World's Forgotten Boys - Weechesters Outtake
Fic title: World's Forgotten Boys (link to the full verse)
Chapter No chapter - a one-shot Weechester outtake
Pairing: Can be seen as Sam/Dean pre-pre-Slash
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: c. 3,400
Link to the Masterpost
Annoyingly, the next part of World's Forgotten Boys is taking me much longer to write than usual due to work & family visits & an other half who insists on me paying attention to him and not fic-writing, so upshot is... I've had hardly any time to work on the new chapter, boo :((
So, as a small gift to tide over those of you waiting for the next part, I'm just posting this Ross-verse weechester one-off. It's written from Bobby's POV and takes place when the boys are kids, and I guess it can be described as a sort of Sam/Dean pre-pre-slash (if you're a perve like me). I wrote it ages ago, and was intending to just let it rot away on my hard-drive, but I've decided to post it in the interim. It hasn't been beta-ed, so all mistakes are mine.
The Winchesters arrived just before midnight. Bobby watched John climb out the car first, straightening and rolling his shoulders, popping out tired, worn muscles; Dean was next, bounding out from the shotgun seat, all nervous energy, wary eyes and one brief, cocky smile flipped Bobby’s way. Bobby resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the boy, watched him pop the collar on his ancient army surplus jacket, a gesture that was either inherited or copied from his father. Sam and Ross were last, tumbling out the backseat, all skinny arms and legs and bowl-haircuts, eyes red-rimmed and cautious when they met Bobby’s welcoming smile.
John gave him a nod of greeting, barked an order at Dean who mumbled out a yes-sir and came around the back of the car to pop the trunk, propping it open with that old sawed-off Bobby knew lived in the trunk for that reason. Sam and Ross were dragging their feet, looking around them with sullen mouths and watery eyes; they looked chastised, beat-down, and from the thunderous expression on John’s face when he glanced their way, it wasn’t hard to guess that the drive had not been a pleasant one.
Bobby came down off the porch, taking careful steps to avoid the ice that was beginning to set in. It was only two days away from Christmas and the weather had changed violently about two weeks ago, skies grey and thunderous, and earth as hard and treacherous as sheet glass. He held out his hand, and John took it, that usual, abrupt, hard handshake of his, dark eyes narrowing to slits as they raked over him, as if assessing something, while his did the same with John, noting the stiff way he was dragging his left leg and the still healing scar on the back of his right hand.
John inclined his head, eyebrows hiking up in that way that suddenly reminded Bobby of Dean, “Good to see you, Bobby. Hope you’ve got a beer in there for me.”
He chuckled, “Hell, John, you know I can do better than that.”
The corner of John’s mouth twitched slightly - about the nearest John Winchester ever seemed to get to a real smile - and he nodded again, threw a look back over his shoulder at Sam and Ross who were heaving their duffles from the trunk, Dean beside them with a steadying hand on Ross’s skinny shoulder.
“Show me where that drink is.”
As Bobby turned to lead the way inside, he heard John snap out another quick order: “See that those knives are sharpened before you turn in, Dean. They need regular maintenance. I told you that.”
They were hungry, hell; the Winchester boys were always hungry. Glad of the huge, steaming bowl of chili he’d had on the stove ever since he’d known they were heading his way, matching, ravenous expressions in the boys’ closed off faces as they started to tuck in, conversation deteriorating to the occasional under-the-table kick, elbow in the ribs, and hissed insult. Anything more than that was quickly cut off by the lowering of John’s brow and a gruff, “Boys!”
Bobby didn’t eat; he’d had his share hours earlier, too hungry to wait for his visitors. He poured himself and John a generous glass of his home brewed whisky, noting Dean’s hopeful look with a wry smile. Dean was sixteen, would be turning seventeen in a month or so, and knowing Dean, this wouldn’t be the first time he’d had a taste of the hard stuff. The boy looked taller than the last time Bobby’d seen him, he’d gained a few pounds of sorely needed muscle and a few inches in height; he looked a lot more solid than he had done, though that didn’t say much, the kid always looked like he could be easily floored by a stiff breeze, but the changes were there, John had evidently been training him hard.
