Summary: Bobby is family.
“If you wanted, you could wipe her off the map, without moving a muscle… You don’t like being different. You hate the way Dean looks at you sometimes, like you’re some sort of side show freak.” – Ruby, Supernatural 3x16
“Family don’t end with blood, boy.” – Bobby Singer, Supernatural 3x16
Bobby found him on the floor, kneeling over the bodies. Dean was broken, bruised, bloody; a hellhound’s plaything. And there was the body of the girl who had been Ruby, but had been someone else before then, had been a daughter – a sister – a lover – before a hell-witch found her, before Bobby Singer shot her behind his salvage yard, before Dean Winchester beat her bloody, before Sam Winchester trusted her, before the wind demoness stole her body again. Bobby wondered, briefly, if the girl who had once owned that body had died before her body hit the floor, maybe when he pulled the trigger on it or even before then.
Sam Winchester rocked forward onto his knees, still holding onto his brother’s body. “No, no, no, Dean,” he murmured over and over, a painful mantra that wouldn’t bring the boy back no matter how much it was desired.
“Boy,” Bobby says, cautiously, firmly, like Sam’s his own son, like he could have, should have, might have been.
“Get back.” Sam’s voice is raw and broken and torn in more pieces that Dean’s body. He holds the knife that can destroy souls and his hand shakes like a druggie in need of a hit. “Get back.”
“It’s just me, son.”
“I did it,” Sam tells him, his tears spilling on his hands and clearing the blood. “Oh, Bobby, I did it. I promised I wouldn’t and I did. Lilith’s gone and Dean’s gone and I’ve got nothing and I did it and I said I wouldn’t.”
Sometimes, Bobby knows from years of hunting, from being a husband, from being a lover, from being friend, taking a risk is the only thing a man can do. He grabs Sam by the shoulders, the knife is behind him and he doesn’t like that at all, and holds him tightly in his hands. “What did you do?”
“Sam,” he sputters, “Samael – They – they’re not dormant.” He finally looks Bobby in the eyes and Sam Winchester’s eye are bright and glowing with their own inner light. “When – when he died, I did it. I can see.”
Samael. The angel of death. The angel of mercy. The angel who saved the life of an innocent child. The angel and bridegroom of seducers and prostitutors. The poison of god. An angel who could feel both pity and anger. Bobby knows the words. He’s read them and spoken them. He’s discussed them with hunters, with men and women, with the boy’s own father.
“He’s burning in Hell, Bobby. I need to save him. I’ve got nothing else. Everyone – everything else wants me dead.”
Bobby can feel the knife shift in Sam’s grip behind him. “What did I tell your fool brother this morning?”
Sam blinks, Bobby’s question shifting his footing. Finally, his unnaturally bright eyes blink. “That we wouldn’t fight without you,” he says, his voice closer to normal, closer to the voice of the boy Bobby half-raised, if at a distance.
“I said,” Bobby told him, raising his voice a bit, “that family don’t end with blood. And that still stands.”
Ruby’s knife clattered to the floor behind him.