New spn fic: Priorities
Title: Priorities
Author: reading_is_in
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean - OR IS IT? (That's like, the point ;) )
Genre: Drama/Angst/Family
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Bobby watches the Winchesters grow up. Companion piece to Sins Visited
Disclaimer: All recognized characters from ‘Supernatural’ are property of Eric Kripke/CW. This fan fiction is not for profit.
“You gotta be kidding me.”
The first time he saw them, they were standing on his front porch with their worldly possessions in a rucksack and contrasting expressions on their faces. The bigger one - and that wasn’t saying much! - was half a pace in front of the baby, holding his hand and standing so as to half obscure the little one from Bobby’s view. The little one was peering around his brother, all big dark eyes, curious but not letting go of his hand. Both were dirty, their clothes either too big or too small for them, and the older one was regarding Bobby with acute suspicion. The way Winchester talked about ‘the boys’, he’d assumed that the elder at least was a teenager - Bobby didn’t know about kids, but this one was about the size of the kindergarteners whose classroom he’d once liberated of a poltergeist. The little one was - he had no idea. Bobby hoped to God he was potty trained.
“WINCHESTER!” he bellowed.
The only answer was a plume of dust as the black Impala headed into the dusk.
“Shit,” said Bobby. “I mean, uh-….” The kids looked at him, apparently unpeturbed by the curse word.
“You must be Dean,” he said finally, to the older one.
“Yes sir,” said Dean evenly. “This is my little brother, Sammy.”
The possessive was stressed just enough that Bobby raised his eyebrows.
“I’m two,” Sam informed him, then, overcome with shyness, turned his face into his brother’s side and giggled.
“Well, hell,” Bobby said, and ran a hand through his hair. “I guess you’d better come in.”
*
“You know, we could clear out the other room for you.”
The first time he wondered, the boys were twelve and eight. Neither had yet raised the issue of wanting his own bed. Sammy, so far as Bobby could tell, would quite happily follow Dean around 24/7 - he was going through a phase of hero-worship, of wanting to be exactly like his brother, regaling anyone who’d listen with tales of Dean’s prowess in training, his cooking skills, the costume he’d helped Sammy make for his school’s Christmas party. But Dean would be thirteen shortly, and Bobby guessed it was starting to get old having his little brother tag along all the time, not that John’ s life gave them much in the way of leisure.
Dean regarded Bobby from across the room.
“Why?” he asked. Paused in the act of getting up from his chair to wake Sammy up and put him to bed, the pale glow of the static-y TV cast weird shadows on his face.
“I just figured it was about time,” Bobby shrugged, awkward. “If you want, I mean. Boy should have his own space.”
Dean frowned. “Sam has nightmares.” As though everybody should know that.
“He does?” Bobby blinked. It was hardly surprising, really. Just figured John wouldn’t see fit to share that new development. “Well, you’ll be right across the hall from him. I’m sure you’ll hear.”
“But what would be the point?” Dean sounded genuinely confused.
Bobby had to admit to himself that he was stumped for an answer.
*
“What exactly is the issue here, Bobby?”
The first time he brought it up with John, John scowled, remarkably like Dean when he made that expression.
“There’s no issue,” Bobby raised his hands, palms out, the picture of innocence. “I’m just saying…”
“Saying what?”
“That they’re very close.”
“And? What d’you expect, living like they do?”
“Well, maybe living like they do ain’t right! This ain’t a life to bring children in John, and you know that.”
John paused in cleaning his gun. Stared at Bobby over the kitchen table. It was a brave man who would meet John’s eyes with that look on his face, but Bobby Singer was either brave or dumb as a rock. Bit of both.
“You’d have me bring them up blind and stupid? Not knowing how to protect themselves?”
“Don’t gimme that. You think they got less chance of dying bloody outta the life, or in it?”
And from there it became their usual debate about the boys and hunting, somehow deflected from Bobby’s initial point about two young boys too much wrapped up in each other.
*
“Alright Sam, come on upstairs now.”