He looked over Sammy and Ross, shocked as always by the startling resemblance between the two of them, more like twins than half brothers. Hell, even if he’d ever wanted to, John would never have been able to deny Ross’s parentage, it was downright uncanny sometimes. Despite the age difference they were almost the same size, and with the same lean, hungry faces, tangled, dark hair and ripped t-shirts, they looked like a pair of little savages.
“There’s more if you want it,” he said as Sam looked up from his wiped clean plate.
Sam nodded hungrily, “Yes, please, Uncle Bobby.”
“No problem, son. You two boys want any more?”
Naturally, both Dean and Ross held their plates out, and Bobby shook his head as he ladled out more generous servings.
“You not been feeding them enough, John,” he said, joking.
John snorted in contempt, “They’re always eatin’. Eat me outta house and home, if they could.”
“Or outta fake cards?”
John snorted again, drained his glass, reaching for a top up, “Yeah, you know it.”
Ross and Sam were sent to bed after dinner, while Dean wordlessly got out the duffle full of knives, setting them out across the cleared kitchen table with precise, reverent movements. Bobby watched him for a moment, impressed at how deftly and how surely Dean handled the blades, how he barely even seemed to need to look at what he was doing as he worked, fingers moving instinctively.
John updated him on the last three hunts he’d been on, told him how Dean had taken out the momma werecat on his own.
“Boy’s a natural with a revolver; his shotgun work’s damned shoddy, though. Told him he should practice that while we’re here; go out round the back to your range.”
“You’re welcome to use it, you know that.”
“Yeah, I know. Sammy and Ross need practice too, their sparrin’ technique’s gone to shit these last few weeks.”
They sipped in silence for a few minutes. Bobby glanced across at John, the guy’s face was furrowed, dark and shuttered, always so much going on behind that façade. He’d known John Winchester a good few years now - Christ, nearly ten years - and he still wasn’t sure if he could count him as a friend. Sure, he was Uncle Bobby to the boys, and he knew John could always be counted on to have his back in the hunt, but the guy was close, paranoid to the bone, even for a hunter, who were a goddamned paranoid bunch of freaks, and he counted himself amongst them too, but John Winchester was something else.
A muffled thump came from above them, a scream, followed by another thump, then the sound of two high childish voices hurling insults at each other in the sort of language Bobby would’ve expected to hear from the mouths of a couple of sailors, never mind an 11 and 12 year old.
“Those goddamn kids -“ John busted out, slamming to his feet, and tearing out the room. He paused at the bottom of the stairs and roared, “SAM! ROSS! IF YOU’RE NOT IN BED RIGHT NOW, THEN YOU’LL BE DOING DRILLS OUTSIDE FOR THE NEXT THREE HOURS. IN THE SNOW!”
There was a sudden, deathly silence from upstairs, and Bobby could only hear the sound of John’s heavy breathing and Dean’s soft scraping of whetstone on steel. He watched John turn his attention from upstairs to his oldest son.
“Dean, when you’re done, go up there and make sure they’re in bed. If I hear one more thing from them, then they’ll be runnin’ laps around Bobby’s yard all fuckin’ night.”
Dean nodded, his face carefully blank, “Yes, sir.”
John turned around and strode back into the den. Bobby lingered, catching Dean’s eye as the boy carefully replaced the whetstone in its pouch, he gave him a sympathetic smile, saw Dean’s returning half-shrug, half nervous smirk.
“Jesus,” John breathed as Bobby rejoined him. He was topping up his glass again, “I’m tellin’ you - those fuckin’ kids’ll be the death of me. They - all the goddamned way here, Bobby - in the backseat of the car… I was gonna leave them, you know. I was dead set, pulled her over, pulled them out the backseat… My daddy did it to me an’ my brother once - pulled over on the highway, left us there. Taught us a lesson, we had to walk twenty-two miles back to our place.” He shook his head grimly. “My old man knew it was the only way.”
