Occam's Razor Part 4
The next morning finds Bobby in the kitchen making eggs, bacon, and pancakes. Dean arrives with Sam at his side, hand on his shoulder in a casual way the elder hunter can see all too clearly is fiercely protective.
"Grab plates, knives, forks, you know the drill," Bobby calls. "And Sam, you get your butt in that chair and get ready to strap on the feedbag. No kid's going to starve himself to death under my roof."
The Winchester boys obediently set the table in record time. Dean pours Sammy a glass of milk and himself coffee, breathing in the smell of bacon with a long sigh.
"Bobby, if you were gay..."
"If I was gay I could do a hell of a lot better than you, idgit," he snaps. Dean grins and joins Sammy at the table, and a few minutes later they're all eating--Sammy included. When the youngest Winchester finishes his small helpings Dean adds more, and the brothers exchange a look before Sam begins to chew dutifully. Dean smiles softly to himself and turns back to Bobby.
"So, what's on the agenda?"
"Nothing. I'm calling in sick. You boys should do the same."
"Oh, we are." Sammy stiffens. Dean ruffles his brother's hair. "We're going into town. Wild Sioux Falls, y'know? Hit the bookstore, see a movie, give Sammy a sip of beer. Going to be crazy."
"Good." Bobby fished around in his pockets. "Here's a twenty. You boys have fun."
Sammy had lowered his fork and was looking between his brother and the elder hunter. "Bobby...do you...need help? Around here? I mean...we could...Dean's real good with cars and I could...clean or...help clear scrap."
"Boy, all I need you to do is get in the car with your brother and let me get a few hours sleep without worrying about you two."
Dean glanced anxiously at his brother, but Sam smiled softly, and Bobby winked at him.
Half an hour later the shower's running, and Dean's tossing clothes and sheets in the washer. When Sam finally emerges in the study he emerges clean, long hair damp and clinging to his forehead, all skinny in jeans, white t-shirt, and flannel over-shirt.
"Dean hop in the shower?" Bobby asked, and Sam nodded. "Good. First thing I'm gonna do after catching my forty winks."
The boy watched him for a moment, then said "thanks, Uncle Bobby," so soft Bobby almost didn't hear it.
He hadn't called him "Uncle" in almost four years.
"Kid," Bobby said, taking care to move slowly toward the youngest Winchester, hoping not to startle him. "Your Dad...he's tough on you boys. Tougher than me and a lot of others think he should be. But he cares. And he's got me, and Dean, and a hell of a lot of others making sure nothing happens to you." He placed a callused hand on the boy's shoulder, squeezing lightly. "Parents aren't perfect, son. Your Daddy never should have let that reading go down. But you ain't got to worry. I think that brother of yours would blow up the whole damn Midwest if he thought there might be a threat to you."
Sam smiled--weak, shaky, but it was a smile. Bobby rubbed his head, roughly, relieved that Sam didn't flinch or draw in on himself. "Do me a favor? I left a book on the table, too damn tired to deal with the Latin. Give it a once-over, make those notes of yours, then get the hell into town. Deal?"
Sam nodded and moved toward the desk. Bobby watched as he scooped up a pen and settled in the seat. The damn thing still dwarfed him, reminding him of toddler Sammy perched beside his father, while John flipped through books with one hand and blocked Sam from sticking whatever object he'd recently discovered must-be-tasted-before-played-with in his little mouth. It was a testimony to his focus: until John Winchester, Bobby had never met a hunter capable of raising children. But John could calmly intercept Sammy's determined little hands, clean a gun, debate an interpretation, and fix Dean a sandwich, all at the same time. He never missed a beat, even when Sammy became frustrated and hurled toy trucks at John's head, or puked down the front of his shirt, or decided the flaming logs in the hearth would be his new best friends. He'd just scoop the little boy up, toss him in the air until he laughed, and then pass him off to Dean.
And strange as it had been to hear children laughing out in the junkyard, Bobby couldn't say he hadn't secretly loved it. Even if Dean did have a disturbing tendency to play "fetch" with his baby brother, and Sam had an equally disturbing tendency to reach the ball and immediately put it in his mouth, sending Dean sprinting across the yard shouting "No! Sammy, that's bad! Sammy, that's BAAAAAD!"
Singer chuckled to himself at the memory. Sam's brows lowered as he began making slow, neat notes. He looked all the world like his old man, focused and deep in thought. Bobby felt a swell of pride, even if he couldn't claim them as his own. He stepped into the hall and straight into Dean.
"Thanks," Dean whispered. Bobby took him down the hall and slipped him another twenty.
"You take that boy into the little town we got and you guys relax. Try and have fun. Okay?"