The first time he feared for them, over and above the generalized fears of hunting, Dean almost got himself killed and then Sam came extremely close to a nervous breakdown. At fourteen, Sam was a strange creature, close to six foot tall and so skinny it made Bobby wince every time he saw the kid in a t-shirt. He was also perpetually moody, engrossed in a book whenever John wasn’t making him train, shoulders hunched in a full-bodied expression of noli me tangere that made him resemble a giant fishing bird. Even Dean wasn’t exempt from his temper, though he was the only person allowed to tease Sam (or talk to him, sometimes). Bobby wracked his brains to remember if Dean had had such a phase, but he hadn’t seen much of them during those years, he and John going through one of their intermittent breaches of contact and John leaving the boys with the churchy guy up in Minnesota. Somehow he couldn’t imagine it.
Bobby, Dean and John had just put down a chupacabra. They’d left Sam with a book on Etruscan divinities in a truck near the edge of the wood - the Impala wasn’t made for this kind of terrain. It had been an easy hunt - chupacabras were strong but dumb, simple to track for those who know what to look for, and having put his woodcraft to service Bobby was happy to let John and Dean empty their silver bullets into thing’s body. Shame about the campers, but you can’t win ‘em all. They hiked back to the truck, John already making plans for where to go for a restock, and they had it in their sights when a second chupacabra leapt out of the undergrowth, fixing itself to the cab of the truck and smashing the window in. They heard Sam scream, and Dean did the stupidest thing it was possible to do, running straight for the thing with his silver knife whilst John shouted at him to get down, so that Bobby or he could at least disable it with a normal bullet and give Dean a fair chance to stab it. He stabbed it anyway - but not before it had left him with several deep wounds to his chest and right shoulder.
Now Dean was set up on the fold-out couch, stitched, drugged and half-asleep, with Sam curled impossibly small under his good arm. Sam’s eyes were wide and haunted. The smashed glass had left him with several small cuts to his face and his hands where he’d had the sense to cover to his eyes. He was sheet-white, tense and unwilling to move a fraction, one arm over Dean’s waist, below the bottom of the gouges. Bobby wondered vaguely whether John would approve if he drugged Sammy too - John was back out, once it became clear that Dean wasn’t in danger, looking for a nest or any signs of more chupacabras.
“I’ll stay here,” Sam whispered.
Bobby blew out his breath. “Your brother needs to rest and so do you. You look about ready to crack, kid.”
“I’m fine,” Sam whispered.
“He’s alright,” Dean mumbled, eyes cracking open, unclear whether he meant ‘he’s okay’,
or ‘leave him where he is’, until he raised his good hand to run through Sam’s hair, and Sam relaxed fractionally. Bobby blinked. That gesture - it reminded him of - something Karen would ….
…he turned away.
“I’ll turn in then,” he said.
*
The first time he knew was a nothing-time, just a regular Sunday, John off on some solo hunt with the boys left to the task of pursuing research. They’d been at it all day, and Bobby had sent them outside for a break - to get some use of his own damn library, he’d told them. Dean was messing with a car he’d convinced himself he could salvage. Bobby had little hope, but held off on cannibalizing it for a few more days, let him try if he wanted. Sam was ‘helping’, or hanging around, talking as usual, and Dean was listening whilst he worked in the sunset light, casting both of them in gold-red-purple glow, and Dean looked up and caught Sam’s eyes. Ran a hand down his arm in a casual gesture of intimacy. Sam smiled.
And Bobby knew.
He knew as soon as he knew it that he would never say a word, not to them, not to John, for being outside the laws of society for so long certain values start changing. And they’d get over it, maybe. They’d grow up. Sam would leave for college. Bobby had no doubt that he’d try it, the confided half-plan he had shared late at night when their spells of insomnia matched - whether he’d stick it out was another question, but he would go. See the wide world. And Dean would ….
…Dean was a hunter. Down to his very core. Hunters didn’t need - that, hunters needed the job, and the next job, and the next.
And Bobby’s house would be there. For both of them, together or apart. He could close his eyes, look away at the right moment. They’d been changing his priorities since he met them.
