Part Two:

Dean took a deep cleansing breath, straightened his back and held his head high as he approached the shop on his too-short crutches. He was expecting a tongue lashing from Bobby and was prepared to meet it head on. After all, he'd asked for a minute and had taken more than twenty and that just wasn't acceptable in Dean's book.

But Bobby didn't give Dean a hard time. The boy walked in and was greeted with a genuine, 'Glad you could join me,' and handed a clipboard with a few simple tasks printed out on invoices in Bobby's block style writing.

"Everything you need; parts, tools, all of it is on that wall," Bobby instructed pointing to the inner wall of the shop. "You get these done, call the owners. Use the shop phone. I'll be in and out, but you need somethin', holler. Alright?" He didn't wait for an answer, probably because he knew he wouldn't get one. Instead he just cuffed Dean lightly on the shoulder before he turned, leaving the young man to it.

It wasn't as though this was Dean's first time in Bobby's shop. He'd been in there plenty over the years, working on the Impala with his father, but this was official, Dean realized. Bobby was assigning him work and responsibility and was expecting results. It was an attempt at keeping Dean's hands busy and his mind occupied and he was grateful for the effort; however, a few small-time jobs weren't going to hold Dean's attention for long. Replacing a few sparkplugs and changing out an air filter was old hat for a young man who had worked beside his father since before he'd been able to read.

John - who was meticulous in the care of his '67 Impala - had instilled the same thorough attention to detail in Dean, teaching his son everything there was to know about cars. He'd also ingrained the notion of taking your aggressions out in your work, which explained why Dean had quickly stripped out the socket in one of Bobby's wrenches.

Five cars into the day and working on a particularly care-worn Buick, Dean came across a nut that just wouldn't be loosened. On the fourth crank, the wrench had slipped and Dean, who was standing on one foot, was caught off balance and propelled forward, catching himself on the headers but not before gouging his right arm painfully on a metal hose clamp. Dean clasped his arm, biting back the cry of pain and frustration; the worthless wrench dropping down through the engine compartment, landing useless and forgotten on the dirt floor beneath the car.

He spun around, knocking into his crutches and toppling them over and out of reach, then hobbled over to the workbench and snatched up a rag, dabbing at the blood trailing down his forearm and applying pressure to stem the bleeding. He scanned the workspace for something to cover the wound, finally deciding to make a makeshift bandage out of blue shop paper towels and a roll of black electrical tape.

And this is how Bobby found him, stripped down to his t-shirt, sweating profusely from the early summer heat and the exertion; frustrated beyond belief by the awkwardness of using his left arm to spool black tape around his right arm multiple times and attempting to tear it off with his teeth. At twenty, Dean was still a skinny kid and without the trademark over shirt to camouflage this fact, Bobby was reminded of how young the boy really was. He stood in the doorway, silently observing, having decided that his interference would not be well received. Until Dean cried out angrily; the bandage having slipped and fallen from the wound for a third time. He whipped the roll of tape across the room where it bounced harmlessly off the side window of the accursed Buick that had started the whole thing. Bobby was in front of Dean so quickly and quietly that it startled the young man into momentary silence.

"Here, let me help," Bobby offered. The request was gentle, with just a hint of 'don't argue with me, boy'. Moving in closer, Bobby took a hold of Dean just above the elbow and directed him carefully backwards onto a stack of car tires and then he began to peel away the paper towels and twisted up, useless tape.

"Don't need help." A low growl emanated from within Dean's chest as he tried to pull out of the older hunter's firm grasp, but Bobby wasn't having it.

"I know you don't, Son," his voice, soothing and full of understanding, "Just…humor an old man, will ya? That's a nasty cut you got goin'." Bobby lifted the boy's wrist skyward so that he could get a better look at the jagged tear across the lightly freckled skin of Dean's forearm. He frowned. "Looks like you've got a bit of grime in it too. Whadya use to clean it up, a shop rag?"

"I know what the fuck I'm doing," Dean defended angrily, and again he tried to pull out of Bobby's strong grip, but Bobby was too fast. He grabbed both of Dean's wrists tightly, tweaking them upwards just enough to put a bit of stress on the young man's wrist and elbow joints and held him there until he had Dean's full attention.

"You listen to me, boy and you listen good!" the sharp bite of Bobby's words and his booming voice were reminiscent of John's bulldog bark. "I ain't gonna have you cussin' and pitchin' a bitch at me, I won't stand for it! So this is gonna go one of two ways. You can either sit here, like a sensible adult, and let me get this cleaned and bandaged properly, or you can act like a brat, get mad at me and tear out of here on your gimp leg. Course it'll end the same either way, cuz I'll follow you out, knock your ass into the dirt and sit on you while I take care of that arm, if that's what it takes. It all boils down to how much humiliation you're willing to withstand today."

