Fic: Battle Cry (Supernatural) 6/10
This is chapter 6 of the fic Battle Cry. Masterpost is here. Chapter 1 is here.
Title: Battle Cry
Fandom: Supernatural
Character(s): Sam, Dean, John Bobby
Pairing(s): Gen
Prompt: Loss of Voice
Chapter Word Count: 1857
Rating: PG-13 for some cussing and a wee bit of violence
Disclaimer: Not mine. If you recognize it, I had no hand in making it. I do not own any piece of the Supernatural awesomeness. It all belongs to Kripke et. al. I’m just borrowing for a minute.
Warnings: None
Summary: It’s supposed to be a witch. It’s supposed to be easy. Sam and Dean shouldn’t have to do more than help burn the body. But, when they are faced with an unknown monster, the consequences will be life altering for all the Winchesters. Will they be able to fix the problem, or will Sam have to learn to adapt to the newest challenge in his life?
Chapter 6: The Respite
They pulled off of the interstate and made for a motel about an hour outside of South Dakota. Sam had long since fallen into a doze. One of the benefits of never getting to sit up front was being able to stretch out and nap whenever he wanted. He knew it was part of Dean’s plan, but most of the time, he didn’t mind. He was woken when Dean protested the decision to stop. Loudly.
“We should keep going!” Dean said. He was glaring at the motel sign announcing vacancies at the Wild Wild West Motel, complete with a neon cowboy. “We’ve only got another two hours to get to Bobby’s.”
“We’re stopping Dean.” John said. His voice was firm, if tired.
“But I’m fine. I can drive if you’re worried about it.”
“Dean, it’s near eleven,” John said, his patience wearing thin. “Bobby’ll be in bed by the time we get there. Do you want to get shot in the ass?”
Sam snorted in the back seat as the car pulled to a stop in a spot near the front office.
“Shut it, you,” Dean said to him. “Bobby wouldn’t shoot us.”
“Singer is a paranoid old man who’d shoot at his own shadow. The man don’t like company and doesn’t hesitate to make it known. We’ll go in the morning, when he’s more likely to ask questions first.”
Dean opened his mouth, but Sam pinched him, relishing the way Dean jumped. His brother whirled around as John went in to get them a room. “What was that for?” He demanded.
Sam rolled his eyes and collected his book bag. The argument was a lost cause. Dean didn’t have a leg to stand on, regardless of what he thought, and Sam was ready to crash in an actual bed. He was taller than he used to be and even the back seat was a little short for him now.
Bobby would still be there come lunch time tomorrow. And if Dean called him to check in just like he had every night this week, there would be chili waiting for them when they got there. And maybe cornbread. Bobby couldn’t boil water, but he made the best chili in the state.
Sure enough, the Winchesters pulled into Singer Salvage about eleven thirty the next day, owing primarily to Dean’s nagging. Sam had decided that if he had to take an enforced break from school, he would enjoy the accompanying benefits, namely being able to sleep in past five o’clock for once. Despite his best intentions, he had been rudely awoken at a quarter till seven that morning when his bed started shaking. He cracked an eye open just enough to see Dean bouncing up and down on the foot of the mattress.
Eight o’clock. That was all he was asking for.
Sam didn’t even bother to scowl at him. He turned over in bed and aimed a kick at the jerk. Instead of his foot colliding with flesh, Sam found his ankle encircled by a steel grip. He turned to see what Dean was doing when he felt the ghost of fingers run along the bottom of his foot.
Oh hell no. Dean wouldn’t. He huffed and tried to shake the grip loose, but Dean had him, his grip like a vice. The sensation was back, stronger. Dean had started tickling in earnest.
Sam flipped on his back, trying to rip his foot from Dean’s grip, while simultaneously trying to scowl through the giggles that were fighting to get free. That wasn’t mortifying at all. He thrashed, the torture finally making him laugh, a series of breathy gasps that under normal circumstances he’d been feeling self-conscious about. Just at that moment however, breathing was getting difficult and he had to concentrate on fighting off the attack.
“Come on, Sammy,” Dean said in a sing-song voice. “Wakey, wakey. Time for breakfast!”
Dean’s evil fingers found the one spot on the arch of his foot that was super sensitive. Sam jerked, his other foot making contact with something. The grip along his ankle dropped, accompanied by a loud, “Shit!”
