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John, Sam, Dean.
Originally posted at Supernaturalfic.
Dean woke up when his dad's car rumbled to a stop outside. He rubbed tiredly at his eyes and glanced at the clock over the dresser. Just a little after five on a June morning, and it was already getting warm in the apartment. Dean got up and shuffled to the bedroom door and stood there, yawning. After about five minutes the locks clicked over and his dad walked in, shedding gear to the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room. The knives and rifle were hung up on the pegs by the door and then Dad turned around and locked the door again, one, two, three. Then he smiled over at Dean, a broad, tired smile.
"Hey, son - you're up early."
"I heard the car. D'jou get it?"
"Nothing but ashes now," Dad said, and looked down at his grimy hands. "I really need to clean up and get some sleep - you go on back to bed, Dean. It's not even light out."
"Ooh - ohkay," Dean said through a yawn and grinned when his dad reached out and patted his shoulder as he walked past. Dad smelled like burning and gunpowder and earth and dew. It was a good smell. Dean turned around and walked back to his bed - flopped down on his stomach, not even bothering with the sheet.
"Was'sat Dad?" Sam mumbled, blinking through his bangs, pillow half over his head.
"Yeah, he's fine. Go back to sleep."
"'Kay," Sam muttered, and was gone again. After another minute, Dean was too.
"It's not bad," Dad said, blotting the blood off of Sam's finger and wrapping a Band-Aid around it. Sam sniffed and nodded, taking his hand back. Dad put his hand on Sam's shoulder and shook him, just a little. "I told you before, Sam - wash the knives first, separately. You can't see through bubbles."
"Yes, sir," Sam said, and Dad gave his shoulder a squeeze.
"Okay. I want you to keep that dry, so Dean's gonna finish the dishes -"
"Da-ad!"
"And you're gonna dry 'em, Sam."
"Why can't Dean -"
"It's not my turn -"
"I've said all I'm gonna say," Dad said, shoving Band-Aids back into the box and Dean stomped into the kitchen, scowling. Sam trailed after him, sullenly picking up the knife that had cut him and drying it. Dean hated to wash dishes and Sam hated to dry.
"Dean. Is that the knife I had Pastor Jim consecrate?"
Dean shoved both hands into soapy water, groping for the washcloth. "We wanted some of that watermelon and all the knives we got at the Piggly Wiggly are lame."
Dad sighed, long and loud. "After you're done there, you can go wash the car, Dean." Dean made a face at the sink and Sam snickered. "And Sam, you'll be helping me make salt rounds." Now Sam was making the face. He hated making rounds, especially salt - he said it was boring.
*Not as boring as washing the car. And it's hot out there. Thanks a lot, Sammy, for being a wimp and yelling when you got that teeny, tiny cut.*
"Yes, sir," they mumbled.
"Hurry up, Sammy!"
"I'm doin' it," Sam muttered, scowling. Poking the broom fiercely into the corner of the bedroom. Dean finished making up his bed with a hard jerk. He could almost bounce a quarter off it. Sam was nowhere near that, yet. Sam broomed up some dust-bunnies from under the dresser and Dean picked up the flimsy plastic laundry basket and took it out to the living room. Dad's basket was already sitting by the door and Dad was wiping the last, faint sheen of gun-oil from his rifle.
"Here's the laundry, Dad," Dean said, slinging his and Sam's stuff down. Dad nodded absently, his hands moving lightly over the rifle, his pistol - the knives. Making sure they were clean, loaded and ready.
"Thanks, Dean. You boys finished now?"
"Yeah. Well, Sammy's taking forever!" Dean yelled the last word and Sam came out of the bedroom, broom and dust pan in his hands.
"I'm done already!"
"Took you long enough."
"What's the plan, Dean?" Dad asked, sorting through the change bowl on the counter for quarters. It was his turn to do laundry.
