Snippet 5.
This is for jennierenee, who requested something in the little!Dean 'verse.
Coming to see Bobby feels more and more like visiting Dean's grandfather. Dean looks forward to it, wants to see the dogs and climb over the old junkers out back, watch Bobby work with a blowtorch or winch a new engine into place. The thousands of books, well, those are still more Sam's department. But the rest? Bobby's place might as well be made out of gingerbread: it's a little-boy Mecca.
This is Dean's second Christmas as -- well, his de-aged self. Second Christmas at Bobby's, snowy and blustery and perfect.
"Howdy, scamp," Bobby says when Dean flies over to him, and in spite of the fact that Dean's nearly nine and way too big for it, scoops him up in his arms. "What're you feeding him, Sam? Miracle-Gro?"
Sam grins and Dean laughs out loud, then sees Rumsfeld and slithers out of Bobby's grip.
"Kid loves those dogs," Bobby says, his smile so open and warm that Sam feels a tiny, sharp jerk at his heart. Bobby loves Dean as much as he does.
Inside the house it's warm, smelling like something savory, and Sam breathes a deep sigh. Feels like home.
He's pretty sure Dean will never, ever get to sleep tonight, not on Christmas Eve, not when he's been coming unglued with curiosity all day about the packages Sam stowed in the trunk to bring to Bobby's. But two servings of homemade chili, four huge squares of cornbread, couple of tamales, and apple pie later, Dean's about to go face-down on his plate, and when Sam goes to check on him half an hour later, he's dead to the world, Rumsfeld sprawled out next to him and giving Sam a sleepy look.
"You made tamales?" Sam asks while they wash up.
Bobby snorts. "As if. Friend of mine in town, his wife makes tamales for Christmas. Enough to feed the whole town if she wanted to, I guess."
Sam rinses the last plate and holds it out for Bobby to dry. "Thanks for having us," he says quietly.
"Thought I was gonna hafta go pick you up." Bobby cocks an eyebrow. "That company's got you working pretty hard."
Sam looks at his soapy hands, then reaches forward to rinse them under the tap. "But now I'm off till January 2nd. Plenty of time."
Bobby pauses, and says, "He's gonna go apeshit tomorrow. You know that, right?"
Sam grins. "Counting on it."
"Sam. SAM."
Sam peels one eye open. "Wha."
The bed dips, and Dean whispers, "Come ON. Get up!"
The ancient wind-up alarm clock by the bed says it's 6:12. Sam's pretty sure that's AM, and he's even more sure he shouldn't be awake yet. "Gimme ten," he croaks.
"SAM. It's CHRISTMAS!" Dean bounces on the mattress, giggling. "Come ON!"
"Oh wow," Sam says slowly. "It is, isn't it?"
"YES!"
Dean doesn't stop bouncing while Sam tugs on a pair of jeans and toes into his moccasins. Dean's hair is in the midst of a violent coup, half going a normal, smooth direction, the other standing in jubilant disarray. He's still wearing his Batman pajamas, pants legs ending above his ankles and the top buttoned wrong.
It's perfect.
Downstairs Sam smells coffee, and while Dean gives a happy gasp on seeing the fat blue spruce all lit up and the embarrassing number of packages surrounding it, Sam goes for a cup of caffeine. Bobby's in the kitchen, cocking an eyebrow at him and sticking a big pan of something in the oven.
"Merry Christmas, Sam."
"Merry Christmas, Bobby." The coffee is ambrosially good.
"SAM! UNCA BOBBY!"
Bobby's face warms with a huge, slanted grin. "Now whatever could he be wanting this ungodly time of morning, do you think?"
"Sure woke up early. Must have something on his mind."
"Reckon so."
The thump of feet, and Dean skids to a halt in the doorway. His lower lip sticks out, an extravagant mock-pout. "GUYS!" He stomps one sock-clad foot.
"What?" Sam sips more coffee. "What's wrong?"
Dean rolls his eyes. "SAAAMM."
Bobby takes the towel he's had hung over his shoulder and tosses it on the counter. "C'mon, Sam. Kid's gonna pop if we don't."
Dean glances from Bobby to Sam, grins and darts back to the tree.