Sam was still panting, trying to get his breath back, but the tone of Dean’s voice made him sit up. Dean was clutching his face, blood spilling between his fingers. He was still cussing and moved to get something from across the room. Sam sprang up and pushed him back down on the bed. He ran to the bathroom to collect a washcloth. By the time he got back, Dean was pinching his nose, head tilted back at an uncomfortable looking angle.
Sam walked back to the bed, and nudged Dean. He handed him the cloth. Dean grunted his thanks and went back to giving himself a crick in the neck. Sam rolled his eyes and pushed gently on the back of Dean’s head, making him lean forward a bit. Dean shot him a dirty look, but otherwise didn’t protest.
Sam came to stand in front of his brother, who looked up at him from under his blond hair. Sam held up ten fingers, then tapped his wrist, unsure of how to say what he needed to.
“Dude, I know. Not my first bloody nose.”
The words came out thick and Sam wilted a little. He hadn’t meant to physically injure his brother. They had both been playing. Mostly. Sam shuffled off to see if there was anything remotely cold in the mini-fridge set into the cabinet under the TV. He came up with a bottle of water and a suspicious looking bag of cheese, probably left over from the last people to stay, although he was unable to guess who in the world would bring bagged cheese along for a snack. He checked the ice bin, but none of them had bothered to fill it as they had only planned to sleep and move on the next morning.
He brought the bag of cheese, which was starting to turn green under the plastic, over to Dean who pressed it against his face. Sam did his best to slink back away and give him some space. If he’d been able to speak, he would have apologized or asked if Dean was okay. He didn’t like having something like a physical blow laying between them, however unintentional it was.
“Hey,” Dean said, noticing the space. “You okay over there?”
Sam frowned, but avoided his eye. Trust Dean to start mothering him when Dean was the one who was hurt.
“Come on. Don’t be such a little bitch. It’s just a little blood. And anyways, I always did say you punch like a girl. Guess you have to make up for it somehow.”
Sam took that for the forgiveness it probably was and punched Dean in the arm.
“See?” Dean said. “Pathetic.”
Sam scrunched up his nose and stuck his tongue out at Dean. If he was going to be an ass about it, fine.
Dean started to say something, but was cut off by the jingle of keys. The door opened and John stepped into the room, plastic bags hanging from his arm and the smell of bacon filling the room. He stopped just inside the door and stared at the boys.
“Dean? What happened?”
Dean jumped up to face John a look of guilt in his eye. “Sorry, sir. I-” He let his hand fall to his side and the deluge started again. Sam tugged him back down and shoved the bloody washrag at him, holding seven fingers this time.
John’s eyes flicked to the salt lines and back to his eldest son.
“What happened?”
“It was an accident, that’s all.”
A hard glint came into John’s eye. He shoved the door shut and moved to set the bags on the table. “What was an accident?”
“Sam and I were just goofing off. Things got a little out of hand.”
John focused in on Sam next. “Samuel,” he said, a hint of warning coloring his voice. Sam shrank. Here it came. It’s not like Dean hadn’t provoked him. Anger flared in his stomach and he met John’s eye. It wasn’t his fault. At least, it wasn’t completely his fault.
Dean seemed to be thinking along the same lines. He shook his head. “No, Dad. It’s my own fault.”
Sam gaped at Dean. His brother was not above letting Sam take the blame for more than his share, if it suited him. He was not used to seeing his nineteen year old brother look sheepish.
“What do you mean, Dean?”
Dean shifted on the bed and stared at his shoes. “I was just trying to wake Sam up and well, the opportunity presented itself. I was only trying to ruffle him so he’d get out of bed, but I must have hit a nerve. He jerked and kicked me in the nose. It’s fine,” Dean added at the end.
John seemed to think this was anything but fine. “What have I told you boys about wrestling in the room? Training is one thing, but if you are going to behave like heathens at least take it outside.”
Sam and Dean exchanged a look, but did their best to look chastised. No way in hell were they going to tell him that Dean had been tickling him. Sam would take that to his grave.
“Sam, I taught you better. You owe me ten laps before we leave.” Sam grimaced but didn’t protest. It would only add extra laps. “We’ll work on your control later.”
“Dean, let that nose be a lesson to you. Don’t rough house and don’t attack people while they’re sleeping if you don’t want to get hit in the face.”