“But you didn’t do that,” said Bobby matter-of-factly.
John frowned, tapped his fingers against the glass, “No, I didn’t,” he repeated, brow furrowed in thought. “Wish I had done. Dean stopped me, begged for them.” He pulled a face, eyes shuttering down once more, and Bobby changed the subject.
John was up early, the boys with him, all four of them round the back of the house working drills when Bobby joined them just after dawn, feet kicking up dust and gravel as they sprinted back and forth between the targets and the back of the house, John bellowing to Sam and Ross to keep up as he and Dean took the lead, faces red with exertion, sweat beading on John’s forehead when he finally called a halt.
Barely pausing to let them regain their breath, John strode forward, hands on his hips as he ordered: “Sam! Ross! I wanna see what you’ve learned. Whoever wins gets to take on your brother.” He gestured towards the ground when the boys didn’t immediately move, tone getting sharper, “Now!”
He turned his back on them too quickly to see the cold, furious glare sent his way from Sam, but Dean had noticed, he pulled Sam into a headlock, rubbing his knuckles playfully through Sam’s messy, dark hair, sniggering. Sam struggled, trying to pull out of Dean’s hold, letting out a petulant, “Dean!” when he made no headway.
“Dean, leave Sam alone, get over here!” John called out, frown deepening the lines in his forehead.
Dean nodded, “Yes, sir,” as he released his hold on Sam, dodging Sam’s half-hearted punch with another snigger, Sam looked after him, red-faced and messy-haired, but the scowl had gone and he was nearly smiling.
Under John’s watchful eyes, Ross and Sam started to circle each other, skinny little fists raised, eyes narrowed in matching hostility, their breathing sending clouds of inky grey into the freezing cold air. Ross struck out first, Sam parrying it immediately, dodging the follow-up kick and going for a blow of his own, which Ross, in turn, dodged. Bobby was quietly impressed, they obviously knew their shit, punching and parrying each other’s blows with easy efficiency.
“Step it up,” came the sound of John’s voice, “Ross, keep your elbows in!” Ross glanced up towards the sound of his father’s voice, and Sam took advantage of his momentary distraction to launch himself at his younger brother, sending them both flying.
Beside him, John heard Dean’s intake of breath, wincing in sympathy at the ouff of sound as both boys barreled to the ground. He felt like wincing in turn, that was no soft landing; the week's long frost had hardened it as truly as the 3 feet thick ice on Daker’s Pond. But Sam and Ross barely seemed to notice, dust and gravel spraying around them as they began to fight in earnest, any of the careful, technical precision of their earlier sparring completely forgotten as they panted and wrestled, grappling for a hold on each other’s flailing limbs. Bobby was reminded of cartoon drawings of kids fighting, the protagonists just a mangle of arms and legs, wrists and ankles and kicked-up dirt, there was blood on both their knuckles, scrapes against their shins and Ross was holding a handful of Sam’s hair twined around his fingers. He glanced sideways at Dean, Dean was watching intently, an unhappy crease between his eyes as he, in turn, glanced towards his father, as if he was waiting for John to say something, to break it up, but John did not look inclined to do so.
“Dad...” Dean hissed, an almost plea in his voice. “Dad, we should stop them, they’re gonna hurt themselves.”
“They need to learn,” said John flatly, “they’d hurt themselves a damn site faster than this if they ever went head to head with a shape-shifter, they need to be prepared. You know that, Dean.”
Dean stared at his father for a long moment, then nodded, still looking unhappy.
Bobby turned away, headed back inside, when and if John ever decided he was done with training, there was one thing for certain, the boys would want some breakfast.
“Does it still hurt?”
Hearing Dean’s voice, Bobby paused outside the half-open bathroom door.
“It’s fine,” answered Sam irritably. “You don’t have to put anything on it; it’s only a freaking scrape, Dean.”
