SPN FIC - Pie
The first of the Father's Day fics. Father's Day, 2009. Yes, it's post-Season 3 finale, but isn't spoilery for it.
Sam looked at him from across the table, then glanced over at his brother, who’d begun to slump again - not so much sleeping as hiding, it seemed like. He scared Bobby sometimes - both of them did, these two boys who weren’t boys any longer, in body or in spirit. It’d been a long time since they’d sat in a booth like this with John Winchester.
Characters: Bobby, Sam, Dean, OFC
Genre: Gen
Rating: G
Spoilers: none
Length: 914 words
PIE
By Carol Davis
Rode hard and put up wet for sure, Bobby Singer thought as the three of them shuffled into the little diner he’d found just over the state line. The place was pretty full, even for this hour - almost nine o’clock - but he found an empty booth toward the back and steered the boys toward it with no objection from either of them.
Not that he’d thought they would object; they’d gone along with pretty much everything he’d said since morning.
Since they’d walked away from that mess in Albuquerque.
They were beat to hell, all three of them, but Dean especially. Like he remembered John doing when the boys were little, Bobby nudged Dean into the booth to sit at the wall end of the bench, the protected spot. Sam took the other side and slid in pretty far, like he thought John was coming, and the two of them, him and Dean, ought to be in their accustomed seats.
Safe. Protected.
Did a bang-up job of that, Singer, Bobby thought. John’d have your hide.
It’d been better than two years since they’d seen John that last time, in the cemetery in Wyoming. Where he was now, Bobby didn’t have a clue. Someplace decent, he hoped. With Mary, wherever it was. That’d only be fair. He didn’t let himself wonder whether he’d end up with Margie when the time came - being that he’d killed her. For a reason, but still.
The waitress came over before they’d been sitting there five minutes. The motherly type, he thought, then told himself firmly, She’s younger than you, old man.
Still. She had that air about her.
“What can I get y’all?” she asked, cheerful, but a little subdued.
Sam’s eyes were at half-mast, and Dean was slumped against the corner of the booth, maybe sound asleep and maybe not. Neither of them seemed any too able to pick something off a menu. Offering the woman a smile that probably looked as phony as it felt, Bobby grabbed a menu from the bunch propped behind the salt and pepper shakers and the chrome napkin box and gave it a quick glance. One of the day’s specials was chicken stew and biscuits.
“We’ll have three of those,” he said.
“Coffee?”
The last thing they needed was caffeine. The motel wasn’t more than fifty yards from here, and with luck the three of them could drop off to sleep after they’d finished their dinner and locked themselves into their rooms. They could’ve skipped dinner, really, but none of them had eaten much of anything all day. Couldn’t think about it, after Albuquerque.
“No,” he told the waitress. “Water’s okay.”
She brought the food and three glasses of water a few minutes later. Sam reached for his water almost immediately and gulped half of it down like he was trying to drown something. He shuddered as he put the glass down.
Dean hadn’t moved. Seemed like he was down for the count. But the boy needed food. Needed to be reminded to eat, these days, and that bugged Bobby like almost nothing else, because if there was one thing the boy had done without prompting before, it was eating. With the waitress watching over her shoulder as she walked away, Bobby wrapped a hand around Dean’s biceps. “Dean. Son. Come on, now.”
It took a couple of tries, but Dean grunted himself awake and blinked at the plate in front of him. “Not hungry,” he murmured.
“You need to eat.”
“Eat your dinner,” Sam confirmed.
It was all backwards: Sam doing what Dean used to do.
Everything was all ass-backwards these days.
They ate, the three of them, without much enthusiasm, although the food was hot and hearty and good. Home cookin’, Bobby thought. That was what the sign outside said: Home Cooking. Souvenirs. Maps.
They were down to just poking at the stew, none of them inclined to eat much more, when the waitress came back with a slice of apple pie on a small white plate. She set it down near Bobby’s plate of stew with a kind and understanding smile, which was rich, because she had no idea where they’d been, what they’d done, what they were headed on to do tomorrow.
“Father’s Day,” she said. “We’re giving a free dessert to all our dads. Enjoy.”
“I’m not…” Bobby began, but she’d already walked away.
Sam looked at him from across the table, then glanced over at his brother, who’d begun to slump again - not so much sleeping as hiding, it seemed like. He scared Bobby sometimes - both of them did, these two boys who weren’t boys any longer, in body or in spirit. It’d been a long time since they’d sat in a booth like this with John Winchester.
With any luck, they’d sit with him again, somewhere, somehow. But maybe it was good enough that they were sitting anywhere, the two of them. Together. Alive, for what that was worth.
If he could make it fifty yards to the motel and into the room before he dropped of exhaustion, it’d be half a miracle, Bobby thought.
Sam watched him steadily, then offered him a wan smile.
“You all right?” Bobby asked.
Sam looked again at his brother, then down at his own hands. When he looked up again, he slid the small white plate closer to Bobby.
