dozen—especially among hunters and the ex-militery types he’s used to his dad associating with—but something about Bobby’s seems different, although Dean can’t quite put his finger on what. Whatever it is, Dean decides to focus more on wrangling both Sammy and Nisha before they wander off, and leaves Celeste to watch the other daemon with a sharp, suspicious look.
The rottweiler grumbles and yawns widely, revealing a chipped canine. Celeste curls her lip and lets out a low growl.
“Manners,” John says. Then, “Dean, this is Bobby Singer. He’ll watch over you boys while I’m gone.” John doesn’t introduce Bobby’s daemon, but that’s hardly unusual. People don’t really make a habit of speaking directly to someone else’s daemon. Even still, Dean finds himself wondering.
Bobby extends a hand. His handshake is a bit rough, the callouses over his palms too thick to come purely from hunting. Judging by the scrapyard sign they passed when they drove it, Dean would guess that means it isn’t just a cover, but also a semi-legitimate business that Bobby’s running.
John is gone not long after that, exchanging only a handful of words with Bobby and leaving Dean clutching Sammy’s hand on this stranger’s porch, with only a single, overstuffed backpack slung over his shoulder to get them through the week. There’s a hunting knife somewhere in there that his dad got him for his last birthday, which Dean is regretting not carrying in his back pocket now.
“Well, no point standin’ out here; c’mon in, kid.”
Reluctantly, Dean passes through the screendoor that Bobby is holding open. Sam has been quiet, but Nisha, a small mouse clinging to Sam’s shoulder, lets out a sneeze as they pass through the foyer. Dean doesn’t blame her. The inside of the house is as cluttered and dingy as the scrapyard outside. Despite multiple lamps, the lighting is dim and everything looks dusty.
It isn’t that the house is unlived in, though—there’s evidence of Bobby’s presence everywhere, from the rumpled dog-bed in the corner, to unwashed dishes stacked on the kitchen counter, to the den filled with countless books and occult objects. Definitely a claustrophobic, organized chaos. Compared to Pastor Jim’s place, it’s… well, a lot messier and more hunter-like, that’s for sure. But also kinda cool, Dean has to admit.
“You boys hungry?”
“No,” Dean says, even as his stomach rumbles. Bobby just snorts at him and makes his way into the kitchen. There’s the immediate clatter of cutlery and the sound of a refrigerator opening and closing.
Sam tugs on his hand, but Dean doesn’t let go. Dean’s pretty confident that their dad wouldn’t have left them with someone he didn’t at least halfway trust, but that doesn’t mean Dean isn’t gonna be at least a little wary of this new environment. Or the fact that the place is hardly childproofed, and Sammy has a habit of getting into all sorts of shit he shouldn’t.
“Perfectly safe in there,” someone says, and Dean startles. Despite the rottweiler’s size, Dean hadn’t heard it pad up beside him.
The dog daemon tilts its head towards the sitting room. “Not the most organized, but there ain’t anything… dangerous for yer brother to get his grubby paws on, promise. Why don’tcha watch some cartoons or somethin’?”
Dean can feel Celeste bristle at the childish insinuation, but Sam looks up with wide, hopeful eyes, so he lets go of Sam’s hand and nods towards the TV, already on and playing some daytime talk show on mute. Sam hesitates only a moment before scurrying over.
By the time Dean turns back to Bobby’s daemon, the rottweiler has vanished back into the kitchen. He watches Sam fiddle with the TV knobs for a moment, satisfied when Looney Toons flashes on the screen. It's something that'll keep Sam's attention, at least for a while. After a beat, Dean turns away and pokes his head into the kitchen instead.
There’s something sizzling on the stove that already smells pretty good. Bobby is cutting up some vegetables on a small patch of counter space next to it, back turned to him, while the rottweiler daemon is slumped on a rumpled, dirty looking pillow in the corner, eyes closed.
“Well, you jus’ gonna stand there, or ya wanna help?”
Celeste darts a look at Dean. Seems like Bobby, just like their dad and Pastor Jim, has eyes in the back of his head. Maybe it’s a hunter thing.
“Whatcha makin’?” Dean asks, scooting closer.
“Chili,” Bobby says, and dumps an assortment of what he was chopping into the pot. “‘Bout the only thing I’m good fer, so you boys better git used to leftovers fer the weekend.”
“Your daemon is a boy,” Celeste says, and Dean immediately kicks her in the side.
Bobby just grunts in agreement, though. “Sure is, kid.”
