#rufus.

don’t reblog / art credit.

The first time Rufus came over to Bobby's after Bern moved in was a surprise. They knew now the man wasn't one to call ahead, or ask permission, or apologize for anything. Bern caught the conversation between Bobby and an unfamiliar voice, and made their way down the stairs to see what the cat dragged in. The veteran hunter analyzed Bern the way any seasoned hunter would — from top to bottom, assessing as he went. Taking in the scuffed canvas shoes, Bobby's way-too-large flannel, a coat that could have been Dean's if it were bigger, and the curly hair shaved on three sides.

"Bern, this is Rufus. Rufus, Bern. Moved in about a month ago."

Bern offered a wave and Rufus scrutinized them a moment longer before turning to Singer. "What the hell, Bobby? Couldn't decide if you wanted a son or a daughter, so you went and got both?" Bobby's sputtered words were drowned by the belly-deep cackle that shrieked from his roommate. Bern bent backwards as they laughed, absolutely delighted, and stepped up to shake Rufus' hand. "I like you, you come over any time you want."

The second thing Bobby always asked, after 'are you alright', was 'the hell's wrong with you?' Never entirely unwarranted, never ceased to make Bern laugh. Could be from watching them all but crawl through the front door after going on an unauthorized hunt alone, could be from watching them put every fountain drink option into the same cup. That time? That time was after everyone in the house had been drinking. To excess. Bobby, Bern, and the boys. He heard his own name being called, with a mixture of laughter and duress, from the basement. Bobby made his unsteady way downstairs, and turned the corner to find his housemate crammed into a place they had no business being.

"Are you alright? The HELL's wrong with you!?"

Bern was very drunk, and very stuck, eyes shut and laughing way too much for the predicament they were in. "I wanted to see if I could fit in the dryer."

Bobby was far too drunk himself, already laughing, yelling at the boys to get down here, and come look at this while Bern tried through laughter to tell them not to. The extraction was a process, but the dryer was not their tomb, and it was a while before either of them drank to excess again.

The third club that the deck of cards blessed them with was the last thing Bern's hand needed. It wasn't poker, just progressive rummy, and everyone was once again a little buzzed. Bern was looking at two mismatched nines and a four, five and six of diamonds. An eight of clubs? Who the fuck needed that nonsense. Well, Bobby was prone to sitting a little too close to the table, and Bern always sat next to him. They glanced over at his hand, and saw a seven, nine and ten of clubs. Bern snorted, and rather than put the eight on the pile, they just slapped it down in front of Bobby.

The look he gave them? Sharp, and hilarious. Torn between pissed they'd looked at his hand, and knowing damn well he needed that card.

"What? I'm helping."

"You damn kids," he grumbled, picking up the card he'd waited four rounds for while Bern just snickered. He went on to win that round and stick Sam with one of the highest scores they ever recorded.

The fourth album of Metallica's to come out of the box was the one that broke them. Bern dragged both hands down their face and groaned. "I am on my hands and knees begging you to play something that isn't in this fucking box. The radio even, something else, please."

Dean glanced over, but the smile he threw them was far too shit-eating and conspiratorial. "Been waiting for you to break all damn day. Surprised it took this long." All they could do was squint as he leaned to the side, and pulled a cassette case of David Bowie's Hunky Dory album from the inner pocket of his coat.

"Happy birthday."

For a moment, Bern could only stare at the offering and smile before Dean gave it an impatient wiggle. "Oh, god, wow." Their voice was soft and a little breathless as they tuned the case over to read the back. "You're such a shit."

"I know it."

The fifth night alone in that house had Bern climbing walls. No call, no text, no sign that Bobby was ever coming home. Even the Winchesters weren't picking up. Bern paced, and called, paced and called again. Not even Cas could be fucked to give them some kind of closure. They were left in that dusty house of books and guns to wonder if the good in their life had finally run out. Who the hell were they to expect it to last — it never did. This time? This run? Just long enough to make them stop worrying that it was going to come crashing down like every other good thing in their life before it. Nothing lasted. Nothing ever lasted. They always knew they'd be the one to die alone.

It must have been three in the morning when the knob on the front door turned, and Bern was down the stairs damn near before Bobby could close it behind him. He was a mess — beaten, bruised and bloody, and they didn't care. He hadn't opened his mouth before Bern's arms were tight around him. Bobby deflated a bit in that hold, and for a moment, he just held on.

"If it helps," his voice was wrecked, and Bern heard the crinkle of a plastic bag raising behind them, "I brought dinner."

"Fuck you, Bobby."

This man is so infuriating--! The thoughts roil in his head like an angry storm, burgeoning with an indiscriminate desire to smite down the unwary. Always the last word, always the top dog.

“Is it really? Maybe I ought to just make it a lullaby then.” Disdain blooms in the sour notes of Cloud’s voice. A favorable response from Rufus Shinra is too much to hope for. Serves him right he supposes, getting funny ideas that Rufus can be reasoned with. “You sure could use the beauty rest, looking like that. Regardless, my offer doesn’t come with an executive summary.”

Girlfriend: We're watching Blackfish.

Me: Again?