“Bullshit,” retorted Dean, “it can still get infected. You know that.”
Bobby heard Sam’s sigh and smiled to himself, remembering himself at twelve, the kinda scrapes and bruises and spoils of war he used to get from sparring with his little brother. Of course, he didn’t do it quite so often or as brutally as the Winchester boys, and he certainly did not do it with his father’s encouragement, but the wannabe-grownup tone of Sammy’s voice was familiar.
He peered through the gap in the door, from where he was watching, he could see Sam, perched on the edge of the bathroom counter, head tilted up towards Dean who was standing over him, gently applying salve to the nasty looking scrape on Sam’s temple. He could see Sam’s profile, see the way his eyes were locked on Dean’s face, Dean frowning slightly as he concentrated, he glanced down, caught Sam’s eye and his mouth twisted into a soft, fond smile, which was immediately reflected on Sam’s face.
“There,” he said, “all done.”
Sam said nothing, just carried on staring up at Dean, watching him intently as Dean turned to pack all the supplies back into the first aid box.
“You need to shave,” Sam said.
It was a normal observation, but there was something in Sam’s voice, some weird sort of intensity in how he said the words that had Bobby hesitating, not wanting to move quite yet.
“Do I?”
Sam nodded solemnly. He lifted his small hand and passed it over Dean’s cheek, the stubble making a soft, rasping sound under his fingers.
“See,” he said.
Dean’s gaze fixed on Sam’s face, Sam’s hand still covering his cheek. “Okay,” he said quietly, “do it.”
Sam’s smile widened until he was practically beaming, he dropped his hand and slid off the counter. Bobby watched as Dean took a seat on the closed toilet, Sam smiling contentedly to himself as he sprayed shaving foam into his palms. He advanced on Dean and began to smooth the lather over Dean’s face, Dean’s head tilted back and eyes unblinking as they stared up at Sam. Sam picked up the razor and dragged it gently over Dean’s cheek, Dean tilting his head one way to give him room.
From this angle, Bobby could see Sam’s face clearly; see the concentration in his eyes, his tongue poking out from between his lips. Sam turned to rinse the razor off under the cold tap, and returned to the job. He was moving the blade expertly, completely absorbed in the task, eyes shining in a way that Bobby was not used to seeing. Sammy was usually so guarded, so sullen, but right now, he looked like a different kid, he looked alive, happy, while Dean... he was calm, completely still for once, baring his neck for his brother with complete trust and confidence, and judging by the way Sam was using the razor; this was evidently not the first time they’d done this.
“All done,” said Sam, he sounded pleased with himself, giving Dean a soft, satisfied smile before he turned away to rinse off the razor. He replaced it carefully on the side of the sink, and reached to pick up a towel. Bobby expected him to hand it over to Dean, but instead Sam held it between his two hands, moving to pat Dean’s face himself, wiping away the remnants of shaving foam with a strange, lingering reverence that was doing nothing to dispel the uneasy feeling churning in Bobby’s gut.
“Thanks, dude,” said Dean when Sam had finally finished. He stood up from the toilet seat and leaned to peer at himself in the mirror. “Hey, you did a good job.”
Sam’s face reddened as he grinned, snorted, “Course I did.”
Dean laughed and reached over to pull Sam into a headlock, dusting his knuckles over his head and through his hair, just as he’d done that morning during their training. This time Sam didn’t squirm and try to pull away, instead, he shifted closer, wrapped one of his thin, tan arms around Dean’s back and pressed his face into Dean’s chest, almost as if he was burying himself into his brother.
Bobby watched in surprise, Sam, unlike Ross, was not a tactile kid, did not crave affection in the way Ross seemed to, shied away from contact with his father. But here, he seemed to be inhaling Dean, and Dean was letting him, hand resting on the top of Sam’s head, gently carding through his dirty, dark hair as they both breathed softly in the quiet bathroom.