The rottweiler in the corner cracks his eyes open, stare steady on Celeste. “Name’s Rumsfeld, not that ya asked.”
Dean gnaws on his lip. He’s never met someone with a same-sex daemon before Bobby, although he’s heard about things like that. It’s not like a daemon's sex is something that’s always immediately noticeable, anyway, unless the daemon itself is something like a lion or a deer, where the mane or antlers gives it away. Either way, Celeste has a better sense for other daemons and what their deal is than Dean—even if Rumsfeld’s deep voice earlier was something even Dean noticed.
Celeste is standing all stiff-legged, kinda like the street dogs that Dean has seen occasionally around the back of motels. When Rumsfeld hauls himself to his feet, Celeste just gets more tense, the ruff of her neck standing on end like that’ll make her look bigger. Rumsfeld pays no mind, getting close enough that Dean can see the worn leather of a collar around his neck and the scars over his ears.
“How old are ya, boy?” Bobby asks. He’s got the same eyes as his daemon; dark, calculating. There’s already traces of crow’s feet at their corners, amusingly similar to Rumsfeld’s droopy face-folds.
“I’m eight,” Dean says, “and Sam’s four.” After a moment of being scrutinized, he adds, “Me an’ Celeste, we’re not kids. We can take care of ourselves. Sammy and Nisha, too.”
“That right?” Bobby says. There’s definitely a trace of amusement under his deadpan tone, but Rumsfeld chooses that moment to bump his muzzle against Celeste’s, and the shock of it throws all of Dean’s indignation out the window.
At the same time Celeste skitters back, Bobby lets out a sharp rebut of, “Rumsfeld!”
“Jus’ checking ‘em out,” Rumsfeld says. He licks his jowls, plopping down to sit in the center of the kitchen. “Got some quick reflexes on ya, kid. ‘Specially while staying in one form.”
That gains Bobby’s attention. His eyes narrow minutely, raking over Celeste’s form. From her spot next to Dean, she leans against his calf, a warm line of comfort.
“Celeste’s settled,” Dean says.
Because Dean knows that’s what Bobby is trying to figure out. He can’t help but have it come out defensively, more than used to how adults typically reacted to that news. Some with skepticism. Others will stare at Celeste and stumble over some barely-disguised insult on her choice of form. The worst, though, are the ones who look at them with pity.
Bobby doesn't do any of that. Aside from a slight pursing of his lips, he seems to absorb the information, then move on without comment. “Alright. Y’gonna help then, or what? Yer old enough to use a knife without guttin’ yerself, yeah?”
“Yes, sir.”
This time, Bobby grimaces. “None of that now, ya hear? Bobby’s jus’ fine. Or Mr. Singer, if ya really wanna get formal with it.”
Dean nods, and for the next half hour, he obediently follows each direction Bobby gives him—carefully slicing up onions, stirring the bubbling pot of chili, drying off the washed dishes Bobby hands off to him. By the time Sam is sitting down at the table with a steaming bowl in front of him, Dean’s own stomach is growling something fierce. Without a word, Bobby portions up a full bowl for Dean as well.
The chili looks pretty similar to the slop that comes out of a can, but tastes nothing like it. Even though she doesn’t need to eat, Dean spoons some for Celeste to taste, her tail thacking against the side of his chair in satisfaction.
“Thank you, Mr. Bobby,” Sam says politely once he’s done eating. Now that he’s been distracted from cartoons, he’s back to clinging to Dean’s side, clearly shy of the stranger they’ve been left with. Nisha presses against the back of his knees, in the form of a husky puppy that resembles Celeste somewhat. It’s a form she often takes when she and Sam are trying to be braver than they feel. Dean tries not to feel smug about that.
“Yer welcome, kid.”
It’s odd, that it’s Rumsfeld that responds. Sam, however, doesn’t even blink. More than likely, he’s used to it from talking to Celeste so much. Half the time, she’s the one that speaks for Dean, when his words stagger and die on his tongue and he can’t get them back for days at a time.
Emboldened by the nonthreatening way Rumsfeld is splayed out on the kitchen floor, Nisha creeps around Sam’s knee and touches her nose to Rumsfeld’s in greeting. “I’m Nisha.”
“Rumsfeld,” Bobby’s daemon introduces back.
Bobby ignores them both, washing up more dishes, and Dean slides from his seat to go help. Celeste remains under the table, not taking her eyes off of Nisha and Sam, who’s now kneeling next to Rumsfeld as the daemons talk.
“Brother’s quiet for a kid,” Bobby says.