There are way too many presents for one eight-year-old boy, but Sam figures he's got a lot of years to make up for. He has no memory of Dean Prime's equivalent Christmas, but he remembers plenty of others, and they were mostly good, but definitely light on the swag.
Not so, now. There are useful things, like sweaters and new pajamas that actually fit, shirts and hat and socks. The WII II that Dean wanted, couple of books, and a bow-and-arrow set that Bobby had specially made to fit younger arms; it's beautiful in shining ash wood, and Dean looks suitably wowed.
His own clumsily wrapped packages go to Sam and Bobby: heavy rabbit-lined gloves for Sam, "'cuz your hands are always cold," and the handmade dream catcher Sam had helped him make for Bobby. It's a good size, and fully functional; Bobby nods with honest respect, and gives him a gruff thank you.
"Where'd you get the money for these, buddy?" Sam asks, smoothing the gloves on his hands. "They look expensive."
Dean shrugs. "Saved it."
"That's awesome, Dean. Thank you."
"Weckome."
Finally the mountain of packages is reduced to empty boxes and a couple of shopping bags packed full of wadded-up wrapping paper. Sam's coffee is cold, and Bobby's come back from checking on breakfast in the oven. Dean's inspecting the ash wood bow, and Sam gives Bobby a nod over the kid's head.
"You know something, Dean?"
Now that the presents are all opened, Dean looks a little sleepy, and Sam's heard his stomach growl more than once. He looks up at Bobby. "What?"
"I think I MIGHT have one more present left."
Dean's eyes go wide. "Really? COOL!" The bow is deposited carefully on its box, Sam sees approvingly, before Dean scrambles to his feet. "What is it?"
Bobby grins. "Hang on a sec."
He disappears out the front door, and Dean skitters over to look before Sam says, "He'll be right back. C'mere."
Dean chews a little on his lip, vibrating with renewed curiosity until Sam makes him come sit with him on the couch. It takes long enough that Dean's leaning against him, eyes starting to droop sleepily, by the time the front screen creaks open and Bobby comes in with a big cardboard box.
"What is it?" Dean shrieks, jumping off the couch like it shocked him.
"Well, gotta open it and see." Bobby holds out the box, but when Dean reaches out Bobby says, "Careful. It's fragile."
Sam grins, shaking his head, and watches Dean take the box with excruciating caution, frowning. Something scratches, and Dean sets the box on the floor and gives them an astonished look. "It MOVED!"
"Better look in there and see why," Bobby says. He lowers himself down on the couch, a never-ending ridiculous grin on his bearded face.
Dean sits crosslegged on the floor, and lifts one corner of the box lid. His gasp is audible. "Sam!"
Sam bites his lip and says, "What?"
"Sam, is it -- Is it --?"
"What, Deano?"
Dean bites his lip too, and flings back the cover. A little black face with a perfectly round white circle on its forehead pops out, bright black eyes blinking.
"ALL RIGHT A PUPPY!"
The puppy shrinks back a little at Dean's shriek, but Dean plucks it out with all due care, holding it up and looking right in its little face. "Hey, buddy," he says, and throws his head back to give a delighted high laugh.
On the couch, Sam looks at Bobby. "I can't believe you talked me into a dog."
"Kid needs a dog. 'Sides, it'll teach him responsibility."
"This is DEAN, Bobby. He comes by that part naturally."
Bobby cocks his head to one side and considers it. "True. But look at the kid."
The puppy licks Dean's face enthusiastically, spurred on by Dean's laughter.
Dean names the puppy Spot, naturally, and Spot occupies a place of honor in Dean's lap while they eat Bobby's breakfast casserole. Then outside to play, and after the house is somewhat restored to order, or what passes for it in Bobby's world, Sam takes a fresh cup of coffee and watches the goings-on from the front porch.
"Told you. Get on like a house afire, those two." Bobby sips his own cup, nodding.
Sam nods too, and looks fondly at him. "This has been awesome, Bobby. Thank you for having us."
"What else is family for?" Bobby asks gruffly. "Sides, I got that call I wanted to talk to you about."
"The wendigo?"
"Maybe-wendigo. Over in Michigan."
Sam nods. "Want me to go take a look?"
"Lemme make another call first."
"Sounds good."
Somewhere in the yard Dean's laughter rings like bells, and Sam smiles and tastes his coffee.