Dean gaped at him. He was shocked by Bobby's no bullshit threat and taken aback by the man's anger and raised voice.

-X-

On the whole, Bobby didn't often find the need to raise his voice with either him or Sam. Sure, over the years, there had been the rare occasion for Bobby to get after them, but those incidents had been few and far between. Like the time when Sam had snuck out in the early morning only to return with a bucket of big, juicy night crawlers which he'd promptly emptied into Dean's bed…while Dean was fast asleep inside it. And the time, shortly after, when Dean had cuffed Sam to the basement steps, making him all kinds of horrid promises about what nasty creatures were waiting down there for their supper. It was payback for the night crawlers, Dean had explained later, on the verge of tears as he'd rubbed at the warm mark left on his eleven year old bottom.

Bobby had rubbed at his own hand, the sting of the swat, minor in comparison to the ache in his heart. He was already regretting having lifted a hand against the boy, but he'd acted on instinct when he'd seen the youngest Winchester shaking with sobs and hyperventilating at the bottom of stairs.

Even now, Dean could remember the earth-shaking bellow, the flash of rage in Bobby's eyes and the hand that had swung out and connected solidly with Dean's backside as he'd scurried past and down the stairs to unlock his brother. Bobby had been hot on his heels, spitting mad and cussing a mile a minute, and young Sam had reached out and clung to his brother; half in fright from his own ordeal, and half shielding his older brother from the verbal assault Dean was receiving.

'Dammit, boy! Of all the stupid, irresponsible, hurtful things you could do…to your own brother, no less! What possessed you to do that? What in that idjit head of yours told you that this was a good idea? Your little brother!'

And that had been it; the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. It was one thing for Dean to get in trouble for something he'd done. It was another thing entirely for him to get in trouble for something he'd done to Sammy, the little brother he was charged to protect at all costs. Dean couldn't prevent the tears from finally falling. His arms had snaked around Sam's slim chest and he'd buried his face in Sam's coconut scented hair, shaking and sobbing whispers of 'sorry' over and over into Sam's neck.

'Don't yell at him, Uncle Bobby," Sam had defended through tears of his own, his arms protectively wrapped around Dean's shoulders. At all of seven years old, the slight boy was already a force to be reckoned with when it came to protecting his big brother.

Bobby had sunk down onto the staircase, his heart stuttering inside his chest and his lungs clamping down around the emotion choking him as he looked on these two wonderful little boys, who for all the grief they gave one another, were each other's entire world.

'Com'ere,' he'd said, snagging Dean gently by the arm, pulling him free of his little brother's stranglehold and into Bobby's own chest, the boy's head finding home beneath Bobby's chin, his breath fast and moist against Bobby's skin. Bobby had wrapped his arms tightly around the young body, a slow, steady rocking motion building over time as he'd shushed and soothed the boy. 'I'm so sorry, kiddo,' he'd breathed into Dean's soft blonde hair.

Dean had shaken his head slightly, burrowing further into Bobby's hold, his fingers woven tightly into Bobby's over shirt, searching for something to anchor him.

'Com'ere Sam,' Bobby had said, opening his other arm for the younger boy. Sam had approached hesitantly at first, but then, overwhelmed by the need to reconnect with his brother, dove into the hug, clinging to both Bobby and Dean like his life depended on it.

'I love you boys…'

'We love you too, Uncle Bobby,' Sam was quick to affection as always and Bobby had fought hard not to openly smile at how easy the kid made everything. He'd pulled Sam up onto his knee and pressed a kiss to the boy's temple which seemed to completely reconcile things between them. Sam had sighed, snuggling further in and laying his head on Bobby's shoulder.

Bobby had turned his attention back to Dean, running his broad hand down the back of the boy's head and then up and down his back.

'Dean…what I did…it was inexcusable and I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spanked you; shouldn't have yelled. I was upset about Sam, but that doesn't excuse it. It just should never have happened and I'm real sorry, kiddo.'

'I'm sorry too,' Dean had replied quietly, lifting his tear streaked face from Bobby's chest. The sight had broken Bobby more than he'd already been and he nearly burst into tears himself.

'For what?' Bobby had said in surprise, wiping at loose tears on Dean's heavily freckled face with his thumb.

'I didn't mean to make you mad. You were worried about Sammy. I'm sorry, Sammy." Green eyes bright and brimming again with tears, he'd reached out blindly for his brother, arms wrapping around the younger boy's neck, squeezing the life out of him, babbling things like: 'look out for Sammy' and 'my job' and 'Dad trusted me'.

'Easy there, son.' Bobby had pried some airspace between the boys, giving Sam a chance to breathe at which point Dean had turned and buried himself again into Bobby's chest.