- End -
Author: reading_is_in
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean - OR IS IT? (That's like, the point ;) )
Genre: Drama/Angst/Family
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Bobby watches the Winchesters grow up. Companion piece to Sins Visited
Disclaimer: All recognized characters from ‘Supernatural’ are property of Eric Kripke/CW. This fan fiction is not for profit.
“You gotta be kidding me.”
The first time he saw them, they were standing on his front porch with their worldly possessions in a rucksack and contrasting expressions on their faces. The bigger one - and that wasn’t saying much! - was half a pace in front of the baby, holding his hand and standing so as to half obscure the little one from Bobby’s view. The little one was peering around his brother, all big dark eyes, curious but not letting go of his hand. Both were dirty, their clothes either too big or too small for them, and the older one was regarding Bobby with acute suspicion. The way Winchester talked about ‘the boys’, he’d assumed that the elder at least was a teenager - Bobby didn’t know about kids, but this one was about the size of the kindergarteners whose classroom he’d once liberated of a poltergeist. The little one was - he had no idea. Bobby hoped to God he was potty trained.
“WINCHESTER!” he bellowed.
The only answer was a plume of dust as the black Impala headed into the dusk.
“Shit,” said Bobby. “I mean, uh-….” The kids looked at him, apparently unpeturbed by the curse word.
“You must be Dean,” he said finally, to the older one.
“Yes sir,” said Dean evenly. “This is my little brother, Sammy.”
The possessive was stressed just enough that Bobby raised his eyebrows.
“I’m two,” Sam informed him, then, overcome with shyness, turned his face into his brother’s side and giggled.
“Well, hell,” Bobby said, and ran a hand through his hair. “I guess you’d better come in.”
*
“You know, we could clear out the other room for you.”
The first time he wondered, the boys were twelve and eight. Neither had yet raised the issue of wanting his own bed. Sammy, so far as Bobby could tell, would quite happily follow Dean around 24/7 - he was going through a phase of hero-worship, of wanting to be exactly like his brother, regaling anyone who’d listen with tales of Dean’s prowess in training, his cooking skills, the costume he’d helped Sammy make for his school’s Christmas party. But Dean would be thirteen shortly, and Bobby guessed it was starting to get old having his little brother tag along all the time, not that John’ s life gave them much in the way of leisure.
Dean regarded Bobby from across the room.
“Why?” he asked. Paused in the act of getting up from his chair to wake Sammy up and put him to bed, the pale glow of the static-y TV cast weird shadows on his face.
“I just figured it was about time,” Bobby shrugged, awkward. “If you want, I mean. Boy should have his own space.”
Dean frowned. “Sam has nightmares.” As though everybody should know that.
“He does?” Bobby blinked. It was hardly surprising, really. Just figured John wouldn’t see fit to share that new development. “Well, you’ll be right across the hall from him. I’m sure you’ll hear.”
“But what would be the point?” Dean sounded genuinely confused.
Bobby had to admit to himself that he was stumped for an answer.
*
“What exactly is the issue here, Bobby?”
The first time he brought it up with John, John scowled, remarkably like Dean when he made that expression.
“There’s no issue,” Bobby raised his hands, palms out, the picture of innocence. “I’m just saying…”
“Saying what?”
“That they’re very close.”
“And? What d’you expect, living like they do?”
“Well, maybe living like they do ain’t right! This ain’t a life to bring children in John, and you know that.”
John paused in cleaning his gun. Stared at Bobby over the kitchen table. It was a brave man who would meet John’s eyes with that look on his face, but Bobby Singer was either brave or dumb as a rock. Bit of both.
“You’d have me bring them up blind and stupid? Not knowing how to protect themselves?”
“Don’t gimme that. You think they got less chance of dying bloody outta the life, or in it?”
And from there it became their usual debate about the boys and hunting, somehow deflected from Bobby’s initial point about two young boys too much wrapped up in each other.
*
“Alright Sam, come on upstairs now.”
