Tough Love ✔️

Robert Singer, Father Figure

Apart from all the negatives of having to drive everywhere, you didn't mind too much about eating the blacktop in your truck. The drive to South Dakota was done in a gruelingly long burst filled with pit stops, coffee cups and classic rock radio stations.

You didn't mind Bobby Singer - he was a father to you, made you in the know of the supernatural world around you after your family had been killed. He was a grumpy guy, sarcastic times but there wasn't anything that man couldn't handle.

After you passed breezily through the state of Illinois, and before you got to the the border of Iowa, a song came on the radio.

Blue Oyster Cult - Burnin' for you.

And you remembered the night previous, with Dean, the creaking of his jacket, the smell of his hair and that signature scent of the Impala, the way you fit perfectly into his side, cuddling ... how it turned into kissing, then -

You gave a hiss of not anger; angst.

"Damn you, Winchester," you hit the steering wheel mildly, yelling because it was only you in the car, and all the passing cars wouldn't hear your words, "I'm supposed to be a professional, not some middle-school lovesick moron!"

But that didn't stop you from liking him.

You made South Dakota by nightfall, and Bobby's house by the time the sun had surely set. He was siting out on the porch, a long rifle on his lap, looking into the distance, and as you pulled in your truck, he stood, a grim grin over his face, rifle in hand.

"Darn you, (y/n)!" He growled as you clambered out of the cabin of your truck and have your old friend a hug, "what kept you?"

You gave a laugh. "Ran in with the Winchesters," you sighed, "turned out we were both cleaning out the same fang infestation." You see your mentor and friend giving you a look that non-verbally said bullshit, "Oh, Bobby, I had to stay the night, you got to sleep!"

He nodded. "So, Winchesters?" He asked, "Sam and Dean. Did those idjits give you any trouble, _____?"

You shook your head, and made your way into the house. "Nope. Got anything to eat? I'm starved."

"Of course you are," he drawls, with a chuckle, following you inside. The Singer house hadn't changed a bit since your trip out - the wallpaper was still peeling, smell still distinctively just like Bobby and as you turned into the kitchen and saw all the phones for the different top secret services he faked for, you couldn't see a difference.

You'd been all over America, but this was the place you called home.