“Yes, sir.” Dean muttered.
Sam felt this was a bit unfair as he hadn’t started it and it was primarily Dean’s fault all the way around, but he also knew that ten laps was nothing and Dean would have an ugly black bruise for at least a week. Sam forced back his grin at the thought. Served him right.
In the end it was after nine before they loaded the car up and made it to Bobby’s.
Bobby was waiting for them on his porch, his Rottweiler mutt pacing beside him. Sam liked Rumsfeld. The dog was about a year old and hadn’t quite figured out that he was no longer puppy sized. The dog showed remarkable self-restraint. He stayed by Bobby’s side for a whole minute as the Winchesters piled out of the car, but as soon as they started up the drive, he gave a yip and bounded down to them. He pranced in front of John and Dean, then jumped up on Sam and planted a big, slobbering lick up the side of Sam’s face.
Sam laughed, not catching John’s quickly averted eyes or the sharp look Dean gave their father at the odd puffing sound and knelt down. He ruffled Rumsfeld’s fur behind his ears and let the dog give him another lick. When he straightened back up, the dog attached himself to Sam’s side, sticking close as he moved and generally making it difficult to walk at all.
They walked to the foot of the porch stairs and looked up at Bobby, who stood at the top with his hands on his hips. “Winchester,” he said. His tone was tight but not hostile. Sam knew Bobby and John didn’t always get on. They were on terse speaking terms most of the time, but Sam never really knew why.
“Singer,” John said with a nod.
They stared at each other for a minute. Rumsfeld, beside Sam could sense the tension and whined, unsure of where he ought to be.
Finally Bobby moved his attention to the boys. “Sam, good to see you.” Sam grinned and nodded up at the man.
“Dean, you look like shit.”
Dean smiled. “Good to see you too, Bobby.”
“I’m serious, boy.” Bobby said. “Looks like you got the wrong end of a fight. Did you finally meet a girl you couldn’t handle?”
Bobby’s grin was wicked.
“You wish.”
John didn’t seem to see the humor. “Sam kicked him in the face,” he said. Sam could still hear irritation in his voice.
Bobby’s eyes narrowed. He scrutinized Dean from head to toe and asked, “What did you do?”
Dean flung his hands up. “Why does everyone assume I’m the bad guy here?”
“Because you usually are.”
“Hey!”
“From what I understand,” John said. “He thought it would be funny to pounce on his brother to wake him up. Sam thought otherwise.”
Sam smirked at Dean behind John’s back. Dean winked back.
Bobby caught the interaction but didn’t say anything. “Sounds about right,” he said turning towards the door. “Come on in. The usual bedrooms are free. Chili’s on the stove. Should be ready in another hour or so.”
He led them into the house. The smell of onion and garlic filled the house and made Sam’s mouth water. Bobby pointed towards the stairs. “Go on and put your things down. Once you’re done, Sam, you can come help in the kitchen if you want.”
Sam smiled. It was tradition for Sam to help in the kitchen when they visited, ever since he had been just tall enough to see the top of the stove. Dean was the one with a flair for cooking, but Sam liked that Bobby always included him. Dean was also good with a gun and at throwing a ball. He got to do those things with Uncle Bobby growing up. This was Sam’s.
Plus with Dean, one could never be entirely sure of their food.
As Sam got older, he couldn’t help but wonder if maybe this was the sort of thing he could have had with John if they hadn’t been hunters. He felt guilty for thinking it, but sometimes he felt like Bobby was more a father to them than John. The man had been a recurring presence in their lives until Sam turned ten, then the visits dwindled. Sam was old enough to stay on his own and John seemed to prefer Pastor Jim over Bobby if he had to leave Sam anywhere.
Sam dumped his bag on the foot of his usual bed, waved off Dean’s comment about the shower, and jogged back down the stairs. He had gone about halfway when he realized John and Bobby were still downstairs in the kitchen. He paused on the step, unsure whether he ought to go back up or on into the room. When he stopped, he heard John’s voice coming from the next room.
“….Singer. I’m only here because of Sam. If you try to pull your usual crap, me and the boys will be gone before you can blink.”
“I’ve told you before, you can’t keep treating them like this. Those boys ain’t marines.”
“Those boys are mine and I’ll raise them how I want. They need to be prepared.”
Bobby cussed. “I’m not arguing that point, but they need a father too.”