"Bobby," the young man's voice wavered, "I--can't--"
"You're welcome. Now go look after your brother."
Dean nodded. Bobby gave him a hard pat on the shoulder and a rare, warm grin, a silent 'attaboy' that Dean so sorely needed. He was rewarded with Dean's almost shy smile, a look so child-like it yanked the elder man's chest, good and hard.
Karen had always said he'd of made a great father.
***
That night, Bobby lit a fire and made dinner and the boys slumped together on couch, Sam curled into his brother, Dean draping an arm over him too casually, that way that showed he really was worried and overly-protective but refusing to show it, even if Sam and the rest of the world found it almost painfully obvious. Everything was fine until Sam fell asleep and started to whimper, and Dean pulled him close and hushed him, until Sammy let out a cry to wake the dead.
"Sam, don't! It's okay, you're okay--" Dean said firmly. Sam let out a gasp and clutched his brother, trembling.
"Dean," he managed.
"Yeah," Dean forced a smile and rubbed his brother's head. "Time for bed, kiddo, huh?"
Sam looked between the two of them and nodded. Dean ruffled his hair and guided him up the steps, and the sound of Sam's laughter drifted down soon after.
After that, they settle into a routine--the most normal any of them had had in years. They get up by eight and Bobby cooks breakfast while Sam and Dean shower and set the table, and then they eat and the boys do the dishes while Bobby checks messages and lays out the days' work. The boys spar in the yard, Dean guiding gently but firmly, and then they do drills until lunch, which they fix for the three of them. After the dishes are done and the sun is hottest, they gear up and run a few miles, and then they come back, shower again, and do any chores they can find until supper. Bobby cooks dinner and Sam lays out the table while Dean prowls the yard with a list of scrap, and then they eat and chat about Bobby's research. After dinner Dean does the dishes and Bobby takes Sam to the study to work on his Latin, and around nine they all end up huddled together, sometimes talking, sometimes debating interpretations, and sometimes watching some old T.V. movie. Sam eventually gets sleepy and Dean gets them sorted, just like they were kids again, the two of them tucked under the same covers in the same bed, Sam's laughter and Dean's low voice drifting down until there's quiet, and Bobby nods off hearing them through the wall.
Some nights he jolts to Sam screaming, and then sobbing, and he's always halfway to their room before he hears Dean talking low and soothing and soft, and then he hesitates until he's sure the boys are okay. Dean--tough, cool, unshakeable Dean--is suddenly all gentle, tender 'easy does it,' and 'take a breath' and 'I gotcha, you're alright,' and Sam responds by quieting, and Bobby can't help but feel a flood of affection toward these two boys with nothing to cling to but one another.
On weekends there are no drills, no runs, and no Latin. Dean gets up extra early and cooks breakfast for all of them, and then takes Sam into town for books and a movie and a meal in a restaurant, even if it's a cheap diner. The rest of the time Dean busies himself with work on a car or two and Sam sits on the porch reading, never far from his brother, occasionally checking the surrounding area for potential threats. Dean always calls out jokes or questions that make Sammy roll his eyes, but once his brother is buried safely under a hood he'll look at him with such adoration and hero worship Bobby can't help but chuckle. If Dean only knew what that kid thought of him, his ego would blow to the size of a planet. It was already halfway there.
Sweet as it was to see Dean so carefully and lovingly look after Sam, it didn't excuse the fact that Dean was still a child himself. Before this, Sam was generally good about caring for and supporting Dean (in the limited capacity Dean allowed): now, however, he was now far too traumatized but to do anything but cling to his elder brother and stare wide-eyed and wary at the world. Dean, though eagerly rising to the call of duty, was in over his head, trying to do the things he normally did when Sam was down about school or training or having to move--hardly fit for a severe emotional breakdown.
And, though he strove to hide it, he internalized every one of Sam's panics as some personal failure, and it was all wrong. He may not ever know or admit it, but he needed an parent to guide, a professional to put in perspective, an adult to allow him some childhood. A net of his own to fall on.
Bobby did his best to provide one. As the weeks went by, the three of them formed their own little cocoon of normal, one that none of them had had before or since. Sammy begins to sleep through the night, first under his brother's arm, then in his own bed. Dean keeps a laser eye on him and, slowly but surely, Sammy gains color and muscle and appetite, is able to sit slightly apart from his brother when they watch T.V., relaxes and laughs and turns into the fourteen year old he was when he arrived. Dean grows tan and straightens his posture, is gradually rougher in sparring with Sam, and the two begin to look not just normal, but happy and healthy.