END
Coming to see Bobby feels more and more like visiting Dean's grandfather. Dean looks forward to it, wants to see the dogs and climb over the old junkers out back, watch Bobby work with a blowtorch or winch a new engine into place. The thousands of books, well, those are still more Sam's department. But the rest? Bobby's place might as well be made out of gingerbread: it's a little-boy Mecca.
This is Dean's second Christmas as -- well, his de-aged self. Second Christmas at Bobby's, snowy and blustery and perfect.
"Howdy, scamp," Bobby says when Dean flies over to him, and in spite of the fact that Dean's nearly nine and way too big for it, scoops him up in his arms. "What're you feeding him, Sam? Miracle-Gro?"
Sam grins and Dean laughs out loud, then sees Rumsfeld and slithers out of Bobby's grip.
"Kid loves those dogs," Bobby says, his smile so open and warm that Sam feels a tiny, sharp jerk at his heart. Bobby loves Dean as much as he does.
Inside the house it's warm, smelling like something savory, and Sam breathes a deep sigh. Feels like home.
He's pretty sure Dean will never, ever get to sleep tonight, not on Christmas Eve, not when he's been coming unglued with curiosity all day about the packages Sam stowed in the trunk to bring to Bobby's. But two servings of homemade chili, four huge squares of cornbread, couple of tamales, and apple pie later, Dean's about to go face-down on his plate, and when Sam goes to check on him half an hour later, he's dead to the world, Rumsfeld sprawled out next to him and giving Sam a sleepy look.
"You made tamales?" Sam asks while they wash up.
Bobby snorts. "As if. Friend of mine in town, his wife makes tamales for Christmas. Enough to feed the whole town if she wanted to, I guess."
Sam rinses the last plate and holds it out for Bobby to dry. "Thanks for having us," he says quietly.
"Thought I was gonna hafta go pick you up." Bobby cocks an eyebrow. "That company's got you working pretty hard."
Sam looks at his soapy hands, then reaches forward to rinse them under the tap. "But now I'm off till January 2nd. Plenty of time."
Bobby pauses, and says, "He's gonna go apeshit tomorrow. You know that, right?"
Sam grins. "Counting on it."
"Sam. SAM."
Sam peels one eye open. "Wha."
The bed dips, and Dean whispers, "Come ON. Get up!"
The ancient wind-up alarm clock by the bed says it's 6:12. Sam's pretty sure that's AM, and he's even more sure he shouldn't be awake yet. "Gimme ten," he croaks.
"SAM. It's CHRISTMAS!" Dean bounces on the mattress, giggling. "Come ON!"
"Oh wow," Sam says slowly. "It is, isn't it?"
"YES!"
Dean doesn't stop bouncing while Sam tugs on a pair of jeans and toes into his moccasins. Dean's hair is in the midst of a violent coup, half going a normal, smooth direction, the other standing in jubilant disarray. He's still wearing his Batman pajamas, pants legs ending above his ankles and the top buttoned wrong.
It's perfect.
Downstairs Sam smells coffee, and while Dean gives a happy gasp on seeing the fat blue spruce all lit up and the embarrassing number of packages surrounding it, Sam goes for a cup of caffeine. Bobby's in the kitchen, cocking an eyebrow at him and sticking a big pan of something in the oven.
"Merry Christmas, Sam."
"Merry Christmas, Bobby." The coffee is ambrosially good.
"SAM! UNCA BOBBY!"
Bobby's face warms with a huge, slanted grin. "Now whatever could he be wanting this ungodly time of morning, do you think?"
"Sure woke up early. Must have something on his mind."
"Reckon so."
The thump of feet, and Dean skids to a halt in the doorway. His lower lip sticks out, an extravagant mock-pout. "GUYS!" He stomps one sock-clad foot.
"What?" Sam sips more coffee. "What's wrong?"
Dean rolls his eyes. "SAAAMM."
Bobby takes the towel he's had hung over his shoulder and tosses it on the counter. "C'mon, Sam. Kid's gonna pop if we don't."
Dean glances from Bobby to Sam, grins and darts back to the tree.
