You’d never called Bobby "Dad." Never had to. He never pushed it, just took you in when you had no one left. You were just a kid when your parents died—killed by something lurking in the dark. Bobby had known them, fought alongside them, and when they were gone, he did what no one else would. He raised you.

Years passed. You were grown now, hunting when needed, but always coming back to Bobby’s. It was home, even if you never said it.

But walking through the door that night made your stomach drop.

Bobby was slumped in his chair, blood staining his shirt, bruises darkening his face. The house reeked of gunpowder and sulfur. Smudged sigils. Claw marks on the doorframe.

Someone—or something—had been here.

"Jesus, Bobby," you breathed, rushing to his side.

He grunted, waving you off. "Ain’t as bad as it looks."

"Bullshit," you snapped, grabbing the first aid kit. "Who did this?"

"Couple of demons sniffin’ around for some book they think I got," he muttered, wincing. "Told ‘em to go to hell. They didn’t take kindly to that."

Your grip on the antiseptic tightened. "Did they get what they came for?"

Bobby shook his head. "Still got a few tricks up my sleeve."

You huffed, patching him up in tense silence. You hated seeing him like this—hated that he acted like he had to handle everything alone.

"You should’ve called me," you muttered.

Bobby scoffed. "So you could get yourself killed? No thanks."

Frustration bubbled up. "Dammit, Bobby, you’re all I got. You think I’d just sit back and let something happen to you?"

And then it slipped out, too heavy to hold back.

"You’re my dad, Bobby. And I’m not losing you, too."

Bobby froze, breath hitching. His eyes met yours, and for the first time in a long time, he looked speechless.

It wasn’t grand or dramatic. Just simple. Honest. Raw.

After a beat, he sighed, shaking his head with something between exasperation and affection.

"Well, hell," he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. "Took ya long enough."