Bobby looked away, feeling like he'd just been watching something he shouldn't, this time he really did leave.
Chapter No chapter - a one-shot Weechester outtake
Pairing: Can be seen as Sam/Dean pre-pre-Slash
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: c. 3,400
Link to the Masterpost
Annoyingly, the next part of World's Forgotten Boys is taking me much longer to write than usual due to work & family visits & an other half who insists on me paying attention to him and not fic-writing, so upshot is... I've had hardly any time to work on the new chapter, boo :((
So, as a small gift to tide over those of you waiting for the next part, I'm just posting this Ross-verse weechester one-off. It's written from Bobby's POV and takes place when the boys are kids, and I guess it can be described as a sort of Sam/Dean pre-pre-slash (if you're a perve like me). I wrote it ages ago, and was intending to just let it rot away on my hard-drive, but I've decided to post it in the interim. It hasn't been beta-ed, so all mistakes are mine.
The Winchesters arrived just before midnight. Bobby watched John climb out the car first, straightening and rolling his shoulders, popping out tired, worn muscles; Dean was next, bounding out from the shotgun seat, all nervous energy, wary eyes and one brief, cocky smile flipped Bobby’s way. Bobby resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the boy, watched him pop the collar on his ancient army surplus jacket, a gesture that was either inherited or copied from his father. Sam and Ross were last, tumbling out the backseat, all skinny arms and legs and bowl-haircuts, eyes red-rimmed and cautious when they met Bobby’s welcoming smile.
John gave him a nod of greeting, barked an order at Dean who mumbled out a yes-sir and came around the back of the car to pop the trunk, propping it open with that old sawed-off Bobby knew lived in the trunk for that reason. Sam and Ross were dragging their feet, looking around them with sullen mouths and watery eyes; they looked chastised, beat-down, and from the thunderous expression on John’s face when he glanced their way, it wasn’t hard to guess that the drive had not been a pleasant one.
Bobby came down off the porch, taking careful steps to avoid the ice that was beginning to set in. It was only two days away from Christmas and the weather had changed violently about two weeks ago, skies grey and thunderous, and earth as hard and treacherous as sheet glass. He held out his hand, and John took it, that usual, abrupt, hard handshake of his, dark eyes narrowing to slits as they raked over him, as if assessing something, while his did the same with John, noting the stiff way he was dragging his left leg and the still healing scar on the back of his right hand.
John inclined his head, eyebrows hiking up in that way that suddenly reminded Bobby of Dean, “Good to see you, Bobby. Hope you’ve got a beer in there for me.”
He chuckled, “Hell, John, you know I can do better than that.”
The corner of John’s mouth twitched slightly - about the nearest John Winchester ever seemed to get to a real smile - and he nodded again, threw a look back over his shoulder at Sam and Ross who were heaving their duffles from the trunk, Dean beside them with a steadying hand on Ross’s skinny shoulder.
“Show me where that drink is.”
As Bobby turned to lead the way inside, he heard John snap out another quick order: “See that those knives are sharpened before you turn in, Dean. They need regular maintenance. I told you that.”
They were hungry, hell; the Winchester boys were always hungry. Glad of the huge, steaming bowl of chili he’d had on the stove ever since he’d known they were heading his way, matching, ravenous expressions in the boys’ closed off faces as they started to tuck in, conversation deteriorating to the occasional under-the-table kick, elbow in the ribs, and hissed insult. Anything more than that was quickly cut off by the lowering of John’s brow and a gruff, “Boys!”
Bobby didn’t eat; he’d had his share hours earlier, too hungry to wait for his visitors. He poured himself and John a generous glass of his home brewed whisky, noting Dean’s hopeful look with a wry smile. Dean was sixteen, would be turning seventeen in a month or so, and knowing Dean, this wouldn’t be the first time he’d had a taste of the hard stuff. The boy looked taller than the last time Bobby’d seen him, he’d gained a few pounds of sorely needed muscle and a few inches in height; he looked a lot more solid than he had done, though that didn’t say much, the kid always looked like he could be easily floored by a stiff breeze, but the changes were there, John had evidently been training him hard.