It was hard being a pre-teen boy, especially one who was being raised to bury his fear and emotions. Not that John was wrong in teaching his boys to be disciplined in this way. It would be life or death important for them to keep their heads while on the job, but Bobby would be damned if he was going to force these boys to be that way while in his home, away from the job. As far as he was concerned, when they were with him, they were ordinary boys, meant to get dirty, meant for playing cowboys and Indians in the dusty salvage lot. No matter how hard John Winchester tried to make them men before their time, Bobby worked doubly hard to keep them children. And if John didn't notice Bobby's efforts, all the better. What he didn't know, wouldn't hurt him.

'Sam, could you do me a favor? Go upstairs; clear upstairs to the bathroom and fetch me the box of Kleenex there. Would you do that for me?'

'Yessir,' Sam had answered assuredly in his high falsetto. He jumped down from Bobby's lap and climbed, hand over hand up the dirty basement steps. Watching him go Bobby had set a mental reminder to have him wash up good before supper.

Once the young boy was out of ear shot, Bobby had turned back to Dean. He'd laid a kiss to the crown of Dean's head, the sun kissed hair tickling his lips and nose. He'd squeezed the boy in a hug once and then pushed him back to better see him.

'I know I don't deserve it after what just happened, but…' Bobby had paused to release a slow concentrated breath. He'd looked down into Dean's attentive eyes and seen a grown man staring back at him. In that moment, Bobby's mind had been made up. 'I need you to trust me, Dean.'

Dean's brow had furled in confusion and for a brief moment…panic. 'Why? What's the matter?'

'Nothing's the matter. Don't get worked up. I just wanted to talk to you…alone, before Sam came back.'

'Okay? Is it about…' Dean had looked around him, like he thought someone might be listening in and then leaned in to whisper, 'hunting?'

'No. It's about you…and Sam.' Bobby could see the worry building, so before Dean could begin the barrage of questions, Bobby had plowed on, 'Your daddy trusts you with a real big responsibility, lookin' out for Sam and you do a damn fine job at it. But while you're here, I need you to trust me. Trust me to do that job for you. At least for a little while. That's all you gotta do, is trust me. Think you can do that? Trust me?'

'To watch out for Sammy?'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'Because,' Bobby had paused, trying to quickly decided how to best word his answer so as to gain the boy's agreement. 'Because you only get to be a kid once, but you're a brother for the rest of your life. So, whadya say? Do we have a deal?'

Dean's eyebrows had shot up and he'd given Bobby a wary look. 'Dad says deals are bad news,' he'd said very seriously.

'He's not wrong, but this one will be okay. So, whadya say? Do you trust me?'

'I trust you, Uncle Bobby.'

'Good boy. So…how's your butt doin?'

'My butt is fine,' Dean had answered smartly. 'Dad spanks harder than that in his sleep,' he scoffed.

Clearly he'd already gotten over the initial shock and heartbreak. Bobby, however, would never live that moment down.

Looking at Dean now, nine years later and seeing that same pained look of betrayal, Bobby's heart almost gave up beating. But he pulled himself together, settling his nerves and letting go of Dean's wrists.

"What? You don't trust me anymore?"

The response was instantaneous. Dean's entire body relaxed, his face going slack until the mere hint of a smile played across his lips.

"I trust you."

"Alright then," Bobby smiled back, "let's get this cleaned and bandaged proper-like. Cuz, I don't know about you, but I'm famished." He knew he'd cottoned onto an idea Dean would whole-heartedly agree to. Hell, he could practically hear Dean's stomach answer for him, although…

"I could eat," was Dean's aloof response.

Rolling his eyes, Bobby shook his head and went to the first cabinet on the left. He pulled down an average looking red toolbox and placed it on the floor beside Dean, then grabbing a bucket to sit on, he plopped himself down in front of the young man.

Bobby rotated Dean's arm so that the wound was facing up at him and took a moment to really examine the tear.

"Hurts like a bitch, don't it?" he asked. "That's cuz of the auto lube you got inside it, dummy."

"Whatever," Dean replied. "You gonna fix me up or we gonna sit here chattin' about your choice in lube?"

Bobby tilted his head back and laughed loudly, the bark of it, reverberating around the room. "Please!" he said laughing, "Let's don't pretend that you know anything about lube."

"What I know, could fill a book!" Dean replied in mock bravado.

"Picture books don't count, boy. You should know that by now."

Much to Dean's chagrin, Bobby opened the tool box to reveal a treasure trove of first aid supplies and began attending to the young man's wound. A few minutes later, it was clean and well bandaged and they were making their way towards Bobby's truck, Bobby suggesting a little diner inside town since his fridge wasn't stocked for a Winchester boy's appetite.

"You wanna drive?"

"Uh. Maybe you didn't notice this big block of plastic they call a boot attached to my foot."