The first time he feared for them, over and above the generalized fears of hunting, Dean almost got himself killed and then Sam came extremely close to a nervous breakdown. At fourteen, Sam was a strange creature, close to six foot tall and so skinny it made Bobby wince every time he saw the kid in a t-shirt. He was also perpetually moody, engrossed in a book whenever John wasn’t making him train, shoulders hunched in a full-bodied expression of noli me tangere that made him resemble a giant fishing bird. Even Dean wasn’t exempt from his temper, though he was the only person allowed to tease Sam (or talk to him, sometimes). Bobby wracked his brains to remember if Dean had had such a phase, but he hadn’t seen much of them during those years, he and John going through one of their intermittent breaches of contact and John leaving the boys with the churchy guy up in Minnesota. Somehow he couldn’t imagine it.
Bobby, Dean and John had just put down a chupacabra. They’d left Sam with a book on Etruscan divinities in a truck near the edge of the wood - the Impala wasn’t made for this kind of terrain. It had been an easy hunt - chupacabras were strong but dumb, simple to track for those who know what to look for, and having put his woodcraft to service Bobby was happy to let John and Dean empty their silver bullets into thing’s body. Shame about the campers, but you can’t win ‘em all. They hiked back to the truck, John already making plans for where to go for a restock, and they had it in their sights when a second chupacabra leapt out of the undergrowth, fixing itself to the cab of the truck and smashing the window in. They heard Sam scream, and Dean did the stupidest thing it was possible to do, running straight for the thing with his silver knife whilst John shouted at him to get down, so that Bobby or he could at least disable it with a normal bullet and give Dean a fair chance to stab it. He stabbed it anyway - but not before it had left him with several deep wounds to his chest and right shoulder.
Now Dean was set up on the fold-out couch, stitched, drugged and half-asleep, with Sam curled impossibly small under his good arm. Sam’s eyes were wide and haunted. The smashed glass had left him with several small cuts to his face and his hands where he’d had the sense to cover to his eyes. He was sheet-white, tense and unwilling to move a fraction, one arm over Dean’s waist, below the bottom of the gouges. Bobby wondered vaguely whether John would approve if he drugged Sammy too - John was back out, once it became clear that Dean wasn’t in danger, looking for a nest or any signs of more chupacabras.
“I’ll stay here,” Sam whispered.
Bobby blew out his breath. “Your brother needs to rest and so do you. You look about ready to crack, kid.”
“I’m fine,” Sam whispered.
“He’s alright,” Dean mumbled, eyes cracking open, unclear whether he meant ‘he’s okay’,
or ‘leave him where he is’, until he raised his good hand to run through Sam’s hair, and Sam relaxed fractionally. Bobby blinked. That gesture - it reminded him of - something Karen would ….
…he turned away.
“I’ll turn in then,” he said.
*
The first time he knew was a nothing-time, just a regular Sunday, John off on some solo hunt with the boys left to the task of pursuing research. They’d been at it all day, and Bobby had sent them outside for a break - to get some use of his own damn library, he’d told them. Dean was messing with a car he’d convinced himself he could salvage. Bobby had little hope, but held off on cannibalizing it for a few more days, let him try if he wanted. Sam was ‘helping’, or hanging around, talking as usual, and Dean was listening whilst he worked in the sunset light, casting both of them in gold-red-purple glow, and Dean looked up and caught Sam’s eyes. Ran a hand down his arm in a casual gesture of intimacy. Sam smiled.
And Bobby knew.
He knew as soon as he knew it that he would never say a word, not to them, not to John, for being outside the laws of society for so long certain values start changing. And they’d get over it, maybe. They’d grow up. Sam would leave for college. Bobby had no doubt that he’d try it, the confided half-plan he had shared late at night when their spells of insomnia matched - whether he’d stick it out was another question, but he would go. See the wide world. And Dean would ….
…Dean was a hunter. Down to his very core. Hunters didn’t need - that, hunters needed the job, and the next job, and the next.
And Bobby’s house would be there. For both of them, together or apart. He could close his eyes, look away at the right moment. They’d been changing his priorities since he met them.
- End -