He looked over Sammy and Ross, shocked as always by the startling resemblance between the two of them, more like twins than half brothers. Hell, even if he’d ever wanted to, John would never have been able to deny Ross’s parentage, it was downright uncanny sometimes. Despite the age difference they were almost the same size, and with the same lean, hungry faces, tangled, dark hair and ripped t-shirts, they looked like a pair of little savages.
“There’s more if you want it,” he said as Sam looked up from his wiped clean plate.
Sam nodded hungrily, “Yes, please, Uncle Bobby.”
“No problem, son. You two boys want any more?”
Naturally, both Dean and Ross held their plates out, and Bobby shook his head as he ladled out more generous servings.
“You not been feeding them enough, John,” he said, joking.
John snorted in contempt, “They’re always eatin’. Eat me outta house and home, if they could.”
“Or outta fake cards?”
John snorted again, drained his glass, reaching for a top up, “Yeah, you know it.”
Ross and Sam were sent to bed after dinner, while Dean wordlessly got out the duffle full of knives, setting them out across the cleared kitchen table with precise, reverent movements. Bobby watched him for a moment, impressed at how deftly and how surely Dean handled the blades, how he barely even seemed to need to look at what he was doing as he worked, fingers moving instinctively.
John updated him on the last three hunts he’d been on, told him how Dean had taken out the momma werecat on his own.
“Boy’s a natural with a revolver; his shotgun work’s damned shoddy, though. Told him he should practice that while we’re here; go out round the back to your range.”
“You’re welcome to use it, you know that.”
“Yeah, I know. Sammy and Ross need practice too, their sparrin’ technique’s gone to shit these last few weeks.”
They sipped in silence for a few minutes. Bobby glanced across at John, the guy’s face was furrowed, dark and shuttered, always so much going on behind that façade. He’d known John Winchester a good few years now - Christ, nearly ten years - and he still wasn’t sure if he could count him as a friend. Sure, he was Uncle Bobby to the boys, and he knew John could always be counted on to have his back in the hunt, but the guy was close, paranoid to the bone, even for a hunter, who were a goddamned paranoid bunch of freaks, and he counted himself amongst them too, but John Winchester was something else.
A muffled thump came from above them, a scream, followed by another thump, then the sound of two high childish voices hurling insults at each other in the sort of language Bobby would’ve expected to hear from the mouths of a couple of sailors, never mind an 11 and 12 year old.
“Those goddamn kids -“ John busted out, slamming to his feet, and tearing out the room. He paused at the bottom of the stairs and roared, “SAM! ROSS! IF YOU’RE NOT IN BED RIGHT NOW, THEN YOU’LL BE DOING DRILLS OUTSIDE FOR THE NEXT THREE HOURS. IN THE SNOW!”
There was a sudden, deathly silence from upstairs, and Bobby could only hear the sound of John’s heavy breathing and Dean’s soft scraping of whetstone on steel. He watched John turn his attention from upstairs to his oldest son.
“Dean, when you’re done, go up there and make sure they’re in bed. If I hear one more thing from them, then they’ll be runnin’ laps around Bobby’s yard all fuckin’ night.”
Dean nodded, his face carefully blank, “Yes, sir.”
John turned around and strode back into the den. Bobby lingered, catching Dean’s eye as the boy carefully replaced the whetstone in its pouch, he gave him a sympathetic smile, saw Dean’s returning half-shrug, half nervous smirk.
“Jesus,” John breathed as Bobby rejoined him. He was topping up his glass again, “I’m tellin’ you - those fuckin’ kids’ll be the death of me. They - all the goddamned way here, Bobby - in the backseat of the car… I was gonna leave them, you know. I was dead set, pulled her over, pulled them out the backseat… My daddy did it to me an’ my brother once - pulled over on the highway, left us there. Taught us a lesson, we had to walk twenty-two miles back to our place.” He shook his head grimly. “My old man knew it was the only way.”