“I am their father and I’ll thank you to keep your nose out of it. Find something to fix Sam. We get him better and we’re gone.”
Unlike the fight with doctor, Sam could hear the heat in those words. He wouldn’t be surprised if they came to blows soon. He took a breath and clomped the rest of the way down the stairs, making his footfalls as obvious as possible. By the time he made it into the kitchen, Bobby was pulling down bowls and John was leaning on the counter with a cup of coffee. He nodded at Sam, then collected his cup and left, mumbling something about needed to get his stuff from the car.
Sam met Bobby’s eye. He knew they had been arguing over him, at least a little. Bobby knew that he knew.
Bobby shrugged and pointed at a bowl. “Cornbread ain’t gonna make itself, you know.”
Sam hesitated by the door, then came over to the counter and fished out the bag of cornmeal from under the cabinet. He began measuring it out into the bowl. They worked silently beside each other for a minute before Bobby spoke. “He means well,” he said. “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but he loves the both of you.”
Sam glanced at Bobby. He knew that. He did. He nodded and turned back to the bowl. He just wished he didn’t feel like a broken toy right now. Like any minute John was going to decide he was too damaged to keep, too much of a liability to continue working with them. Then he’d be set aside, given to someone else to deal with.
Sam tried to image what it would be like to stay in one place without Dean or his father; to live with Bobby or Pastor Jim until he graduated high school and could move on to college, start his life as an adult. Being a teenager chafed at him more than anything else. The knowledge that he had been hunting and saving people his entire life - could probably survive just about any emergency situation thrown at him - and yet had a curfew, couldn’t legally drive in half the states they passed through, and had to be escorted into a bar by his older brother, who technically wasn’t allowed in either, was frustrating. He felt like, whether he wanted to be or not, he was grown up on the inside, but not on the outside. On the one hand he yearned for the freedom of adulthood, on the other, all he really wanted was to be ten years old again going fishing with his big brother.
“Come on, boy,” Bobby said, shoving a carton of eggs at him. “Get to cracking. Or Dean might decide he wants to help.”
Sam smiled up at Bobby, grateful. If he had to stay here, he could see it being a good place. He picked up an egg and broke it into the bowl.
<< Masterpost Chapter 7a>>>
Title: Battle Cry
Fandom: Supernatural
Character(s): Sam, Dean, John Bobby
Pairing(s): Gen
Prompt: Loss of Voice
Chapter Word Count: 1857
Rating: PG-13 for some cussing and a wee bit of violence
Disclaimer: Not mine. If you recognize it, I had no hand in making it. I do not own any piece of the Supernatural awesomeness. It all belongs to Kripke et. al. I’m just borrowing for a minute.
Warnings: None
Summary: It’s supposed to be a witch. It’s supposed to be easy. Sam and Dean shouldn’t have to do more than help burn the body. But, when they are faced with an unknown monster, the consequences will be life altering for all the Winchesters. Will they be able to fix the problem, or will Sam have to learn to adapt to the newest challenge in his life?
Chapter 6: The Respite
They pulled off of the interstate and made for a motel about an hour outside of South Dakota. Sam had long since fallen into a doze. One of the benefits of never getting to sit up front was being able to stretch out and nap whenever he wanted. He knew it was part of Dean’s plan, but most of the time, he didn’t mind. He was woken when Dean protested the decision to stop. Loudly.
“We should keep going!” Dean said. He was glaring at the motel sign announcing vacancies at the Wild Wild West Motel, complete with a neon cowboy. “We’ve only got another two hours to get to Bobby’s.”
“We’re stopping Dean.” John said. His voice was firm, if tired.
“But I’m fine. I can drive if you’re worried about it.”
“Dean, it’s near eleven,” John said, his patience wearing thin. “Bobby’ll be in bed by the time we get there. Do you want to get shot in the ass?”
Sam snorted in the back seat as the car pulled to a stop in a spot near the front office.
“Shut it, you,” Dean said to him. “Bobby wouldn’t shoot us.”
“Singer is a paranoid old man who’d shoot at his own shadow. The man don’t like company and doesn’t hesitate to make it known. We’ll go in the morning, when he’s more likely to ask questions first.”
Dean opened his mouth, but Sam pinched him, relishing the way Dean jumped. His brother whirled around as John went in to get them a room. “What was that for?” He demanded.
