"Get him, boy! Get him!" Sam yelled, frantically packing a snowball and trying to evade two mixed-breed dogs of Bobby's who seemed intent on eating whatever he picked up.
"What in hell is wrong with you boys! You're gonna get the pneumonia!" Bobby was standing on the top step, glaring in disapproval.
::snorts:: Did Bobby just say "the pneumonia"? He sounds like somebody's mother, lol.
"You dogs, git! Go patrol!" The dogs disengaged, trotting away across the yard and into the haze, heading for the smashed-car walls. Sam-dog waited, panting, until Dean sent him off with a hand-wave.
"Damn. You've really got 'em well trained, Bobby," Sam said. He surreptitiously tried to lob his last snowball at Dean, but it fell short.
"The same obviously can't be said for the two of you. It's lunch time." Bobby turned and stumped back into the house and Sam started brushing snow off his arms, shivering a little. Dean pushed himself up off the ground, groaning.
"The two of you"! Bobby said it, and his word is final!
"Fuck. I think I fell on a damn engine block or something. Shit." He flexed his knee and grimaced – limped up onto the porch, stomping his feet and shaking the snow out of his hair.
"Guess we pissed him off, huh?" Sam asked, and Dean snorted.
"Bobby? Hell no. Fuck, when I was a kid, he always had a crowd here. Orphans and runaways and every kind of lost boy or girl. Hell – Ellen sent Jo here for a summer or two when she was gettin' too big for her britches. Bobby's everybody's uncle."
"Oh. Oh, well that's...kinda surprising."
"Yeah?" Dean looked surprised and then considering – took off his coat and shook it, a hard snap. "Your Bobby not...like that?"
"No, he... Well, he wasn't – mean or anything, just... Kind of the confirmed bachelor type, you know? He didn't mind when Dad took us there but...no way he would have let us stay all summer."
I wonder if whatever incident that cost this!Bobby his leg made him go all Billy Jack on the local lost youth. Or maybe it just started with Dean and snowballed.
"You'll have to get underwear yourself – you're probably one of those tighty-whitey wearers," Dean smirked, waving Sam toward another open drawer.
I figured Sam for the boxers type, and Dean for the commando type.
"Yeah, okay. Dean, hey –" Sam reached out and put his hand on Dean's arm, stopping him in the doorway. Dean's flannel shirt was damp under Sam's hand – chilly. "Dean, I wanted to ask you... How did – how did Dad die?" Dean shivered under his fingers – took a half-step away, his back connecting with the door jamb. All the animation had bled out of his face and his eyes were dark. Shadowed by old pain and Sam wished he hadn't asked. "Man, I'm sorry, I – don't –"
"No, it's...it's not like every hunter doesn't know. Common knowledge. He never...got over you dying. Never got better. Got so much...fuckin' worse after that. We never stopped, you know? For the next fucking...five years we never...stopped." Dean shook his head – lifted it, finally, looking Sam in the face. Shoving his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunching. "He was drinking a lot, and I was trying to keep him...straight, you know, and....a demon got him. Possessed him. We lucked out 'cause I got it trapped, got it caught between salt and iron and I was...gonna exorcise it, for what that's worth but..." Dean blinked hard – took a sharp, shaky breath and let his head tip back, knocking it gently into the scarred jamb behind him. "It was out to gut as many hunters as it could. Before I could – get it outta Dad, it made him shoot himself. Cold iron round to the head." Sam winced, hard, his stomach curdling into a cold knot and Dean laughed softly, pushing away from the jamb and taking a step out of the room – pulling away from Sam's hand. "It said he'd been thinking about it a lot – for years. Said the wrong son died – he could have stood it if only you'd lived instead of me."
no subject
"What in hell is wrong with you boys! You're gonna get the pneumonia!" Bobby was standing on the top step, glaring in disapproval.
::snorts::
Did Bobby just say "the pneumonia"? He sounds like somebody's mother, lol.
"You dogs, git! Go patrol!" The dogs disengaged, trotting away across the yard and into the haze, heading for the smashed-car walls. Sam-dog waited, panting, until Dean sent him off with a hand-wave.
"Damn. You've really got 'em well trained, Bobby," Sam said. He surreptitiously tried to lob his last snowball at Dean, but it fell short.
"The same obviously can't be said for the two of you. It's lunch time." Bobby turned and stumped back into the house and Sam started brushing snow off his arms, shivering a little. Dean pushed himself up off the ground, groaning.
"The two of you"! Bobby said it, and his word is final!
"Fuck. I think I fell on a damn engine block or something. Shit." He flexed his knee and grimaced – limped up onto the porch, stomping his feet and shaking the snow out of his hair.
"Guess we pissed him off, huh?" Sam asked, and Dean snorted.
"Bobby? Hell no. Fuck, when I was a kid, he always had a crowd here. Orphans and runaways and every kind of lost boy or girl. Hell – Ellen sent Jo here for a summer or two when she was gettin' too big for her britches. Bobby's everybody's uncle."
"Oh. Oh, well that's...kinda surprising."
"Yeah?" Dean looked surprised and then considering – took off his coat and shook it, a hard snap. "Your Bobby not...like that?"
"No, he... Well, he wasn't – mean or anything, just... Kind of the confirmed bachelor type, you know? He didn't mind when Dad took us there but...no way he would have let us stay all summer."
I wonder if whatever incident that cost this!Bobby his leg made him go all Billy Jack on the local lost youth. Or maybe it just started with Dean and snowballed.
"You'll have to get underwear yourself – you're probably one of those tighty-whitey wearers," Dean smirked, waving Sam toward another open drawer.
I figured Sam for the boxers type, and Dean for the commando type.
"Yeah, okay. Dean, hey –" Sam reached out and put his hand on Dean's arm, stopping him in the doorway. Dean's flannel shirt was damp under Sam's hand – chilly. "Dean, I wanted to ask you... How did – how did Dad die?" Dean shivered under his fingers – took a half-step away, his back connecting with the door jamb. All the animation had bled out of his face and his eyes were dark. Shadowed by old pain and Sam wished he hadn't asked. "Man, I'm sorry, I – don't –"
"No, it's...it's not like every hunter doesn't know. Common knowledge. He never...got over you dying. Never got better. Got so much...fuckin' worse after that. We never stopped, you know? For the next fucking...five years we never...stopped." Dean shook his head – lifted it, finally, looking Sam in the face. Shoving his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunching. "He was drinking a lot, and I was trying to keep him...straight, you know, and....a demon got him. Possessed him. We lucked out 'cause I got it trapped, got it caught between salt and iron and I was...gonna exorcise it, for what that's worth but..." Dean blinked hard – took a sharp, shaky breath and let his head tip back, knocking it gently into the scarred jamb behind him. "It was out to gut as many hunters as it could. Before I could – get it outta Dad, it made him shoot himself. Cold iron round to the head." Sam winced, hard, his stomach curdling into a cold knot and Dean laughed softly, pushing away from the jamb and taking a step out of the room – pulling away from Sam's hand. "It said he'd been thinking about it a lot – for years. Said the wrong son died – he could have stood it if only you'd lived instead of me."
No comment. Hurty ball of pain.