SPN/J2 Secret Santa 2020: Too Close for Comfort
For: chiliscale
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It’s the fourth time in only so many minutes that Dean huffs an exasperated and absolutely overdramatic breath, when Bobby finally looks up, ready to throw a book at him, so he'll shut the hell up and do his research.
He falters, however, when he takes the boys in and the urge to scold gives way to the nascent demand to laugh. He smothers it before it leaves his mouth.
It’s been barely a week that he took it in his own hands to let the boys know boundaries are not just for other people; They need them between each other too. Obviously, they still disagree. Figures, like father, like sons. John just laughed at him whenever he brought the topic up and bid him god-speed for trying.
Sam’s diligently doing his assigned research, Bobby has to give him that, at least. His spindly long legs - and Bobby swears up and down the boy will tower over all of ‘em one of these days - are leisurely splayed over Dean’s lap.
Dean, however, has obviously given up on pretending to read and is dead-set to get Sam’s attention with his obnoxious huffing and whining. Bobby’s not surprised, smiles fondly; Dean’s always done that for as long as he’s known the boys, little grunts and pouts and grabby hands whenever Sam dared to avert his attention elsewhere.
Bobby musters Sam, concentrated frown still in place. Every now and then however, he'll gently nudge Dean with his knee. Bobby huffs an amused breath when it happens again, right after Dean groans for the umpteenth time, eyes flitting to Sam the moment he does to gauge any reaction from his little brother.
They're an entity, his boys, and he loves them. Sometimes they're just too close for comfort. The way Sam looks at Dean - when he's not pissed at him, that is - is unfiltered adoration. As if he’s the sun, the moon and the stars, all at once. An entire galaxy clad in their father’s leather jacket, with his own field of gravity pulling Sam in.
The way Dean looks at Sam is indescribable. Bobby ain’t sure if there’s a proper word for it, or if he even dares to try give it a name. Bobby’s certain there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for Sam, doesn’t know yet there’s nothing Sam wouldn’t do for him either and his chest tightens when he remembers the acceptance letter hidden in his desk.
He understands, of course he does. It’s why he helped Sam in the first place. He doesn’t know how they’re going to survive this, however. Either of them. What Bobby knows is that they’d die for each other all too readily; He hopes against his own better judgement that he won’t be there to see it.
"Uncle Bobby?," Sam asks softly and by the concerned look on his face, it's not the first time he's called out for him. Bobby grunts an affirmative and wonders how long it'll take for him to get used to Sam's voice growing deeper by the day. If there’s enough time to get used to it at all.
Sam smiles at him, clears his throat now that he's finally gotten his attention. "I might've found something," he declares proudly and looks down at his notes to double-check. "It's a wiccan ritual. The ingredients are fairly simple to get by, actually and if performed correctly, the ritual should-"
“What are you now, Sammy, a witch?,” Dean falls in and looks at his brother with a sneer. Somewhere in Bobby’s hindbrain, there's a memory of Dean screaming bloody murder about witches; a hunt gone wrong, Sam, hurt. Figures.
“Oh shut up, like you got anything. You haven’t even been reading the past half an hour,” Sam grouches with a mighty fine bitch-face of his own and Bobby actually laughs this time.
"Alright, quit the bitchin' you two," he mutters before Dean can throw anything back and gets up from his desk to hold out his hand for Sam's notes. "Let me look at that."
Sam complies, but not without a little triumphant smirk at Dean who rolls his eyes in retaliation. Bobby ignores their silently shoving and prodding at each other for a moment to skim over Sam's notes, nods, more to himself than anyone else, really. "That's good boy, really good," he grunts and ruffles Sam's hair.
Sam makes a little noise in the back of his throat, obviously proud of himself and Dean sticks his fingers into the jeans-hole on his knee and tugs. Sam kicks his thigh. Bobby shakes his head at them. "I'll check on this," he offers while waving Sam's notepad in front of their faces. "Try not to trash my house while I’m downstairs, you Idjits..."
He hears them bicker all the way down to the basement.
They're an entity, his boys, and he loves them. Sometimes they're just too close for comfort and Bobby knows they'd die for each other all too readily. Then again, who’s he to judge, of all people? He’d take a bullet for both of them, right on the spot too.
Dear Chiliscale,
I hope you're having great holidays~
I'm usually not really the biggest writer, so I hope you don't mind me trying - I wanted to incorporate as many of your wishes as possible into your gift :)
Merry Christmas ♥