Sam rolled his eyes and collected his book bag. The argument was a lost cause. Dean didn’t have a leg to stand on, regardless of what he thought, and Sam was ready to crash in an actual bed. He was taller than he used to be and even the back seat was a little short for him now.
Bobby would still be there come lunch time tomorrow. And if Dean called him to check in just like he had every night this week, there would be chili waiting for them when they got there. And maybe cornbread. Bobby couldn’t boil water, but he made the best chili in the state.
Sure enough, the Winchesters pulled into Singer Salvage about eleven thirty the next day, owing primarily to Dean’s nagging. Sam had decided that if he had to take an enforced break from school, he would enjoy the accompanying benefits, namely being able to sleep in past five o’clock for once. Despite his best intentions, he had been rudely awoken at a quarter till seven that morning when his bed started shaking. He cracked an eye open just enough to see Dean bouncing up and down on the foot of the mattress.
Eight o’clock. That was all he was asking for.
Sam didn’t even bother to scowl at him. He turned over in bed and aimed a kick at the jerk. Instead of his foot colliding with flesh, Sam found his ankle encircled by a steel grip. He turned to see what Dean was doing when he felt the ghost of fingers run along the bottom of his foot.
Oh hell no. Dean wouldn’t. He huffed and tried to shake the grip loose, but Dean had him, his grip like a vice. The sensation was back, stronger. Dean had started tickling in earnest.
Sam flipped on his back, trying to rip his foot from Dean’s grip, while simultaneously trying to scowl through the giggles that were fighting to get free. That wasn’t mortifying at all. He thrashed, the torture finally making him laugh, a series of breathy gasps that under normal circumstances he’d been feeling self-conscious about. Just at that moment however, breathing was getting difficult and he had to concentrate on fighting off the attack.
“Come on, Sammy,” Dean said in a sing-song voice. “Wakey, wakey. Time for breakfast!”
Dean’s evil fingers found the one spot on the arch of his foot that was super sensitive. Sam jerked, his other foot making contact with something. The grip along his ankle dropped, accompanied by a loud, “Shit!”
Sam was still panting, trying to get his breath back, but the tone of Dean’s voice made him sit up. Dean was clutching his face, blood spilling between his fingers. He was still cussing and moved to get something from across the room. Sam sprang up and pushed him back down on the bed. He ran to the bathroom to collect a washcloth. By the time he got back, Dean was pinching his nose, head tilted back at an uncomfortable looking angle.
Sam walked back to the bed, and nudged Dean. He handed him the cloth. Dean grunted his thanks and went back to giving himself a crick in the neck. Sam rolled his eyes and pushed gently on the back of Dean’s head, making him lean forward a bit. Dean shot him a dirty look, but otherwise didn’t protest.
Sam came to stand in front of his brother, who looked up at him from under his blond hair. Sam held up ten fingers, then tapped his wrist, unsure of how to say what he needed to.
“Dude, I know. Not my first bloody nose.”
The words came out thick and Sam wilted a little. He hadn’t meant to physically injure his brother. They had both been playing. Mostly. Sam shuffled off to see if there was anything remotely cold in the mini-fridge set into the cabinet under the TV. He came up with a bottle of water and a suspicious looking bag of cheese, probably left over from the last people to stay, although he was unable to guess who in the world would bring bagged cheese along for a snack. He checked the ice bin, but none of them had bothered to fill it as they had only planned to sleep and move on the next morning.
He brought the bag of cheese, which was starting to turn green under the plastic, over to Dean who pressed it against his face. Sam did his best to slink back away and give him some space. If he’d been able to speak, he would have apologized or asked if Dean was okay. He didn’t like having something like a physical blow laying between them, however unintentional it was.
“Hey,” Dean said, noticing the space. “You okay over there?”
Sam frowned, but avoided his eye. Trust Dean to start mothering him when Dean was the one who was hurt.
“Come on. Don’t be such a little bitch. It’s just a little blood. And anyways, I always did say you punch like a girl. Guess you have to make up for it somehow.”
Sam took that for the forgiveness it probably was and punched Dean in the arm.
“See?” Dean said. “Pathetic.”
Sam scrunched up his nose and stuck his tongue out at Dean. If he was going to be an ass about it, fine.