The third week goes on, full of the quiet of late fall, the early dark, the proud stars. And then the Impala pulls into the yard and, a story above, Sam wakes screaming.
Next
Part I Part II Part III
"Grab plates, knives, forks, you know the drill," Bobby calls. "And Sam, you get your butt in that chair and get ready to strap on the feedbag. No kid's going to starve himself to death under my roof."
The Winchester boys obediently set the table in record time. Dean pours Sammy a glass of milk and himself coffee, breathing in the smell of bacon with a long sigh.
"Bobby, if you were gay..."
"If I was gay I could do a hell of a lot better than you, idgit," he snaps. Dean grins and joins Sammy at the table, and a few minutes later they're all eating--Sammy included. When the youngest Winchester finishes his small helpings Dean adds more, and the brothers exchange a look before Sam begins to chew dutifully. Dean smiles softly to himself and turns back to Bobby.
"So, what's on the agenda?"
"Nothing. I'm calling in sick. You boys should do the same."
"Oh, we are." Sammy stiffens. Dean ruffles his brother's hair. "We're going into town. Wild Sioux Falls, y'know? Hit the bookstore, see a movie, give Sammy a sip of beer. Going to be crazy."
"Good." Bobby fished around in his pockets. "Here's a twenty. You boys have fun."
Sammy had lowered his fork and was looking between his brother and the elder hunter. "Bobby...do you...need help? Around here? I mean...we could...Dean's real good with cars and I could...clean or...help clear scrap."
"Boy, all I need you to do is get in the car with your brother and let me get a few hours sleep without worrying about you two."
Dean glanced anxiously at his brother, but Sam smiled softly, and Bobby winked at him.
Half an hour later the shower's running, and Dean's tossing clothes and sheets in the washer. When Sam finally emerges in the study he emerges clean, long hair damp and clinging to his forehead, all skinny in jeans, white t-shirt, and flannel over-shirt.
"Dean hop in the shower?" Bobby asked, and Sam nodded. "Good. First thing I'm gonna do after catching my forty winks."
The boy watched him for a moment, then said "thanks, Uncle Bobby," so soft Bobby almost didn't hear it.
He hadn't called him "Uncle" in almost four years.
"Kid," Bobby said, taking care to move slowly toward the youngest Winchester, hoping not to startle him. "Your Dad...he's tough on you boys. Tougher than me and a lot of others think he should be. But he cares. And he's got me, and Dean, and a hell of a lot of others making sure nothing happens to you." He placed a callused hand on the boy's shoulder, squeezing lightly. "Parents aren't perfect, son. Your Daddy never should have let that reading go down. But you ain't got to worry. I think that brother of yours would blow up the whole damn Midwest if he thought there might be a threat to you."
Sam smiled--weak, shaky, but it was a smile. Bobby rubbed his head, roughly, relieved that Sam didn't flinch or draw in on himself. "Do me a favor? I left a book on the table, too damn tired to deal with the Latin. Give it a once-over, make those notes of yours, then get the hell into town. Deal?"
Sam nodded and moved toward the desk. Bobby watched as he scooped up a pen and settled in the seat. The damn thing still dwarfed him, reminding him of toddler Sammy perched beside his father, while John flipped through books with one hand and blocked Sam from sticking whatever object he'd recently discovered must-be-tasted-before-played-with in his little mouth. It was a testimony to his focus: until John Winchester, Bobby had never met a hunter capable of raising children. But John could calmly intercept Sammy's determined little hands, clean a gun, debate an interpretation, and fix Dean a sandwich, all at the same time. He never missed a beat, even when Sammy became frustrated and hurled toy trucks at John's head, or puked down the front of his shirt, or decided the flaming logs in the hearth would be his new best friends. He'd just scoop the little boy up, toss him in the air until he laughed, and then pass him off to Dean.
And strange as it had been to hear children laughing out in the junkyard, Bobby couldn't say he hadn't secretly loved it. Even if Dean did have a disturbing tendency to play "fetch" with his baby brother, and Sam had an equally disturbing tendency to reach the ball and immediately put it in his mouth, sending Dean sprinting across the yard shouting "No! Sammy, that's bad! Sammy, that's BAAAAAD!"
Singer chuckled to himself at the memory. Sam's brows lowered as he began making slow, neat notes. He looked all the world like his old man, focused and deep in thought. Bobby felt a swell of pride, even if he couldn't claim them as his own. He stepped into the hall and straight into Dean.
"Thanks," Dean whispered. Bobby took him down the hall and slipped him another twenty.
"You take that boy into the little town we got and you guys relax. Try and have fun. Okay?"
"Bobby," the young man's voice wavered, "I--can't--"
"You're welcome. Now go look after your brother."
