Fic: Gone Fishin' - John/Bobby
Title: Gone Fishin'
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: John/Bobby - brief mentions of John's marriage to Mary and his relationship with Kate
Word-count: approx. 500
Summary: Bobby and John don't talk much. Ellen thinks it's going to led to trouble, but Bobby knows it's just how it's always been.
Author's Note: I love John/Bobby. Unfortunately there isn't enough of it about. This is just a little drabble I wrote the other day about their weird relationship.
This was how it should be. The water was still, the night air cool, but not cold, and the sky above them free from clouds. The only sounds were the lake water washing against the side of the boat, the breeze through the trees and the hiss as John opened another can of beer and let out a soft, almost inaudible sound of contentment. Bobby’s lips twitched into a grin, shaking his head slightly at his friend. John did not often get a chance to relax. In fact, Bobby had never known him take a proper vacation, just a day or maybe even two with his sons. This wasn’t even, technically, a break. This was a fishing trip, and John got as tense and serious about them as he did about stamping out nests of vampires or dispatching ghouls. But at least there was no imminent danger. Apart from the possibility of John drunkenly capsizing their boat.
At least it wasn’t that deep here if he did. And John Winchester was not fated to drown because he’d finished off most of a crate by himself and couldn’t remember how to swim. Hell, they’d waded through chest-deep, ice-cold rivers in the far north, hallucinating after being awake two days straight; they’d climbed mountains in the dark with no equipment after days without food. They might have been younger then, but if anything, they’d only got better at surviving the more practice they’d had. John was not going to drown, drunk, and be fished out by the local sheriff. The very idea of it made him snort softly with laughter, and John shifted. They’d been back-to-back in the little boat, and even if Bobby had managed to keep his amusement quiet, John would have felt his shoulders shake.
“What’s so funny?” John said, hardly even slurring.
“You are.”
They left it at that, falling back into comfortable silence. There was time for talking and time to shut the hell up, and this was one of those times. They both preferred them, needed them. Ellen said they didn’t communicate properly, that there were things unsaid (Bobby hadn’t liked the way she’d looked when she’d said that) and one day all those things they’d never said would bubble over and then, then they’d never speak to each other again, or it’d be too late and one of them would be dead. But that wasn’t true. They’d known each other too long and too well to need to sit down and talk. They didn’t talk when they’d rolled and wrestled and grunted in the dirt until they were both hard and tired and late for parade. They’d not talked when they’d gone to a bar and they’d toasted John’s impending marriage. They’d not talked about Mary’s death when John came to him with his sons in tow. They’d not talked when he’d had the call from Kate Milligan. They didn’t need to. Every expression John felt was written on the lines of his face, if you knew how to read him right.
Bobby had always been able to read him.
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: John/Bobby - brief mentions of John's marriage to Mary and his relationship with Kate
Word-count: approx. 500
Summary: Bobby and John don't talk much. Ellen thinks it's going to led to trouble, but Bobby knows it's just how it's always been.
Author's Note: I love John/Bobby. Unfortunately there isn't enough of it about. This is just a little drabble I wrote the other day about their weird relationship.
This was how it should be. The water was still, the night air cool, but not cold, and the sky above them free from clouds. The only sounds were the lake water washing against the side of the boat, the breeze through the trees and the hiss as John opened another can of beer and let out a soft, almost inaudible sound of contentment. Bobby’s lips twitched into a grin, shaking his head slightly at his friend. John did not often get a chance to relax. In fact, Bobby had never known him take a proper vacation, just a day or maybe even two with his sons. This wasn’t even, technically, a break. This was a fishing trip, and John got as tense and serious about them as he did about stamping out nests of vampires or dispatching ghouls. But at least there was no imminent danger. Apart from the possibility of John drunkenly capsizing their boat.
At least it wasn’t that deep here if he did. And John Winchester was not fated to drown because he’d finished off most of a crate by himself and couldn’t remember how to swim. Hell, they’d waded through chest-deep, ice-cold rivers in the far north, hallucinating after being awake two days straight; they’d climbed mountains in the dark with no equipment after days without food. They might have been younger then, but if anything, they’d only got better at surviving the more practice they’d had. John was not going to drown, drunk, and be fished out by the local sheriff. The very idea of it made him snort softly with laughter, and John shifted. They’d been back-to-back in the little boat, and even if Bobby had managed to keep his amusement quiet, John would have felt his shoulders shake.
“What’s so funny?” John said, hardly even slurring.
“You are.”
They left it at that, falling back into comfortable silence. There was time for talking and time to shut the hell up, and this was one of those times. They both preferred them, needed them. Ellen said they didn’t communicate properly, that there were things unsaid (Bobby hadn’t liked the way she’d looked when she’d said that) and one day all those things they’d never said would bubble over and then, then they’d never speak to each other again, or it’d be too late and one of them would be dead. But that wasn’t true. They’d known each other too long and too well to need to sit down and talk. They didn’t talk when they’d rolled and wrestled and grunted in the dirt until they were both hard and tired and late for parade. They’d not talked when they’d gone to a bar and they’d toasted John’s impending marriage. They’d not talked about Mary’s death when John came to him with his sons in tow. They’d not talked when he’d had the call from Kate Milligan. They didn’t need to. Every expression John felt was written on the lines of his face, if you knew how to read him right.
Bobby had always been able to read him.