Dean started to say something, but was cut off by the jingle of keys. The door opened and John stepped into the room, plastic bags hanging from his arm and the smell of bacon filling the room. He stopped just inside the door and stared at the boys.
“Dean? What happened?”
Dean jumped up to face John a look of guilt in his eye. “Sorry, sir. I-” He let his hand fall to his side and the deluge started again. Sam tugged him back down and shoved the bloody washrag at him, holding seven fingers this time.
John’s eyes flicked to the salt lines and back to his eldest son.
“What happened?”
“It was an accident, that’s all.”
A hard glint came into John’s eye. He shoved the door shut and moved to set the bags on the table. “What was an accident?”
“Sam and I were just goofing off. Things got a little out of hand.”
John focused in on Sam next. “Samuel,” he said, a hint of warning coloring his voice. Sam shrank. Here it came. It’s not like Dean hadn’t provoked him. Anger flared in his stomach and he met John’s eye. It wasn’t his fault. At least, it wasn’t completely his fault.
Dean seemed to be thinking along the same lines. He shook his head. “No, Dad. It’s my own fault.”
Sam gaped at Dean. His brother was not above letting Sam take the blame for more than his share, if it suited him. He was not used to seeing his nineteen year old brother look sheepish.
“What do you mean, Dean?”
Dean shifted on the bed and stared at his shoes. “I was just trying to wake Sam up and well, the opportunity presented itself. I was only trying to ruffle him so he’d get out of bed, but I must have hit a nerve. He jerked and kicked me in the nose. It’s fine,” Dean added at the end.
John seemed to think this was anything but fine. “What have I told you boys about wrestling in the room? Training is one thing, but if you are going to behave like heathens at least take it outside.”
Sam and Dean exchanged a look, but did their best to look chastised. No way in hell were they going to tell him that Dean had been tickling him. Sam would take that to his grave.
“Sam, I taught you better. You owe me ten laps before we leave.” Sam grimaced but didn’t protest. It would only add extra laps. “We’ll work on your control later.”
“Dean, let that nose be a lesson to you. Don’t rough house and don’t attack people while they’re sleeping if you don’t want to get hit in the face.”
“Yes, sir.” Dean muttered.
Sam felt this was a bit unfair as he hadn’t started it and it was primarily Dean’s fault all the way around, but he also knew that ten laps was nothing and Dean would have an ugly black bruise for at least a week. Sam forced back his grin at the thought. Served him right.
In the end it was after nine before they loaded the car up and made it to Bobby’s.
Bobby was waiting for them on his porch, his Rottweiler mutt pacing beside him. Sam liked Rumsfeld. The dog was about a year old and hadn’t quite figured out that he was no longer puppy sized. The dog showed remarkable self-restraint. He stayed by Bobby’s side for a whole minute as the Winchesters piled out of the car, but as soon as they started up the drive, he gave a yip and bounded down to them. He pranced in front of John and Dean, then jumped up on Sam and planted a big, slobbering lick up the side of Sam’s face.
Sam laughed, not catching John’s quickly averted eyes or the sharp look Dean gave their father at the odd puffing sound and knelt down. He ruffled Rumsfeld’s fur behind his ears and let the dog give him another lick. When he straightened back up, the dog attached himself to Sam’s side, sticking close as he moved and generally making it difficult to walk at all.
They walked to the foot of the porch stairs and looked up at Bobby, who stood at the top with his hands on his hips. “Winchester,” he said. His tone was tight but not hostile. Sam knew Bobby and John didn’t always get on. They were on terse speaking terms most of the time, but Sam never really knew why.
“Singer,” John said with a nod.
They stared at each other for a minute. Rumsfeld, beside Sam could sense the tension and whined, unsure of where he ought to be.
Finally Bobby moved his attention to the boys. “Sam, good to see you.” Sam grinned and nodded up at the man.
“Dean, you look like shit.”
Dean smiled. “Good to see you too, Bobby.”
“I’m serious, boy.” Bobby said. “Looks like you got the wrong end of a fight. Did you finally meet a girl you couldn’t handle?”
Bobby’s grin was wicked.
“You wish.”
John didn’t seem to see the humor. “Sam kicked him in the face,” he said. Sam could still hear irritation in his voice.
Bobby’s eyes narrowed. He scrutinized Dean from head to toe and asked, “What did you do?”
Dean flung his hands up. “Why does everyone assume I’m the bad guy here?”