"Mrs. Gillette said we could come pick blackberries if we helped her clean out her garage." Dean and Sam had washed and bleached out gallon milk jugs for weeks in anticipation of blackberry season. They could sell them for two dollars a gallon at the farmer's market downtown. Last year, up in Oregon, Dean had picked about twenty gallons all by himself.
"You got your supplies?" Dad asked.
"We got 'em, look! We made up survival kits," Sam said. He darted to the front closet and hauled out the two faded Army knapsacks, opening them up. "See? Holy water, salt, lighter fluid, um...matches in the side pocket...flashlights...granola bars..." Sam's voice dropped to a mumble as he catalogued each item, his hands patting over the pockets of the knapsacks.
"Looks good, boys. Now - rules?"
"Don't check out weird noises or smells or apparitions," Dean chanted. Sam mouthed along with him, hands still moving. "Just get out fast and come tell you. Get home before dark. Don't talk to strangers, don't take rides, don't take food or drinks from strangers."
"Absolutely. And don't forget your canteens. It's hot outside - if you get dehydrated, you'll forget the rules."
"You stop sweating and die," Sam said, jerking his knapsack closed.
"Right. Got bug repellant?" Dean held up the tube of stuff they'd got at the Army/Navy surplus.
"Got it."
"Use it. Okay. I'm gonna do this laundry, fill up the car, get some groceries..." Dad looked at the calendar tacked on the wall from the local Credit Union. It had moon phases, when to plant your crops and garden, and sunrise and sunset times. "Sunset's at...twenty-twenty-one, you'll be home at -?"
"Twenty-hundred hours," Dean and Sam chorused. Dean picked up his knapsack and swung into to his shoulders, deliberately bonking Sam in the side of the head. Sam picked his own up and swung it around, knocking Dean in the butt.
"Knock it off, Samantha!"
"You knock it off, Denise!"
"Don't fight, boys." Dad dug into his pocket and came up with a five dollar bill. "Get some sandwiches or something, okay?"
"Sure, Dad. Thanks." Dean grinned as he took the money - went with Sam to the 'fridge to get out their full canteens and sling them, heavy and cold, over their shoulders. "Have fun with the laundry," Dean added, holding the door for Sam and Dad made a face.
"Your turn next week."
"Next week Sammy won't have puked up ravioli all over his bed."
"Not my fault," Sam muttered, and Dean pushed him through the door.
"You’re the one that wanted to be a whirling dervish."
"It looked cool on the TV..."
"Bye, Dad!"
"Bye, boys. Be safe."
Dean pumped the pedals hard, forcing his bike up the crumbly clay bank of the creek. He could hear Sam panting behind him, tires skidding a little. The air was still hot, the sun fierce and orange and about two hands above the horizon. "Hurry up, Sammy! We're gonna be late!"
"I'm – comin' –" Sam coughed once and Dean risked a glance back. Sam was red-faced and sweating, his bangs all stuck to his forehead and his bike starting to wobble under him, more and more wildly. The bags of blackberries hanging off the handlebars weren't helping.
"Sam –" Dean put his foot down – dropped his bike and grabbed Sam's handlebars just as Sam's was going over. Sam's feet hit dirt and he hung there, gasping. "Jesus, Sam –"
"Shut up, Dean! I can make it. Just – gimme a drink."
Sam scrubbed his face with the hem of this t-shirt while Dean slipped Sam's canteen off his shoulder and unscrewed the cap. He took a drink first, ignoring Sam's glare. "Here." Sam gulped water, spilling some down his chin, and Dean yanked on the shoulder strap. "Quit it! You'll make yourself sick."
"No I won't," Sam muttered, but he only took one more small sip and then wiped his mouth on his shoulder, making a damp streak on the green cotton. He looked down at the knapsack that hung against his side and his expression went soft – worried. "Do you think -?"
"No, I don't. I think you should just forget it, Sam!"