“But you didn’t do that,” said Bobby matter-of-factly.
John frowned, tapped his fingers against the glass, “No, I didn’t,” he repeated, brow furrowed in thought. “Wish I had done. Dean stopped me, begged for them.” He pulled a face, eyes shuttering down once more, and Bobby changed the subject.
John was up early, the boys with him, all four of them round the back of the house working drills when Bobby joined them just after dawn, feet kicking up dust and gravel as they sprinted back and forth between the targets and the back of the house, John bellowing to Sam and Ross to keep up as he and Dean took the lead, faces red with exertion, sweat beading on John’s forehead when he finally called a halt.
Barely pausing to let them regain their breath, John strode forward, hands on his hips as he ordered: “Sam! Ross! I wanna see what you’ve learned. Whoever wins gets to take on your brother.” He gestured towards the ground when the boys didn’t immediately move, tone getting sharper, “Now!”
He turned his back on them too quickly to see the cold, furious glare sent his way from Sam, but Dean had noticed, he pulled Sam into a headlock, rubbing his knuckles playfully through Sam’s messy, dark hair, sniggering. Sam struggled, trying to pull out of Dean’s hold, letting out a petulant, “Dean!” when he made no headway.
“Dean, leave Sam alone, get over here!” John called out, frown deepening the lines in his forehead.
Dean nodded, “Yes, sir,” as he released his hold on Sam, dodging Sam’s half-hearted punch with another snigger, Sam looked after him, red-faced and messy-haired, but the scowl had gone and he was nearly smiling.
Under John’s watchful eyes, Ross and Sam started to circle each other, skinny little fists raised, eyes narrowed in matching hostility, their breathing sending clouds of inky grey into the freezing cold air. Ross struck out first, Sam parrying it immediately, dodging the follow-up kick and going for a blow of his own, which Ross, in turn, dodged. Bobby was quietly impressed, they obviously knew their shit, punching and parrying each other’s blows with easy efficiency.
“Step it up,” came the sound of John’s voice, “Ross, keep your elbows in!” Ross glanced up towards the sound of his father’s voice, and Sam took advantage of his momentary distraction to launch himself at his younger brother, sending them both flying.
Beside him, John heard Dean’s intake of breath, wincing in sympathy at the ouff of sound as both boys barreled to the ground. He felt like wincing in turn, that was no soft landing; the week's long frost had hardened it as truly as the 3 feet thick ice on Daker’s Pond. But Sam and Ross barely seemed to notice, dust and gravel spraying around them as they began to fight in earnest, any of the careful, technical precision of their earlier sparring completely forgotten as they panted and wrestled, grappling for a hold on each other’s flailing limbs. Bobby was reminded of cartoon drawings of kids fighting, the protagonists just a mangle of arms and legs, wrists and ankles and kicked-up dirt, there was blood on both their knuckles, scrapes against their shins and Ross was holding a handful of Sam’s hair twined around his fingers. He glanced sideways at Dean, Dean was watching intently, an unhappy crease between his eyes as he, in turn, glanced towards his father, as if he was waiting for John to say something, to break it up, but John did not look inclined to do so.
“Dad...” Dean hissed, an almost plea in his voice. “Dad, we should stop them, they’re gonna hurt themselves.”
“They need to learn,” said John flatly, “they’d hurt themselves a damn site faster than this if they ever went head to head with a shape-shifter, they need to be prepared. You know that, Dean.”
Dean stared at his father for a long moment, then nodded, still looking unhappy.
Bobby turned away, headed back inside, when and if John ever decided he was done with training, there was one thing for certain, the boys would want some breakfast.
“Does it still hurt?”
Hearing Dean’s voice, Bobby paused outside the half-open bathroom door.
“It’s fine,” answered Sam irritably. “You don’t have to put anything on it; it’s only a freaking scrape, Dean.”