There are way too many presents for one eight-year-old boy, but Sam figures he's got a lot of years to make up for. He has no memory of Dean Prime's equivalent Christmas, but he remembers plenty of others, and they were mostly good, but definitely light on the swag.
Not so, now. There are useful things, like sweaters and new pajamas that actually fit, shirts and hat and socks. The WII II that Dean wanted, couple of books, and a bow-and-arrow set that Bobby had specially made to fit younger arms; it's beautiful in shining ash wood, and Dean looks suitably wowed.
His own clumsily wrapped packages go to Sam and Bobby: heavy rabbit-lined gloves for Sam, "'cuz your hands are always cold," and the handmade dream catcher Sam had helped him make for Bobby. It's a good size, and fully functional; Bobby nods with honest respect, and gives him a gruff thank you.
"Where'd you get the money for these, buddy?" Sam asks, smoothing the gloves on his hands. "They look expensive."
Dean shrugs. "Saved it."
"That's awesome, Dean. Thank you."
"Weckome."
Finally the mountain of packages is reduced to empty boxes and a couple of shopping bags packed full of wadded-up wrapping paper. Sam's coffee is cold, and Bobby's come back from checking on breakfast in the oven. Dean's inspecting the ash wood bow, and Sam gives Bobby a nod over the kid's head.
"You know something, Dean?"
Now that the presents are all opened, Dean looks a little sleepy, and Sam's heard his stomach growl more than once. He looks up at Bobby. "What?"
"I think I MIGHT have one more present left."
Dean's eyes go wide. "Really? COOL!" The bow is deposited carefully on its box, Sam sees approvingly, before Dean scrambles to his feet. "What is it?"
Bobby grins. "Hang on a sec."
He disappears out the front door, and Dean skitters over to look before Sam says, "He'll be right back. C'mere."
Dean chews a little on his lip, vibrating with renewed curiosity until Sam makes him come sit with him on the couch. It takes long enough that Dean's leaning against him, eyes starting to droop sleepily, by the time the front screen creaks open and Bobby comes in with a big cardboard box.
"What is it?" Dean shrieks, jumping off the couch like it shocked him.
"Well, gotta open it and see." Bobby holds out the box, but when Dean reaches out Bobby says, "Careful. It's fragile."
Sam grins, shaking his head, and watches Dean take the box with excruciating caution, frowning. Something scratches, and Dean sets the box on the floor and gives them an astonished look. "It MOVED!"
"Better look in there and see why," Bobby says. He lowers himself down on the couch, a never-ending ridiculous grin on his bearded face.
Dean sits crosslegged on the floor, and lifts one corner of the box lid. His gasp is audible. "Sam!"
Sam bites his lip and says, "What?"
"Sam, is it -- Is it --?"
"What, Deano?"
Dean bites his lip too, and flings back the cover. A little black face with a perfectly round white circle on its forehead pops out, bright black eyes blinking.
"ALL RIGHT A PUPPY!"
The puppy shrinks back a little at Dean's shriek, but Dean plucks it out with all due care, holding it up and looking right in its little face. "Hey, buddy," he says, and throws his head back to give a delighted high laugh.
On the couch, Sam looks at Bobby. "I can't believe you talked me into a dog."
"Kid needs a dog. 'Sides, it'll teach him responsibility."
"This is DEAN, Bobby. He comes by that part naturally."
Bobby cocks his head to one side and considers it. "True. But look at the kid."
The puppy licks Dean's face enthusiastically, spurred on by Dean's laughter.
Dean names the puppy Spot, naturally, and Spot occupies a place of honor in Dean's lap while they eat Bobby's breakfast casserole. Then outside to play, and after the house is somewhat restored to order, or what passes for it in Bobby's world, Sam takes a fresh cup of coffee and watches the goings-on from the front porch.
"Told you. Get on like a house afire, those two." Bobby sips his own cup, nodding.
Sam nods too, and looks fondly at him. "This has been awesome, Bobby. Thank you for having us."
"What else is family for?" Bobby asks gruffly. "Sides, I got that call I wanted to talk to you about."
"The wendigo?"
"Maybe-wendigo. Over in Michigan."
Sam nods. "Want me to go take a look?"
"Lemme make another call first."
"Sounds good."
Somewhere in the yard Dean's laughter rings like bells, and Sam smiles and tastes his coffee.
END