Sam's expression hardened. "I'm not. At least I have the guts to ask!" Sam grabbed the handlebars of his bike and wrenched it out of Dean's loose grip – started to walk the bike up to the rim of the creek bank. Dean made a face at his sweaty, stubborn head and grabbed his own bike, checking fast to make sure his berries hadn't spilled. He fell into step beside Sam, their feet squishing and sliding in the loose, gravelly dirt.
"I've got the guts! I'm just not stupid –"
"You're afraid!"
"Sam, I am not!" Dean shouted and Sam stopped walking for a second and just looked at him. "I'm not," Dean insisted. He unslung Sam's canteen again and took a long drink. "It's just…you know what he'll say."
"He might not," Sam muttered, pushing his bike into motion again.
Dean capped the canteen and sighed. "Yeah he will, Sam. And he's –"
"Don't say he's right, Dean."
"Sam –"
"Just don't! If you'd just…back me up sometimes…" Sam said the last really low but Dean heard him anyway and just shook his head.
"I do back you up, Sammy," he said back, but Sam didn't hear him.
They got home ten minutes before sundown, sweating and exhausted. Sam clumsily locked his bike into the bike rack and didn't say anything when Dean grabbed the berries out of his hands. They trudged upstairs, Dean wincing at the gravel in his sneakers. The berries were heavy. *Probably got six gallons. Maybe eight. Have to try down by the other end of the pasture, those bushes looked fuller…* Dean was calculating how much money they already as they knocked on the door. Two knocks, a pause, then two more. Code for Sam and Dean.
The locks clicked over then the door swung back, letting out light and the thick smell of chili. "Pushing it, boys," Dad said.
"I know." Sam stepped inside and Dean followed and Dad shut the door. " I'm sorry, it's –"
"It's my fault. I made Dean stop," Sam said, and Dean wanted to kick him. Sam just didn't know how to finesse things.
"You can't make someone do something they know is wrong," Dad said, and Dean almost wanted to kick him, too.
"Yes you can," Sam said. "Like one time, I made Danny Mont –"
"I think we've got about eight gallons, Dad. Did you make chili?" Dean cut Sam right off – pushed past him and slung the bags all up onto the kitchen divider. Maybe Sam would just shut up for a while.
"Frito pie and salad," Dad said. "So – why'd you make Dean stop, Sam?" He clicked the locks over and leaned there, arms crossed. The clean laundry was sitting in it's baskets in the hall, all ready to be put away.
"Because -" Sam's grubby hand touched the knapsack gently for a moment and then he was pulling it open and reaching inside and Dean sighed and lay the canteens down – dropped his own knapsack as Sam hoisted a bedraggled scrap of fur out of the depths of his pack.
Dad stared. "What the hell is that?"
"It's a puppy," Sam said, cuddling it close, and the puppy made a little whiffling noise.
"Sam –" Dad came off the door, scowling, and Dean took one step and then stopped. He'd told Sam not to do it.
*Knew he'd get pissed off, Sam. What'd you expect? He always says no.*
"They threw it out! Like – like trash! Me and Dean were down at where the creek goes under the overpass and this car went over and they threw this bag down into the creek!" Sam's cheeks were flushed red, the rest of his face pale – his chest heaving under his t-shirt. The puppy nosed at the side of his neck and Sam's fingers curled around its skull, petting.
"Sammy, you know –"
"There were five of them! They just threw them out and the bag hit the water and me and Dean went to see and – and –" Sam's voice broke – his fingers scrubbed at the puppy's fur and Dad looked over at Dean.
"The other ones died, Dad. The bag kinda…hit a rock."
"Oh – hell." Dad reached up and rubbed his chin, slow. Watching Sam whisper to the puppy and then looking over at Dean. "What did you do with the rest?"
"We buried 'em. There was a big honeysuckle right there so we put them – put them under there." Digging with a piece of broken board and a big stick, Sam sniffling and wiping at his hair and Dean going afterward to scrub his bloody hands in the creek, scraping dirt from under his nails. Dean hoped Dad hadn't heard the little wobble in his voice.
