Title: Shells
Author: Spacemonkey
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: R
Word Count: 748
Warnings: Future fic, major character death.
Pairing: Dean/Sam, Dean/Castiel
Summary: Castiel never drank, never commented on how much Bobby did drink, and they’d both start all their sentences with Dean.

Notes:
This was written for the fortune cookie challenge over at deancastiel I had to write about: The first man gets the oyster, the second man gets the shell. And it came out quite angsty, so I had to post here...


Disclaimer: Disclaimer: Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual person is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).

Any mention of Supernatural, any associated entites, or any copywrited material pertaining therein is reasonably protected by the Fair Use Rule of the United States Copyright Act of 1976, and is not intended to infringe upon any copywrited material.




The sun was starting to rise, turning the sky orange from what Bobby could see through the dark clouds, when Dean came home. Stinkin' of cigarette smoke and perfume and a touch of vomit. Whether it was his vomit or not, now that was a different story. Bobby hoped it was.

He stumbled in, lipstick on his collar like he’d marched straight out of some teen sex romp movie, his face pale and a little bit green. Bobby held the door open.

“Didn’t have to wait up,” Dean said.

“I wasn’t.”

Dean thought about that for a moment, tossed his jacket on the couch, then kicked his shoes off and shrugged. “Goin up,” he muttered.

Bobby watched him climb the stairs, unsteady but familiar, and he waited a fair amount of time before throwing Dean’s boots outside to clean up later – mud and vomit, not the best combination, and there was gonna be some yellin if either had gotten in Dean’s car – and neatly laying the jacket across one of his dining room chairs. He sat down, grabbed his half empty beer, and didn’t jump when he heard the rustle of wings behind him.

“Don’t exactly think now is the best time,” Bobby said after a long stretch of silence. Castiel appeared to his right, and Bobby took another long gulp. “Don’t exactly think now is the best lifetime for Dean.”

“It will get better,” Castiel said, and Bobby kicked out a chair for him to sit down in. Castiel sat after a moment’s consideration, shaking his head when Bobby offered him a beer, and they sat together until Bobby decided it was time for his own chance at shut eye.

*****

Dean didn’t talk much these days, which would have usually suited Bobby fine, but he found after a few days of it that he was starting to miss the headache Dean caused while talking about a random movie from the 80’s that no one had even heard of while Sam was on about the latest arty farty flick or blockbuster, or some demon they needed to waste and waste quickly, or any number of things that went from being enjoyable to downright irritating after that much repetition. The singing was the worst, and Bobby had even come to miss that, which he took to mean he was losing his goddamn mind.

When Dean did talk, it was when he was drunk and willing to share. When he was sober, it was to Castiel, and Bobby was sure they didn’t do much talkin.

Dean never talked about Sam.

Castiel did, some nights when Dean was asleep or awake and missing, and Bobby found himself nursing a bottle of Jack’s and wondering what the hell he was gonna do. Castiel never drank, never commented on how much Bobby did drink, and they’d both start all their sentences with Dean.

“Dean misses his brother,” Castiel would say, and Bobby would nod.

“Dean blames himself,” Bobby would say later, and Castiel would flutter off to wherever he was when he wasn’t there. He’d be back some night later, and they’d go over everything again, same old shit.

“It’s my fault Sam’s dead,” Castiel said one night, and Bobby didn’t quite know what to make of it.

****

He didn’t push, and Castiel didn’t give, and they ended up straight back into their old routine.

“Dean loved his brother,” Bobby said one night while Dean was on the couch, shoes still on and thankfully clean. He didn’t know why he said it, why he was saying it after all the time that had passed, but he knew it had to be said.

“I know this,” Castiel said sharply.

“Well, sorry to ruffle some feathers.” Bobby shrugged and left his bottle in the sink. He turned, eying Castiel thoughtfully. “You poor son of a bitch.”

Bobby leaned back against the sink like he’d seen Dean do so many times, like Castiel had done once or twice, and like Sam never had. “You know you’re not gonna be able to fix him, right? Get him like he used to be?”

Castiel stayed silent, sitting at the table with his head bowed, and Bobby nodded , pushed himself away from the sink and headed for the stairs. He didn’t miss Castiel’s quiet, “I know,” and almost thought to pause, but figured they could finish their conversation another night. He was damn tired.