SPN FIC - Say Uncle
kalquessa -- I'm on a roll with the belated-birthday fics. \O/ You asked for curmudgeonly Uncle Bobby, so here you go! The tough-as-nails Mr. Singer and his "nephew" wee!Sammy, circa 1987. It's morning, and there's juice.
CHARACTERS: Bobby and wee!Sam
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 570 words
SAY UNCLE
By Carol Davis
There's something by the side of the bed.
Awake is still a ways off - and if there was any fairness in this universe, it'd stay a ways off for a couple more days - but even drifting under the surface, Bobby Singer can tell when there's something nearby. His right hand snakes further up underneath the pillow, toward the knife he keeps there, silver bonded to iron. You gotta love the multi-purpose-ness of that.
His eyes stay closed, his breathing stays slow and steady.
Awake is closer now.
"Uncle Bobby?"
The HELL.
There's a pale moon of a face looming right in front of him when he opens his eyes. Big grin. Brownish hair that looks like it was cut with a Weed Whacker.
"I got you juice," the apparition says.
"What?" His voice is rock salt and old glass, the kind with the bubbles, being ground up in a garbage disposal. There's bile in his throat, as if he's dry-heaved in his sleep. Last night? he thinks. What happened last night?
Oh.
"Not big on juice, kid," Bobby mutters. "Go on, now."
"Dean brings me juice."
There's a murderous lack of logic in it, but the statement's issued with all the gravity of a commandment from On High. "Swell," Bobby groans as a small glass he recognizes as belonging to his kitchen floats into his field of view. Sure enough, it's full right to the brim with orange juice. The kid's still grinning, but he looks a little confused now - enough to make Bobby wonder if John Winchester has a habit of springing out of bed whistling a happy tune if he gets this kind of a wake-up call.
"You don' wants it?" Sam asks, his small face drifting like sediment into a pout.
Bobby has no kids of his own. Hasn't been around little kids for more than a few hours at a rip since his cousins were that age, and that was a couple decades ago. Either way, he knows sure as there's little green apples that in about the count of five, this one's going to punch on the waterworks, and if there's anything that would put icing on what happened last night, it'd be starting off the morning by making this little kid cry.
"All right, all right, gimme -" he mutters, shoving himself around into a sit.
Sam moves back a step, sniffling back the tears that almost busted loose, juice glass cupped between his small pale hands and held out towards Bobby, a holy offering of Minute Maid. Bobby's head spins a couple of times like it's on a pivot, then reluctantly settles down.
"Thank you," he says to John Winchester's kid. A little of the juice slops as he takes the glass and dribbles over his fingers to drip down onto the floor. Sam peers down at it and frowns, then resumes his gap-toothed beaming. Apparently he's completed his mission, because he goes scampering off, bare feet making slapping sounds against the dusty hardwood.
Bobby ponders the juice for a moment, then takes a sip.
What the hell happened last night?
Voices drift down the hall, sweet and high-pitched. John Winchester's kids. Something about Cap'n Crunch, and cartoons.
Uncle Bobby, the kid said.
Uncle Bobby.
He's nobody's uncle. Has never been. But maybe he'll let that fly.
And maybe…
Maybe last night doesn't matter, because it's morning. And God help him, there's juice.
* * * * *
CHARACTERS: Bobby and wee!Sam
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 570 words
SAY UNCLE
By Carol Davis
There's something by the side of the bed.
Awake is still a ways off - and if there was any fairness in this universe, it'd stay a ways off for a couple more days - but even drifting under the surface, Bobby Singer can tell when there's something nearby. His right hand snakes further up underneath the pillow, toward the knife he keeps there, silver bonded to iron. You gotta love the multi-purpose-ness of that.
His eyes stay closed, his breathing stays slow and steady.
Awake is closer now.
"Uncle Bobby?"
The HELL.
There's a pale moon of a face looming right in front of him when he opens his eyes. Big grin. Brownish hair that looks like it was cut with a Weed Whacker.
"I got you juice," the apparition says.
"What?" His voice is rock salt and old glass, the kind with the bubbles, being ground up in a garbage disposal. There's bile in his throat, as if he's dry-heaved in his sleep. Last night? he thinks. What happened last night?
Oh.
"Not big on juice, kid," Bobby mutters. "Go on, now."
"Dean brings me juice."
There's a murderous lack of logic in it, but the statement's issued with all the gravity of a commandment from On High. "Swell," Bobby groans as a small glass he recognizes as belonging to his kitchen floats into his field of view. Sure enough, it's full right to the brim with orange juice. The kid's still grinning, but he looks a little confused now - enough to make Bobby wonder if John Winchester has a habit of springing out of bed whistling a happy tune if he gets this kind of a wake-up call.
"You don' wants it?" Sam asks, his small face drifting like sediment into a pout.
Bobby has no kids of his own. Hasn't been around little kids for more than a few hours at a rip since his cousins were that age, and that was a couple decades ago. Either way, he knows sure as there's little green apples that in about the count of five, this one's going to punch on the waterworks, and if there's anything that would put icing on what happened last night, it'd be starting off the morning by making this little kid cry.
"All right, all right, gimme -" he mutters, shoving himself around into a sit.
Sam moves back a step, sniffling back the tears that almost busted loose, juice glass cupped between his small pale hands and held out towards Bobby, a holy offering of Minute Maid. Bobby's head spins a couple of times like it's on a pivot, then reluctantly settles down.
"Thank you," he says to John Winchester's kid. A little of the juice slops as he takes the glass and dribbles over his fingers to drip down onto the floor. Sam peers down at it and frowns, then resumes his gap-toothed beaming. Apparently he's completed his mission, because he goes scampering off, bare feet making slapping sounds against the dusty hardwood.
Bobby ponders the juice for a moment, then takes a sip.
What the hell happened last night?
Voices drift down the hall, sweet and high-pitched. John Winchester's kids. Something about Cap'n Crunch, and cartoons.
Uncle Bobby, the kid said.
Uncle Bobby.
He's nobody's uncle. Has never been. But maybe he'll let that fly.
And maybe…
Maybe last night doesn't matter, because it's morning. And God help him, there's juice.
* * * * *