Dad took a long breath, looking down at his feet. Still rubbing his chin, his other hand shoved into his jeans pocket.
Sam finally looked up and his mouth was set in that straight, hard line that Dean thought made him look just like Dad. "Dad, we couldn't just leave him out there!" Sam talked fast, his eyes big and his lashes all wet, stuck together. "He'd starve, he's too little to hunt. And – Dean thinks he's a Rottweiler, they're big dogs, he'd be a good guard dog and –"
"Son, I've told you this before. We can't have a dog. Or a cat, or – or any kind of animal. I've told you this!" Dad paced over to the kitchen divider – turned around and stepped up close to Sam, staring down at him. "What if we go on a hunt and can't get back in time? What if the animal gets hurt or killed because of what we're doing? Do you really think that's fair on some poor little cat or dog?"
"I know, I know! Okay? I know! But listen, Dad –"
"Sam, I've said all I'm gonna say. Tomorrow we'll take it to the pound. Some nice family'll –"
"Dad. Would you please just listen to me!" Sam shouted, right in Dad's face and Dad's expression went from exasperated to pissed off in about three seconds.
*Here we go -* "Sam, shut up!"
"I wanna say something! You shut up, Dean!"
"You both stop it! Sam –"
Sam lifted his head and looked straight at Dad, shoulders back. His eyes were dark under his lank bangs and he looked younger than eleven years but there was something… Dad just – stopped. Dean held his breath.
"I know you said we can't have a dog. I know*Oh, no way! No way that lame argument won him over!*
In the face of Dad's long silence, Sam's look of determination was starting to waver and Dean bit his lip and then made up his mind. "It's only a couple of months, Dad," Dean said, and Sam shot a look of pure astonishment at Dean before a huge smile started to spread over his face.
"Yeah! It's only until September. Hardly any time. And we'll teach him how to be a really good dog, Dad, the best."
"Boys, you know –" Dad stopped – reached out and pushed the puppy gently down. Back against Sam's chest and Sam rubbed his chin on the little head that immediately tucked up into his neck. He stood there and just looked at Sam for the longest time. Looked over at Dean once, too, and Dean just looked back, trying not to show…anything. "I want your word, Sam. Your word as a man that when it comes time to hand this dog over you'll do it, no ifs ands or buts. And no whining."
"I swear. Dad, I swear on – on the Bible and –"
"Just gimme your hand, son," Dad said, and Sam shifted the puppy and stuck out his hand. Dad looked at it for a second and then they shook. Then Dad turned to Dean. "You too, Dean."
"Yes sir," Dean said. Dad's hand was strong and warm and callused – hard. "I swear."
"Well…okay. Alright. You two boys go get cleaned up for dinner. Give me the dog, Sam."
Sam stared at Dad for a moment and then carefully handed the puppy over. "You have to put your hands –"
"Yeah, I got it, Sammy. Go wash." Dad hefted the puppy up, one hand under its front legs, one cupping its round butt. He shook it very gently. "Listen up, little man. There are rules if you're gonna live in the Winchester household…"
Dean grabbed Sam and towed him toward the bathroom – flipped on the light and got the water going. Sam was grinning like an idiot. Dean whapped him on the back of the head. "I cannot believe he fell for that!"
"It's true! We can teach him all kinds of cool stuff! I saw this book in the library."
"Only you, geek-boy," Dean muttered, lathering up, and Sam dug his elbow into Dean's ribs. "Ow!"
"Thanks for taking my side," Sam said, looking at Dean in the mirror. Serious look, and Dean shrugged.
"He doesn't deserve to go to the pound," Dean said finally. "But I'm not gonna be the one cleaning up after him. That's gonna be all your job, Sammy."
"He likes me better, anyway," Sam said, grabbing for the towel.
"He does not!"
"Boys, come and eat!"
"Does so."
"Does not."
***
Bobby pursed his lips and looked at the puppy sitting beside Sam's feet. "Really? He looks more like a Rumsfeld to me."