“Bullshit,” retorted Dean, “it can still get infected. You know that.”
Bobby heard Sam’s sigh and smiled to himself, remembering himself at twelve, the kinda scrapes and bruises and spoils of war he used to get from sparring with his little brother. Of course, he didn’t do it quite so often or as brutally as the Winchester boys, and he certainly did not do it with his father’s encouragement, but the wannabe-grownup tone of Sammy’s voice was familiar.
He peered through the gap in the door, from where he was watching, he could see Sam, perched on the edge of the bathroom counter, head tilted up towards Dean who was standing over him, gently applying salve to the nasty looking scrape on Sam’s temple. He could see Sam’s profile, see the way his eyes were locked on Dean’s face, Dean frowning slightly as he concentrated, he glanced down, caught Sam’s eye and his mouth twisted into a soft, fond smile, which was immediately reflected on Sam’s face.
“There,” he said, “all done.”
Sam said nothing, just carried on staring up at Dean, watching him intently as Dean turned to pack all the supplies back into the first aid box.
“You need to shave,” Sam said.
It was a normal observation, but there was something in Sam’s voice, some weird sort of intensity in how he said the words that had Bobby hesitating, not wanting to move quite yet.
“Do I?”
Sam nodded solemnly. He lifted his small hand and passed it over Dean’s cheek, the stubble making a soft, rasping sound under his fingers.
“See,” he said.
Dean’s gaze fixed on Sam’s face, Sam’s hand still covering his cheek. “Okay,” he said quietly, “do it.”
Sam’s smile widened until he was practically beaming, he dropped his hand and slid off the counter. Bobby watched as Dean took a seat on the closed toilet, Sam smiling contentedly to himself as he sprayed shaving foam into his palms. He advanced on Dean and began to smooth the lather over Dean’s face, Dean’s head tilted back and eyes unblinking as they stared up at Sam. Sam picked up the razor and dragged it gently over Dean’s cheek, Dean tilting his head one way to give him room.
From this angle, Bobby could see Sam’s face clearly; see the concentration in his eyes, his tongue poking out from between his lips. Sam turned to rinse the razor off under the cold tap, and returned to the job. He was moving the blade expertly, completely absorbed in the task, eyes shining in a way that Bobby was not used to seeing. Sammy was usually so guarded, so sullen, but right now, he looked like a different kid, he looked alive, happy, while Dean... he was calm, completely still for once, baring his neck for his brother with complete trust and confidence, and judging by the way Sam was using the razor; this was evidently not the first time they’d done this.
“All done,” said Sam, he sounded pleased with himself, giving Dean a soft, satisfied smile before he turned away to rinse off the razor. He replaced it carefully on the side of the sink, and reached to pick up a towel. Bobby expected him to hand it over to Dean, but instead Sam held it between his two hands, moving to pat Dean’s face himself, wiping away the remnants of shaving foam with a strange, lingering reverence that was doing nothing to dispel the uneasy feeling churning in Bobby’s gut.
“Thanks, dude,” said Dean when Sam had finally finished. He stood up from the toilet seat and leaned to peer at himself in the mirror. “Hey, you did a good job.”
Sam’s face reddened as he grinned, snorted, “Course I did.”
Dean laughed and reached over to pull Sam into a headlock, dusting his knuckles over his head and through his hair, just as he’d done that morning during their training. This time Sam didn’t squirm and try to pull away, instead, he shifted closer, wrapped one of his thin, tan arms around Dean’s back and pressed his face into Dean’s chest, almost as if he was burying himself into his brother.
Bobby watched in surprise, Sam, unlike Ross, was not a tactile kid, did not crave affection in the way Ross seemed to, shied away from contact with his father. But here, he seemed to be inhaling Dean, and Dean was letting him, hand resting on the top of Sam’s head, gently carding through his dirty, dark hair as they both breathed softly in the quiet bathroom.
Bobby looked away, feeling like he'd just been watching something he shouldn't, this time he really did leave.