These will be just random one-shots of the boys doing regular, everyday things that have nothing to do with ghosts, vampires, visions of any veracity level, or arsassonists.
You have been warned. There be schmoop ahead. Big piles of fluffy, squishy schmoop. :D
Disclaimer: I have boys from two different universes. I own neither or this would be one big happy supernaturally inclined joyfest of canon. Also, it would so be on tv.
TIMELINE MARKER
Timeline? We don't need no stinkin' timeline.
These take place in the 'verse. That's all I--and therefore you--know. The when is not so important. Just go with it. :D
They were like magnets, the three of them.
Like spinning bar magnets.
They'd come together, all south poles to the center at once, and repel like magnets do, bouncing off of each other.
But then the natural forces of that effect would come into play and they'd end up sideways, norths and souths equidistant to the middle pulling together.
Shawn would be in the main room watching TV and Sam would drift in, looking for a book among the stacks. Dean would wander through and not be able to wander back out.
But then they'd all suddenly realize that they were together. In the same room.
The northern poles would swing inward and they'd scatter like pinballs, Shawn rocketing to the kitchen to cook something—anything—while Sam would bounce off the walls and end up in Bobby's den with his computer and Dean would ping off the door and end up on the porch.
They all had the notion that it was driving Bobby nuts, but none of them knew quite how to fix it.
Dean wanted to ignore it, as always.
Sam wanted to talk it out, as always.
Shawn just wanted it fixed. He didn't have a more specific plan than that, but this state of spinning repulsion and compulsion was starting to make him dizzy.
None of them could even explain how it had happened.
The hunt had been the same as always.
Dean found it, Sam confirmed it, and Shawn tried to weasel into it. Of course, after that fateful ghost hunt his attempts were a lot less successful. If he wanted to hunt he had to be the first to end up knee-deep in the shit pile. Otherwise he got left behind.
Mostly, this was actually okay with him. Some of the things they hunted he had no desire to meet in a sunny city square let alone some dark ravine in the forgotten woods.
But somehow, this hunt had ended up differently.
Shawn had stayed and Sam and Dean had gone and when they came back, banged up and bruised and leaking in a few, small places, Words had been said. Angry Words. Of the type Not Easily Taken Back.
None of them even knew exactly what had been spoken.
Well, okay, Shawn knew. But he wasn't telling. Because he didn't know why. It didn't make any sense. And probably never would.
He saw no reason to bring up the specific Words used, especially since he doubt they'd go over any better this time around.
And yet . . . He sighed and stirred the bowl of marinade.
Added another dash of clove as he pondered what to do about this stupid thing.
He stared at the bowl for a long time, as if thinking of what else to add.
Nothing. It was perfect.
He put in the steaks and sealed the lid and stuffed it in the fridge. It should be ready by dinner.
Hopefully, by then, they'd all be able to sit at the same table.
But only if something was done.
And it looked like no one was going to do anything, so he'd have to take the lead on this one.
He wandered outside, knowing the other two wouldn't be able to resist following, and started walking through the junk yard, the car corpses stacked high in the sun, inexplicably making him think of a picture he'd seen in, oh, probably third or fourth grade, of stacks of pelts in a fur trapper's cabin in some book he'd read for school.
Bobby wasn't just a hunter of evil it seemed.
He was pretty deep in when he stopped.
They were both behind him, pretending they weren't following and pretending even more that they didn't know the other was there.
He stopped, toed the ground, and nodded. Yeah. This might work.
Then he turned around.
"Hey, Sam?"
Sam looked up, deer-caught-in-headlights expression in full force.
"Come here."
Sam frowned, now all wary-fox-looking-for-a-trap.
Dean watched closely, alpha-wolf-ready-to-protect-his-pack.
Shawn just stood there, dumb-human-hoping-he-survived-and-was-as-smart-as-he-thought.
Sam glanced once at Dean, but got no response, and so moved forward.
He stopped five feet away. Dean, caught in the spell of the magnetism they'd developed, following just a few steps behind.
"Yeah?" Sam said warily.
Shawn attacked, launching himself at Sam's stomach.
Sam, reacting from years of training, sidestepped just as Dean entered the small area of activity and met Shawn shoulder to shoulder.
The two of them went down in a heap and Sam only stared for a moment before he joined the fray.
In normal circumstances Shawn, with his complete lack of formal training and the associated years of honed reflexes, would have been pinned before he even had a chance to blink.
But right now the Brothers Winchester weren't working in sync. Dean may have leapt forward to protect Sam, but only because that instinct had been forged from years of practice, made from a smelt that came from birth. Not even this schism could overcome that moment of reaction.
That ended though as soon as Sam dove into the melee.
It was a three-way free-for-all and that split was a handicap for them that gave Shawn a fighting chance—pun intended.
They grappled and wrestled and twisted for what seemed like hours though in reality was closer to fifteen minutes. Maybe half an hour.
And then, somewhere in the fierceness and the anger and the unrecognized tension, they found their groove.
Like they just needed a good tumble for the pieces to fall back into place.
Then the all-out fighting took a playful turn.
Dean grinned at Shawn in a moment of accidental eye contact and got a grin back. He pinned Sam's arms and legs while Shawn's questing fingers found those ticklish spots on Sam's sides that made him try to curl up and gasp, pleading for the torture to end.
And then Sam bucked Dean off after catching his gaze and he and his brother turned their combined forces on Shawn, subduing him under a tangle of Winchester limbs and making him cry uncle as Dean got revenge on his brother's behalf.
Shawn managed to squeak out something that Dean didn't quite catch but that Sam sure did, if that ducking head was any indication, that had him letting go and helping Shawn to sit up . . . before they both turned and tackled Dean.
Then they split forces again, every man for himself in a full-scale tickle war and wrestling match as they all three vied for superiority.
They eventually exhausted themselves, collapsing in a heap of laughing, sweaty, dusty men reduced to boys—and almost puppies—in a brief session of play.
No real talking took place—not with words—but their problems weren't ignored either.
Somehow, they found that middle ground that satisfied everyone and dissolved the tension, leaving them back where they had been before the hunt.
Eventually they climbed to their feet, helping each other and still laughing and tossing the kind of verbal barbs that could barely be classified as such they were so dull, and headed back to the house.
By the time they arrived the odd case of magnetism had shifted. Not vanished, but changed. They were no longer bar magnets, spinning under outside influences they couldn't control, but iron filings, drawn together as they shoved and jostled each other across the yard and up the steps into the house.
Bobby watched them from the garage and smiled, shaking his head.
He never quite knew what to do with the three of them when they were here.
But he sure as hell missed them when they were gone.
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