Originally posted at Supernaturalfic.
Dean woke up when his dad's car rumbled to a stop outside. He rubbed tiredly at his eyes and glanced at the clock over the dresser. Just a little after five on a June morning, and it was already getting warm in the apartment. Dean got up and shuffled to the bedroom door and stood there, yawning. After about five minutes the locks clicked over and his dad walked in, shedding gear to the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room. The knives and rifle were hung up on the pegs by the door and then Dad turned around and locked the door again, one, two, three. Then he smiled over at Dean, a broad, tired smile.
"Hey, son - you're up early."
"I heard the car. D'jou get it?"
"Nothing but ashes now," Dad said, and looked down at his grimy hands. "I really need to clean up and get some sleep - you go on back to bed, Dean. It's not even light out."
"Ooh - ohkay," Dean said through a yawn and grinned when his dad reached out and patted his shoulder as he walked past. Dad smelled like burning and gunpowder and earth and dew. It was a good smell. Dean turned around and walked back to his bed - flopped down on his stomach, not even bothering with the sheet.
"Was'sat Dad?" Sam mumbled, blinking through his bangs, pillow half over his head.
"Yeah, he's fine. Go back to sleep."
"'Kay," Sam muttered, and was gone again. After another minute, Dean was too.
"It's not bad," Dad said, blotting the blood off of Sam's finger and wrapping a Band-Aid around it. Sam sniffed and nodded, taking his hand back. Dad put his hand on Sam's shoulder and shook him, just a little. "I told you before, Sam - wash the knives first, separately. You can't see through bubbles."
"Yes, sir," Sam said, and Dad gave his shoulder a squeeze.
"Okay. I want you to keep that dry, so Dean's gonna finish the dishes -"
"Da-ad!"
"And you're gonna dry 'em, Sam."
"Why can't Dean -"
"It's not my turn -"
"I've said all I'm gonna say," Dad said, shoving Band-Aids back into the box and Dean stomped into the kitchen, scowling. Sam trailed after him, sullenly picking up the knife that had cut him and drying it. Dean hated to wash dishes and Sam hated to dry.
"Dean. Is that the knife I had Pastor Jim consecrate?"
Dean shoved both hands into soapy water, groping for the washcloth. "We wanted some of that watermelon and all the knives we got at the Piggly Wiggly are lame."
Dad sighed, long and loud. "After you're done there, you can go wash the car, Dean." Dean made a face at the sink and Sam snickered. "And Sam, you'll be helping me make salt rounds." Now Sam was making the face. He hated making rounds, especially salt - he said it was boring.
*Not as boring as washing the car. And it's hot out there. Thanks a lot, Sammy, for being a wimp and yelling when you got that teeny, tiny cut.*
"Yes, sir," they mumbled.
"Hurry up, Sammy!"
"I'm doin' it," Sam muttered, scowling. Poking the broom fiercely into the corner of the bedroom. Dean finished making up his bed with a hard jerk. He could almost bounce a quarter off it. Sam was nowhere near that, yet. Sam broomed up some dust-bunnies from under the dresser and Dean picked up the flimsy plastic laundry basket and took it out to the living room. Dad's basket was already sitting by the door and Dad was wiping the last, faint sheen of gun-oil from his rifle.
"Here's the laundry, Dad," Dean said, slinging his and Sam's stuff down. Dad nodded absently, his hands moving lightly over the rifle, his pistol - the knives. Making sure they were clean, loaded and ready.
"Thanks, Dean. You boys finished now?"
"Yeah. Well, Sammy's taking forever!" Dean yelled the last word and Sam came out of the bedroom, broom and dust pan in his hands.
"I'm done already!"
"Took you long enough."
"What's the plan, Dean?" Dad asked, sorting through the change bowl on the counter for quarters. It was his turn to do laundry.