"I noticed, smart ass," Bobby answered gruffly, "Didn't figure you for one of those spoiled brats that would use it as an excuse. Guess I was wrong."

"Just give me the damned keys already," Dean growled, half playful, half serious. "And for the record…I don't make excuses for anything, so fuck you."

"I'll try to remember that," Bobby answered stiffly. He snapped the set of keys firmly into Dean's awaiting hand and reached up with his free hand to cuff the kid, hard, in the back of the head. "And don't cuss at me, boy, cuz I ain't your brother and I ain't a kid or some dick you don't know. I let you get away with a lotta things, but bein' disrespectful ain't one of 'em." Where Dean had been playing, Bobby was all serious and Dean could tell immediately.

"I-I didn't mean… I'm sorry." With a blush creeping up his neck, Dean did his best to look properly chastised and cast his eyes down and away from Bobby. He didn't know what had made him cuss at Bobby just then. He certainly hadn't meant it. It had been a knee-jerk reaction to the teasing. A reaction that he'd been unable to control much like his attitude for most of that morning; all of which would never have been tolerated if his father had been around.

There was an unwritten law in the Winchester family, a rule book if you will, of what was mutually acceptable in terms of cursing in and around and toward one another. And although Bobby had never been given the 'handbook', it was obvious to Dean that he was well aware of it. And 'fuck' was most certainly off limits except in extreme cases and never to be used on each other. That's just the way it was.

"S'alright, son," Bobby assured, setting a firm hand on Dean's shoulder & squaring up with him. "From here on out, we're gonna mutually respect one another. Okay?"

"Yessir," Dean replied apologetically.

When Bobby was satisfied that they were once again on the same wave length, he clapped Dean on the shoulders and gave a resounding, "Okay, then. Let's get rollin'."

It took a bit of maneuvering, but after a few minutes, Dean was able to climb his way into the tall cab behind the wheel. Bobby tossed the set of crutches into the truck bed and climbed in on the passenger side. Glancing across the bench seat, he was taken aback by how much the younger Winchester reminded him of John.

His hands were wrapped tightly around the steering wheel, his shoulders drawn up with tension, but it was his eyes that told Bobby everything that he needed to know.

"You have driven a stick before, right, Kid?"

"Um…yeah," Dean stammered, unsure, not letting his stiff grip on the wheel go. "Couple summers ago, Sam and I stayed a couple of months with Pastor Jim while Dad was down in Texas somewhere, huntin' a pack of Chupacabra. Pastor Jim had that old Ford Bronco he let me run around in. It's a stick, or…at least it was."

"Was?"

"I busted the fly wheel," he chuckled nervously, "…twice."

"Maybe you better let me drive."

"What? You don't trust me anymore?" Dean echoed Bobby's earlier statement with a bit more of his usual jocularity. Bobby chuckled and settled down in the seat, resting his head against the headrest.

But then when Dean didn't immediately turn the engine over, Bobby cast him a glance, frowning when he noticed that just like that, Dean had once again gone into a weird, melancholy headspace.

Pulling himself up, Bobby eased his arm over the back of the bench seat, lightly resting the tips of his fingers along the top of Dean's shoulders. He couldn't stop himself when he reached up the nape of Dean's neck and gave the longer-than-normal hairs there, an affectionate tug, just like he'd always done when the boys were growing up.

Unlike when he was growing up, however, Dean didn't flinch at all at the hair pull. He just turned stormy, questioning eyes on Bobby.

"Dean, you and I, we made a deal a long time ago, right?" Dean nodded solemnly, his eyes falling down into his lap. "Alright, then. So that deal goes both ways. You trust me…and I…trust you. Ya hear me? No matter what…we trust each other."

"I do. I trust you, Bobby." The younger man's voice cracked ever so slightly.

"That's good, kiddo. We're gonna work this out…" Bobby paused, letting the statement hang there for Dean to fill in his own blanks. Bobby turned in his seat to face Dean, pulling his knee up onto the bench seat between them. He leaned over and gripped Dean's shoulder just like John would do, grounding the boy; keeping him from floating away in his spinning thoughts. "Whatever it is you're thinkin'; whatever is rolling around in that mixed up head of yours…" He tapped Dean lightly in the temple, "we'll get it figured out. Okay?"

Bobby sounded so sure. Dean's mind was racing with questions and echoed voices, but Bobby sounded sure and somewhere in the back of Dean's mind, that was enough. He swallowed hard and nodded once firmly before meeting Bobby's eyes.

"Thanks, Bobby."

Dean couldn't help but smile just a bit when the older man gave him an acknowledging wink.

"I'm sorry. I know you didn't sign up for this. "

"Ah, kid, there's no sign up for who ya care about. It can't be helped. You and your brother…you're like the kids I never wanted. Now…can we stow the love fest and get a move on? I'm starvin' here."