“Because you usually are.”
“Hey!”
“From what I understand,” John said. “He thought it would be funny to pounce on his brother to wake him up. Sam thought otherwise.”
Sam smirked at Dean behind John’s back. Dean winked back.
Bobby caught the interaction but didn’t say anything. “Sounds about right,” he said turning towards the door. “Come on in. The usual bedrooms are free. Chili’s on the stove. Should be ready in another hour or so.”
He led them into the house. The smell of onion and garlic filled the house and made Sam’s mouth water. Bobby pointed towards the stairs. “Go on and put your things down. Once you’re done, Sam, you can come help in the kitchen if you want.”
Sam smiled. It was tradition for Sam to help in the kitchen when they visited, ever since he had been just tall enough to see the top of the stove. Dean was the one with a flair for cooking, but Sam liked that Bobby always included him. Dean was also good with a gun and at throwing a ball. He got to do those things with Uncle Bobby growing up. This was Sam’s.
Plus with Dean, one could never be entirely sure of their food.
As Sam got older, he couldn’t help but wonder if maybe this was the sort of thing he could have had with John if they hadn’t been hunters. He felt guilty for thinking it, but sometimes he felt like Bobby was more a father to them than John. The man had been a recurring presence in their lives until Sam turned ten, then the visits dwindled. Sam was old enough to stay on his own and John seemed to prefer Pastor Jim over Bobby if he had to leave Sam anywhere.
Sam dumped his bag on the foot of his usual bed, waved off Dean’s comment about the shower, and jogged back down the stairs. He had gone about halfway when he realized John and Bobby were still downstairs in the kitchen. He paused on the step, unsure whether he ought to go back up or on into the room. When he stopped, he heard John’s voice coming from the next room.
“….Singer. I’m only here because of Sam. If you try to pull your usual crap, me and the boys will be gone before you can blink.”
“I’ve told you before, you can’t keep treating them like this. Those boys ain’t marines.”
“Those boys are mine and I’ll raise them how I want. They need to be prepared.”
Bobby cussed. “I’m not arguing that point, but they need a father too.”
“I am their father and I’ll thank you to keep your nose out of it. Find something to fix Sam. We get him better and we’re gone.”
Unlike the fight with doctor, Sam could hear the heat in those words. He wouldn’t be surprised if they came to blows soon. He took a breath and clomped the rest of the way down the stairs, making his footfalls as obvious as possible. By the time he made it into the kitchen, Bobby was pulling down bowls and John was leaning on the counter with a cup of coffee. He nodded at Sam, then collected his cup and left, mumbling something about needed to get his stuff from the car.
Sam met Bobby’s eye. He knew they had been arguing over him, at least a little. Bobby knew that he knew.
Bobby shrugged and pointed at a bowl. “Cornbread ain’t gonna make itself, you know.”
Sam hesitated by the door, then came over to the counter and fished out the bag of cornmeal from under the cabinet. He began measuring it out into the bowl. They worked silently beside each other for a minute before Bobby spoke. “He means well,” he said. “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but he loves the both of you.”
Sam glanced at Bobby. He knew that. He did. He nodded and turned back to the bowl. He just wished he didn’t feel like a broken toy right now. Like any minute John was going to decide he was too damaged to keep, too much of a liability to continue working with them. Then he’d be set aside, given to someone else to deal with.
Sam tried to image what it would be like to stay in one place without Dean or his father; to live with Bobby or Pastor Jim until he graduated high school and could move on to college, start his life as an adult. Being a teenager chafed at him more than anything else. The knowledge that he had been hunting and saving people his entire life - could probably survive just about any emergency situation thrown at him - and yet had a curfew, couldn’t legally drive in half the states they passed through, and had to be escorted into a bar by his older brother, who technically wasn’t allowed in either, was frustrating. He felt like, whether he wanted to be or not, he was grown up on the inside, but not on the outside. On the one hand he yearned for the freedom of adulthood, on the other, all he really wanted was to be ten years old again going fishing with his big brother.
“Come on, boy,” Bobby said, shoving a carton of eggs at him. “Get to cracking. Or Dean might decide he wants to help.”
Sam smiled up at Bobby, grateful. If he had to stay here, he could see it being a good place. He picked up an egg and broke it into the bowl.
<< Masterpost Chapter 7a>>>