"Mrs. Gillette said we could come pick blackberries if we helped her clean out her garage." Dean and Sam had washed and bleached out gallon milk jugs for weeks in anticipation of blackberry season. They could sell them for two dollars a gallon at the farmer's market downtown. Last year, up in Oregon, Dean had picked about twenty gallons all by himself.
"You got your supplies?" Dad asked.
"We got 'em, look! We made up survival kits," Sam said. He darted to the front closet and hauled out the two faded Army knapsacks, opening them up. "See? Holy water, salt, lighter fluid, um...matches in the side pocket...flashlights...granola bars..." Sam's voice dropped to a mumble as he catalogued each item, his hands patting over the pockets of the knapsacks.
"Looks good, boys. Now - rules?"
"Don't check out weird noises or smells or apparitions," Dean chanted. Sam mouthed along with him, hands still moving. "Just get out fast and come tell you. Get home before dark. Don't talk to strangers, don't take rides, don't take food or drinks from strangers."
"Absolutely. And don't forget your canteens. It's hot outside - if you get dehydrated, you'll forget the rules."
"You stop sweating and die," Sam said, jerking his knapsack closed.
"Right. Got bug repellant?" Dean held up the tube of stuff they'd got at the Army/Navy surplus.
"Got it."
"Use it. Okay. I'm gonna do this laundry, fill up the car, get some groceries..." Dad looked at the calendar tacked on the wall from the local Credit Union. It had moon phases, when to plant your crops and garden, and sunrise and sunset times. "Sunset's at...twenty-twenty-one, you'll be home at -?"
"Twenty-hundred hours," Dean and Sam chorused. Dean picked up his knapsack and swung into to his shoulders, deliberately bonking Sam in the side of the head. Sam picked his own up and swung it around, knocking Dean in the butt.
"Knock it off, Samantha!"
"You knock it off, Denise!"
"Don't fight, boys." Dad dug into his pocket and came up with a five dollar bill. "Get some sandwiches or something, okay?"
"Sure, Dad. Thanks." Dean grinned as he took the money - went with Sam to the 'fridge to get out their full canteens and sling them, heavy and cold, over their shoulders. "Have fun with the laundry," Dean added, holding the door for Sam and Dad made a face.
"Your turn next week."
"Next week Sammy won't have puked up ravioli all over his bed."
"Not my fault," Sam muttered, and Dean pushed him through the door.
"You’re the one that wanted to be a whirling dervish."
"It looked cool on the TV..."
"Bye, Dad!"
"Bye, boys. Be safe."
Dean pumped the pedals hard, forcing his bike up the crumbly clay bank of the creek. He could hear Sam panting behind him, tires skidding a little. The air was still hot, the sun fierce and orange and about two hands above the horizon. "Hurry up, Sammy! We're gonna be late!"
"I'm – comin' –" Sam coughed once and Dean risked a glance back. Sam was red-faced and sweating, his bangs all stuck to his forehead and his bike starting to wobble under him, more and more wildly. The bags of blackberries hanging off the handlebars weren't helping.
"Sam –" Dean put his foot down – dropped his bike and grabbed Sam's handlebars just as Sam's was going over. Sam's feet hit dirt and he hung there, gasping. "Jesus, Sam –"
"Shut up, Dean! I can make it. Just – gimme a drink."
Sam scrubbed his face with the hem of this t-shirt while Dean slipped Sam's canteen off his shoulder and unscrewed the cap. He took a drink first, ignoring Sam's glare. "Here." Sam gulped water, spilling some down his chin, and Dean yanked on the shoulder strap. "Quit it! You'll make yourself sick."
"No I won't," Sam muttered, but he only took one more small sip and then wiped his mouth on his shoulder, making a damp streak on the green cotton. He looked down at the knapsack that hung against his side and his expression went soft – worried. "Do you think -?"
"No, I don't. I think you should just forget it, Sam!"
Sam's expression hardened. "I'm not. At least I have the guts to ask!" Sam grabbed the handlebars of his bike and wrenched it out of Dean's loose grip – started to walk the bike up to the rim of the creek bank. Dean made a face at his sweaty, stubborn head and grabbed his own bike, checking fast to make sure his berries hadn't spilled. He fell into step beside Sam, their feet squishing and sliding in the loose, gravelly dirt.
