S&S: Whittle
Meaning: To pare shavings from, or to shape via shaving small pieces off.
Word Count: 491. *shrugs* Makes up for Leather, I suppose.
Time Frame: Wee-chesters, pre-series.
Warnings/Spoilers: Language, not really sure if they’re in character or not. *chews lip*
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Bobby slid the knife along the wood, peeling the bark in a smooth strip to coil at his boots, and bit the inside of his cheek as he felt green eyes watching him. He waited, steadily stripping the bark off the branch, only glancing up before he got down to serious business. Rufus had mentioned a possible hunt down in New Orleans, the damned French quarter and their dabblings in the supernatural, and he thought it may be a matagot that went rogue. Damned things were a frickin nuisance, that’s what they were.
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John had dropped the boys in the living room before staggering up the stairs, pale and shaking in the way that usually implied a pretty good blood loss. He’d been up in the bathroom for about an hour now, and Bobby was tossing around the idea of checking on his dumb ass. He glanced again; Sam was in front of the television, eyes wide as he watched the Thundercats, and Dean was watching him intently, peering over the side of the couch as his eyes tracked the knife.
Bobby shifted in the chair, tilted his head in invite when green eyes flicked up, and wasn’t surprised when Dean casually sauntered over, all nonchalance. “Your daddy show you how to whittle down a piece of wood yet boy?”
Dean shook his mop of hair, chewed a lip as he watched the knife bite easily into the soft wood. Bobby had found it easier to use soft wood, harden it in the kiln in the garage, than to fuss with the harder woods. At his age, anything to make the job easier was a thing he’d take. A thought occurred to the older Hunter, and he canted his head, brow furrowing. “Your Dad did show you how to use a knife, right?”
The look of obvious ‘duh’ on the boy’s face is priceless, and he rummages in his torn jeans to produce a pocket knife in a grubby fist. It’s a bit bigger than he would trust a six year old with, but then again, he wouldn’t drag two kids cross-country in an obsessive hunt, either. The knife is spotless, despite the grunge on the kid, and he holds his hand out, grunts approvingly at the heft of the tool, at the sharp edge the kid has honed on it. “Aight, come here.”
Dean’s always been edgy, but he clambers up onto Bobby’s knee, watches keenly as Bobby murmurs low and quiet the finer points of whittling to the kid. It’s not long before Dean glances up in askance, and the elder lets him take a hunk of wood, the blade digging into the softness.
When John stumbles down later, thick gauze over his shoulder apparent through his shirt, and raises a brow at his son’s activities, Bobby just shrugs. “Figured it couldn’t hurt for him to learn,” he says, smothers a grin as Dean presents his work for judgment.
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Previous (Attack) Home Next (Gamble)
Word Count: 491. *shrugs* Makes up for Leather, I suppose.
Time Frame: Wee-chesters, pre-series.
Warnings/Spoilers: Language, not really sure if they’re in character or not. *chews lip*
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Bobby slid the knife along the wood, peeling the bark in a smooth strip to coil at his boots, and bit the inside of his cheek as he felt green eyes watching him. He waited, steadily stripping the bark off the branch, only glancing up before he got down to serious business. Rufus had mentioned a possible hunt down in New Orleans, the damned French quarter and their dabblings in the supernatural, and he thought it may be a matagot that went rogue. Damned things were a frickin nuisance, that’s what they were.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
John had dropped the boys in the living room before staggering up the stairs, pale and shaking in the way that usually implied a pretty good blood loss. He’d been up in the bathroom for about an hour now, and Bobby was tossing around the idea of checking on his dumb ass. He glanced again; Sam was in front of the television, eyes wide as he watched the Thundercats, and Dean was watching him intently, peering over the side of the couch as his eyes tracked the knife.
Bobby shifted in the chair, tilted his head in invite when green eyes flicked up, and wasn’t surprised when Dean casually sauntered over, all nonchalance. “Your daddy show you how to whittle down a piece of wood yet boy?”
Dean shook his mop of hair, chewed a lip as he watched the knife bite easily into the soft wood. Bobby had found it easier to use soft wood, harden it in the kiln in the garage, than to fuss with the harder woods. At his age, anything to make the job easier was a thing he’d take. A thought occurred to the older Hunter, and he canted his head, brow furrowing. “Your Dad did show you how to use a knife, right?”
The look of obvious ‘duh’ on the boy’s face is priceless, and he rummages in his torn jeans to produce a pocket knife in a grubby fist. It’s a bit bigger than he would trust a six year old with, but then again, he wouldn’t drag two kids cross-country in an obsessive hunt, either. The knife is spotless, despite the grunge on the kid, and he holds his hand out, grunts approvingly at the heft of the tool, at the sharp edge the kid has honed on it. “Aight, come here.”
Dean’s always been edgy, but he clambers up onto Bobby’s knee, watches keenly as Bobby murmurs low and quiet the finer points of whittling to the kid. It’s not long before Dean glances up in askance, and the elder lets him take a hunk of wood, the blade digging into the softness.
When John stumbles down later, thick gauze over his shoulder apparent through his shirt, and raises a brow at his son’s activities, Bobby just shrugs. “Figured it couldn’t hurt for him to learn,” he says, smothers a grin as Dean presents his work for judgment.
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