Dean nodded. Bobby gave him a hard pat on the shoulder and a rare, warm grin, a silent 'attaboy' that Dean so sorely needed. He was rewarded with Dean's almost shy smile, a look so child-like it yanked the elder man's chest, good and hard.
Karen had always said he'd of made a great father.
***
That night, Bobby lit a fire and made dinner and the boys slumped together on couch, Sam curled into his brother, Dean draping an arm over him too casually, that way that showed he really was worried and overly-protective but refusing to show it, even if Sam and the rest of the world found it almost painfully obvious. Everything was fine until Sam fell asleep and started to whimper, and Dean pulled him close and hushed him, until Sammy let out a cry to wake the dead.
"Sam, don't! It's okay, you're okay--" Dean said firmly. Sam let out a gasp and clutched his brother, trembling.
"Dean," he managed.
"Yeah," Dean forced a smile and rubbed his brother's head. "Time for bed, kiddo, huh?"
Sam looked between the two of them and nodded. Dean ruffled his hair and guided him up the steps, and the sound of Sam's laughter drifted down soon after.
After that, they settle into a routine--the most normal any of them had had in years. They get up by eight and Bobby cooks breakfast while Sam and Dean shower and set the table, and then they eat and the boys do the dishes while Bobby checks messages and lays out the days' work. The boys spar in the yard, Dean guiding gently but firmly, and then they do drills until lunch, which they fix for the three of them. After the dishes are done and the sun is hottest, they gear up and run a few miles, and then they come back, shower again, and do any chores they can find until supper. Bobby cooks dinner and Sam lays out the table while Dean prowls the yard with a list of scrap, and then they eat and chat about Bobby's research. After dinner Dean does the dishes and Bobby takes Sam to the study to work on his Latin, and around nine they all end up huddled together, sometimes talking, sometimes debating interpretations, and sometimes watching some old T.V. movie. Sam eventually gets sleepy and Dean gets them sorted, just like they were kids again, the two of them tucked under the same covers in the same bed, Sam's laughter and Dean's low voice drifting down until there's quiet, and Bobby nods off hearing them through the wall.
Some nights he jolts to Sam screaming, and then sobbing, and he's always halfway to their room before he hears Dean talking low and soothing and soft, and then he hesitates until he's sure the boys are okay. Dean--tough, cool, unshakeable Dean--is suddenly all gentle, tender 'easy does it,' and 'take a breath' and 'I gotcha, you're alright,' and Sam responds by quieting, and Bobby can't help but feel a flood of affection toward these two boys with nothing to cling to but one another.
On weekends there are no drills, no runs, and no Latin. Dean gets up extra early and cooks breakfast for all of them, and then takes Sam into town for books and a movie and a meal in a restaurant, even if it's a cheap diner. The rest of the time Dean busies himself with work on a car or two and Sam sits on the porch reading, never far from his brother, occasionally checking the surrounding area for potential threats. Dean always calls out jokes or questions that make Sammy roll his eyes, but once his brother is buried safely under a hood he'll look at him with such adoration and hero worship Bobby can't help but chuckle. If Dean only knew what that kid thought of him, his ego would blow to the size of a planet. It was already halfway there.
Sweet as it was to see Dean so carefully and lovingly look after Sam, it didn't excuse the fact that Dean was still a child himself. Before this, Sam was generally good about caring for and supporting Dean (in the limited capacity Dean allowed): now, however, he was now far too traumatized but to do anything but cling to his elder brother and stare wide-eyed and wary at the world. Dean, though eagerly rising to the call of duty, was in over his head, trying to do the things he normally did when Sam was down about school or training or having to move--hardly fit for a severe emotional breakdown.
And, though he strove to hide it, he internalized every one of Sam's panics as some personal failure, and it was all wrong. He may not ever know or admit it, but he needed an parent to guide, a professional to put in perspective, an adult to allow him some childhood. A net of his own to fall on.
Bobby did his best to provide one. As the weeks went by, the three of them formed their own little cocoon of normal, one that none of them had had before or since. Sammy begins to sleep through the night, first under his brother's arm, then in his own bed. Dean keeps a laser eye on him and, slowly but surely, Sammy gains color and muscle and appetite, is able to sit slightly apart from his brother when they watch T.V., relaxes and laughs and turns into the fourteen year old he was when he arrived. Dean grows tan and straightens his posture, is gradually rougher in sparring with Sam, and the two begin to look not just normal, but happy and healthy.
The third week goes on, full of the quiet of late fall, the early dark, the proud stars. And then the Impala pulls into the yard and, a story above, Sam wakes screaming.
Next
Part I Part II Part III