"I've got the guts! I'm just not stupid –"
"You're afraid!"
"Sam, I am not!" Dean shouted and Sam stopped walking for a second and just looked at him. "I'm not," Dean insisted. He unslung Sam's canteen again and took a long drink. "It's just…you know what he'll say."
"He might not," Sam muttered, pushing his bike into motion again.
Dean capped the canteen and sighed. "Yeah he will, Sam. And he's –"
"Don't say he's right, Dean."
"Sam –"
"Just don't! If you'd just…back me up sometimes…" Sam said the last really low but Dean heard him anyway and just shook his head.
"I do back you up, Sammy," he said back, but Sam didn't hear him.
They got home ten minutes before sundown, sweating and exhausted. Sam clumsily locked his bike into the bike rack and didn't say anything when Dean grabbed the berries out of his hands. They trudged upstairs, Dean wincing at the gravel in his sneakers. The berries were heavy. *Probably got six gallons. Maybe eight. Have to try down by the other end of the pasture, those bushes looked fuller…* Dean was calculating how much money they already as they knocked on the door. Two knocks, a pause, then two more. Code for Sam and Dean.
The locks clicked over then the door swung back, letting out light and the thick smell of chili. "Pushing it, boys," Dad said.
"I know." Sam stepped inside and Dean followed and Dad shut the door. " I'm sorry, it's –"
"It's my fault. I made Dean stop," Sam said, and Dean wanted to kick him. Sam just didn't know how to finesse things.
"You can't make someone do something they know is wrong," Dad said, and Dean almost wanted to kick him, too.
"Yes you can," Sam said. "Like one time, I made Danny Mont –"
"I think we've got about eight gallons, Dad. Did you make chili?" Dean cut Sam right off – pushed past him and slung the bags all up onto the kitchen divider. Maybe Sam would just shut up for a while.
"Frito pie and salad," Dad said. "So – why'd you make Dean stop, Sam?" He clicked the locks over and leaned there, arms crossed. The clean laundry was sitting in it's baskets in the hall, all ready to be put away.
"Because -" Sam's grubby hand touched the knapsack gently for a moment and then he was pulling it open and reaching inside and Dean sighed and lay the canteens down – dropped his own knapsack as Sam hoisted a bedraggled scrap of fur out of the depths of his pack.
Dad stared. "What the hell is that?"
"It's a puppy," Sam said, cuddling it close, and the puppy made a little whiffling noise.
"Sam –" Dad came off the door, scowling, and Dean took one step and then stopped. He'd told Sam not to do it.
*Knew he'd get pissed off, Sam. What'd you expect? He always says no.*
"They threw it out! Like – like trash! Me and Dean were down at where the creek goes under the overpass and this car went over and they threw this bag down into the creek!" Sam's cheeks were flushed red, the rest of his face pale – his chest heaving under his t-shirt. The puppy nosed at the side of his neck and Sam's fingers curled around its skull, petting.
"Sammy, you know –"
"There were five of them! They just threw them out and the bag hit the water and me and Dean went to see and – and –" Sam's voice broke – his fingers scrubbed at the puppy's fur and Dad looked over at Dean.
"The other ones died, Dad. The bag kinda…hit a rock."
"Oh – hell." Dad reached up and rubbed his chin, slow. Watching Sam whisper to the puppy and then looking over at Dean. "What did you do with the rest?"
"We buried 'em. There was a big honeysuckle right there so we put them – put them under there." Digging with a piece of broken board and a big stick, Sam sniffling and wiping at his hair and Dean going afterward to scrub his bloody hands in the creek, scraping dirt from under his nails. Dean hoped Dad hadn't heard the little wobble in his voice.
Dad took a long breath, looking down at his feet. Still rubbing his chin, his other hand shoved into his jeans pocket.