“What…?” Bobby frowned.
And Sam said quietly, “Eat your pie.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sam looked at him from across the table, then glanced over at his brother, who’d begun to slump again - not so much sleeping as hiding, it seemed like. He scared Bobby sometimes - both of them did, these two boys who weren’t boys any longer, in body or in spirit. It’d been a long time since they’d sat in a booth like this with John Winchester.
Characters: Bobby, Sam, Dean, OFC
Genre: Gen
Rating: G
Spoilers: none
Length: 914 words
PIE
By Carol Davis
Rode hard and put up wet for sure, Bobby Singer thought as the three of them shuffled into the little diner he’d found just over the state line. The place was pretty full, even for this hour - almost nine o’clock - but he found an empty booth toward the back and steered the boys toward it with no objection from either of them.
Not that he’d thought they would object; they’d gone along with pretty much everything he’d said since morning.
Since they’d walked away from that mess in Albuquerque.
They were beat to hell, all three of them, but Dean especially. Like he remembered John doing when the boys were little, Bobby nudged Dean into the booth to sit at the wall end of the bench, the protected spot. Sam took the other side and slid in pretty far, like he thought John was coming, and the two of them, him and Dean, ought to be in their accustomed seats.
Safe. Protected.
Did a bang-up job of that, Singer, Bobby thought. John’d have your hide.
It’d been better than two years since they’d seen John that last time, in the cemetery in Wyoming. Where he was now, Bobby didn’t have a clue. Someplace decent, he hoped. With Mary, wherever it was. That’d only be fair. He didn’t let himself wonder whether he’d end up with Margie when the time came - being that he’d killed her. For a reason, but still.
The waitress came over before they’d been sitting there five minutes. The motherly type, he thought, then told himself firmly, She’s younger than you, old man.
Still. She had that air about her.
“What can I get y’all?” she asked, cheerful, but a little subdued.
Sam’s eyes were at half-mast, and Dean was slumped against the corner of the booth, maybe sound asleep and maybe not. Neither of them seemed any too able to pick something off a menu. Offering the woman a smile that probably looked as phony as it felt, Bobby grabbed a menu from the bunch propped behind the salt and pepper shakers and the chrome napkin box and gave it a quick glance. One of the day’s specials was chicken stew and biscuits.
“We’ll have three of those,” he said.
“Coffee?”
The last thing they needed was caffeine. The motel wasn’t more than fifty yards from here, and with luck the three of them could drop off to sleep after they’d finished their dinner and locked themselves into their rooms. They could’ve skipped dinner, really, but none of them had eaten much of anything all day. Couldn’t think about it, after Albuquerque.
“No,” he told the waitress. “Water’s okay.”
She brought the food and three glasses of water a few minutes later. Sam reached for his water almost immediately and gulped half of it down like he was trying to drown something. He shuddered as he put the glass down.
Dean hadn’t moved. Seemed like he was down for the count. But the boy needed food. Needed to be reminded to eat, these days, and that bugged Bobby like almost nothing else, because if there was one thing the boy had done without prompting before, it was eating. With the waitress watching over her shoulder as she walked away, Bobby wrapped a hand around Dean’s biceps. “Dean. Son. Come on, now.”
It took a couple of tries, but Dean grunted himself awake and blinked at the plate in front of him. “Not hungry,” he murmured.
“You need to eat.”
“Eat your dinner,” Sam confirmed.
It was all backwards: Sam doing what Dean used to do.
Everything was all ass-backwards these days.
They ate, the three of them, without much enthusiasm, although the food was hot and hearty and good. Home cookin’, Bobby thought. That was what the sign outside said: Home Cooking. Souvenirs. Maps.
They were down to just poking at the stew, none of them inclined to eat much more, when the waitress came back with a slice of apple pie on a small white plate. She set it down near Bobby’s plate of stew with a kind and understanding smile, which was rich, because she had no idea where they’d been, what they’d done, what they were headed on to do tomorrow.
“Father’s Day,” she said. “We’re giving a free dessert to all our dads. Enjoy.”
“I’m not…” Bobby began, but she’d already walked away.
Sam looked at him from across the table, then glanced over at his brother, who’d begun to slump again - not so much sleeping as hiding, it seemed like. He scared Bobby sometimes - both of them did, these two boys who weren’t boys any longer, in body or in spirit. It’d been a long time since they’d sat in a booth like this with John Winchester.
With any luck, they’d sit with him again, somewhere, somehow. But maybe it was good enough that they were sitting anywhere, the two of them. Together. Alive, for what that was worth.
If he could make it fifty yards to the motel and into the room before he dropped of exhaustion, it’d be half a miracle, Bobby thought.
Sam watched him steadily, then offered him a wan smile.
“You all right?” Bobby asked.
Sam looked again at his brother, then down at his own hands. When he looked up again, he slid the small white plate closer to Bobby.
“What…?” Bobby frowned.
And Sam said quietly, “Eat your pie.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~