Dean accepts the dish Bobby hands him, shrugging. It’s not entirely true—Sam’s got a mouth on him when he chooses, and when it’s just him and Dean, he’s prone to rambling until Dean tells him to shut up. It’s only around strangers that he gets like this, all quiet and polite. Probably because he knows their dad would have his hide if he caused trouble for anyone who wasn’t his older brother.
“Skinny, too,” Bobby continues. “Guess I might have’ta crack open a cookbook an’ make somethin’ besides chili. Get some meat on his bones. Yers too, boy.”
“We’re fine,” Dean says automatically. The same line he’s fed to nosy neighbours and teachers in the past, when they start questioning why Sam’s so skinny and pale or why Dean’s got a settled daemon already. “S’just… our genetics or somethin’.”
Bobby gives him a look out of the corner of his eye. Dean can’t really blame him. John’s a broad man, tall and tanned whereas his sons obviously aren’t. Not yet, at least. Celeste keeps saying she can feel a growth spurt coming on, but Dean certainly doesn’t feel anything, so who knows?
“Sure,” Bobby says anyway, “whatever ya say. Either way, gotta keep yerself healthy, otherwise it’ll stunt yer daemon’s growth.”
Dean looks over his shoulder. Nisha is now a small bird, hopping back and forth in front of Rumsfeld’s nose as Sam chatters to the other daemon, apparently over his short bout of shyness. Celeste is in the same spot that Dean left her.
Dean knows Celeste has grown out a bit from when she first settled, but she’s obviously still a puppy, with awkwardly large paws for her gangly limbs and ears that have a tendency to flop to one side. Her shoulders only come up to about Dean’s knee, despite both their hopes that she’ll eventually grow to be as big and mean-looking as some of the dog daemons they’ve seen belonging to other hunters. A daemon just like Bobby’s, really.
“Um, your daemon… is he…?”
“If you got a question, jus’ ask. No use beating ‘round the bush.”
“He’s a boy,” Dean says quickly. “Does that mean, uh…?”
“That I’m a queer?” The way Bobby says it is matter-of-fact. Nothing like the times Dean has heard his dad spit it out of the corner of his mouth, like it’s something that tastes bad. Still, Dean nods.
“Listen, boy,” Bobby sighs. “You’re gonna encounter a lot of different things in this world—lots of things that don’t fit like yer told they’re supposed to. Like people with daemons that ain’t what folks call normal. ‘S gonna be up to you to decide what ya think about it. Jus’ keep in mind that normal ain’t any sorta prize, no more than being different is a cause for punishment. Ya get me?”
Dean nods again, not pointing out that Bobby technically didn’t answer his question. He also doesn’t ask any other stupid questions, like what it would feel like if Celeste was a boy, too, or if it would change anything.
Bobby throws the last of the washed spoons into the cutlery drawer, not bothering to dry them off, then lets the sink drain. “Done,” he grunts, wiping his hands off on his jeans. “Thanks for the help, boy.”
Dean feels it when Celeste stands, the tether of their bond thrumming as she trots to his side. The fact she’s willing to take her eyes off of Nisha, now perched on Rumsfeld’s nose as some sort of lizard, settles something in Dean’s stomach.
“Sammy should get to bed now,” she says.
“Smart gal,” Bobby agrees.
As Celeste starts to herd Sam and Nisha up the rickety staircase, Bobby pauses Dean with a hand on his shoulder. There’s something heavy in his expression, like he’s recognizing something Dean doesn’t.
Bobby opens his mouth, then just shakes his head. “Yer Daddy should be back by Monday and both you an’ your brother should be out of my hair fer good,” he finally says, “but keep my number in yer back pocket, aight? Never know when it might come in handy.”
Dean nods, already knowing he'll never take Bobby up on the offer. From the way Rumsfeld watches from the base of the stairs, he thinks Bobby might already know that, too.
Dean isn’t sure why it makes his gut twist uncomfortably. He just ducks his head, avoiding looking at Bobby or his daemon, and goes upstairs without saying anything else.
Later, Sam breathing softly next to him in Bobby’s guest bed, Dean just… looks at Celeste. Nisha is curled between her legs, in her usual sleeping form of an ordinary black kitten, and Celeste is close enough that Dean can make out every shadowy, wonky detail on her mutt face.
“Sometimes, I think you should be something else,” he tells her.
Celeste watches him back. Her eyes, mismatched in her skull, gleam in the dark.
“Funny,” she says, “sometimes, I think you should be something else, too.”