Sam finally looked up and his mouth was set in that straight, hard line that Dean thought made him look just like Dad. "Dad, we couldn't just leave him out there!" Sam talked fast, his eyes big and his lashes all wet, stuck together. "He'd starve, he's too little to hunt. And – Dean thinks he's a Rottweiler, they're big dogs, he'd be a good guard dog and –"
"Son, I've told you this before. We can't have a dog. Or a cat, or – or any kind of animal. I've told you this!" Dad paced over to the kitchen divider – turned around and stepped up close to Sam, staring down at him. "What if we go on a hunt and can't get back in time? What if the animal gets hurt or killed because of what we're doing? Do you really think that's fair on some poor little cat or dog?"
"I know, I know! Okay? I know! But listen, Dad –"
"Sam, I've said all I'm gonna say. Tomorrow we'll take it to the pound. Some nice family'll –"
"Dad. Would you please just listen to me!" Sam shouted, right in Dad's face and Dad's expression went from exasperated to pissed off in about three seconds.
*Here we go -* "Sam, shut up!"
"I wanna say something! You shut up, Dean!"
"You both stop it! Sam –"
Sam lifted his head and looked straight at Dad, shoulders back. His eyes were dark under his lank bangs and he looked younger than eleven years but there was something… Dad just – stopped. Dean held his breath.
"I know you said we can't have a dog. I know*Oh, no way! No way that lame argument won him over!*
In the face of Dad's long silence, Sam's look of determination was starting to waver and Dean bit his lip and then made up his mind. "It's only a couple of months, Dad," Dean said, and Sam shot a look of pure astonishment at Dean before a huge smile started to spread over his face.
"Yeah! It's only until September. Hardly any time. And we'll teach him how to be a really good dog, Dad, the best."
"Boys, you know –" Dad stopped – reached out and pushed the puppy gently down. Back against Sam's chest and Sam rubbed his chin on the little head that immediately tucked up into his neck. He stood there and just looked at Sam for the longest time. Looked over at Dean once, too, and Dean just looked back, trying not to show…anything. "I want your word, Sam. Your word as a man that when it comes time to hand this dog over you'll do it, no ifs ands or buts. And no whining."
"I swear. Dad, I swear on – on the Bible and –"
"Just gimme your hand, son," Dad said, and Sam shifted the puppy and stuck out his hand. Dad looked at it for a second and then they shook. Then Dad turned to Dean. "You too, Dean."
"Yes sir," Dean said. Dad's hand was strong and warm and callused – hard. "I swear."
"Well…okay. Alright. You two boys go get cleaned up for dinner. Give me the dog, Sam."
Sam stared at Dad for a moment and then carefully handed the puppy over. "You have to put your hands –"
"Yeah, I got it, Sammy. Go wash." Dad hefted the puppy up, one hand under its front legs, one cupping its round butt. He shook it very gently. "Listen up, little man. There are rules if you're gonna live in the Winchester household…"
Dean grabbed Sam and towed him toward the bathroom – flipped on the light and got the water going. Sam was grinning like an idiot. Dean whapped him on the back of the head. "I cannot believe he fell for that!"
"It's true! We can teach him all kinds of cool stuff! I saw this book in the library."
"Only you, geek-boy," Dean muttered, lathering up, and Sam dug his elbow into Dean's ribs. "Ow!"
"Thanks for taking my side," Sam said, looking at Dean in the mirror. Serious look, and Dean shrugged.
"He doesn't deserve to go to the pound," Dean said finally. "But I'm not gonna be the one cleaning up after him. That's gonna be all your job, Sammy."
"He likes me better, anyway," Sam said, grabbing for the towel.
"He does not!"
"Boys, come and eat!"
"Does so."
"Does not."
***
Bobby pursed his lips and looked at the puppy sitting beside Sam's feet. "Really? He looks more like a Rumsfeld to me."
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Ack - thanks. I'll fix that. :D