His Boys, (PG), John, Sam and Dean, Teen!chester
Title: His Boys
Author: Saberivojo
Characters: John, Sam and Dean
Warning/Rating: PG for potty mouth
Disclaimer: I own nothing, I just like playing with the boys.
Summary: John has a job for the boys. Two teenagers and 90 plus Georgia heat is a recipe for disaster.
Notes: Written for the lovely ficwriter1966 who purchased me from Help Japan.
.#cutid1
"Four wheels move the body. Two wheels move the soul."
It's hot. Balls hot. Not quite 'Nam hot but then John has never felt that kind of heat replicated stateside.
The boys spend their time alternately scrapping half-heartedly or hanging listlessly around the house.
Two teenagers and 90 plus Georgia heat is a recipe for disaster.
John's aware staying in this crap town isn't easy and he's just as aware that he isn't making matters any better. He's never been good at entertaining the boys; his general thoughts on idle children tend to revolve around long distance runs or pushups.
But even John realizes that Sammy can't do one-armed pushups and Dean needs to watch out for Sammy. Despite the lack of teenage amusement, the rent's cheap and John has a job at the gas station in town. It'll have to do until Sam's cast comes off.
John knows Dean blames himself; Lord knows the kid has a propensity for that no matter what. Keeping Dean in line with guilt has never been a conscious decision for John; it's more of a natural consequence of being a big brother. This time though John's hushed, Jesus, Dean – you're supposed to be keeping an eye on him! just added fuel to an already well-banked fire.
John will take the hit on it but he sure as shit ain't taking the words back. It is Dean's job and even though it makes John a fucked up father and an ass, it works.
Dean needs a job and Sam needs to be watched. End of story.
Leaning a shoulder against the doorframe, John looks at the boys who are staring at the TV on the sagging couch in the living room. Despite the heat, Dean has allowed his younger brother to slump against him. Sam's hair is hanging wetly over his forehead, fully a shade darker than when it is dry.
Boy needs a haircut, John thinks, and then just as quickly dismisses it. It's too fucking hot to argue over that one. He turns away, back toward the kitchen and then he hears Dean's voice low from the living room behind him.
"Shut up, Fucknuckle."
And then there is a brief tussle. Sam whines as his older brother grabs him around the shoulders in a headlock. They may just kill each other. John briefly wonders how that would play out. From where he sits, he can see Dean has Sam shoved into his armpit and John figures that's how Sam will die: from the smell of this older brother, not from some supernatural shit.
Jesus, they are making him crazy.
John stands and heads out the back door, letting the screen slam hard in the door jam. He looks out over what passes for the back lawn and eyes the ramshackle barn. He'd scoped it out before they moved in; mostly full of old junk and probably has more potential for tetanus than Singer's yard.
From inside the house John hears what is quite possibly their only lamp hit the floor in the living room and he comes to a decision.
Broken arm or no, hot or no—hell even the fact that their father is an ass—none of that matters. The boys need to do something – anything – and it occurs to John that he has the answer right here.
"Boys!"
Dean stumbles into the back yard, followed by Sammy. Neither looks particularly happy to be out in the mid-day sun.
"Whatcha want?" Dean's sullen and that just proves that John is on track.
Who taught that boy to answer like that? John blames it on the heat and hormones but Dean sure knows better.
"Pardon?" John throws just a hint of growl in the remark.
Dean straightens a bit, drops his head, and then meets John's eyes. "Sorry."
But he doesn't look contrite. John remembers seventeen: full of piss and vinegar and barely able to keep a civil tongue in his mouth. He takes a deep breath and lets it go.
"Got a job for you boys to do."
Sam groans audibly and it is all John can do not to cuff him upside the head. Dean though, stills expectantly and John thinks, not for the first time, maybe John himself is the one who deserves a smack.
"On my six." John heads to the barn and both boys follow obediently, although Sam's sigh lets John know exactly how he feels about it.
The barn hinges groan with disuse as John opens them. It's dark inside and covered in cobwebs, long vacated by resident spiders. Dirty windows allow just enough light for them to see the stuff lying around. The shadows part as light intrudes and John sees what looks like an implement of medieval torture, but he's pretty sure it's some kind old farm equipment.
A sign is propped up against the wall with hand-lettered words:
PEACHES - RABBITS FOR SALE.
John notices that Sam's eyes cut to the sign.
Despite what Sam thinks, John knows his boy. He's willing to bet Sam's already pieced together that this farm has never been a pet store. Any connection between "rabbits" and "peaches" was probably nutritional content.
John ignores the rest of the junk that is scattered throughout the barn and zeros in on the back wall where there is a tarp covering his objective.
He stops within an arms length with Sam on his left and Dean on his right.
"This, boys, is your job for the next several weeks."
Sam cants his head. "You want us to clean the barn?"
John smiles; sometimes Sam's innocence surprises him.
"No, Son. This." With that John reaches to the tarp and pulls it off with a flourish. The tarp comes off strangely free of dust and underneath is an old dirt bike.
"Shit." Dean's voice is equal measures of excited and surprised. John chuckles to himself. Occasionally, his oldest is less than articulate.
"Don't know too much about 'em, Dean, and I'm not even sure you two can get it working."
Sam glances quizzically at his father. "You two?"
"That's right you two. It won't hurt to have you learn your way around a motorcycle. You never can tell when you may need one sometime. You can use my tools, but be damn sure you put 'em all back."
"Yes, sir." Dean's quick to respond.
"And boys? If you get it running, maybe you can sell it. You can keep and split the money." John surprises himself with that statement. Money is hard to come by and if he gives the boys a job they need to be doing it 'cause he says so, not because there is monetary gain from it.
But Sam is smiling, a 100-watt grin that never fails to make John smile along. And Dean? John can see the gears moving in his head already.
John turns back toward the house calling over his shoulder as he leaves, "In between training and regular chores got it?"
"Yes, sir." The boys answer together, inflection exactly the same.
John doesn't spend a lot of time just watching his boys. He never has. He trusts that they will do what needs doing without too much input from him.
It's not like they need checking on; they're big kids and he sure as shit doesn't have some kind of parental need to be involved. But everyone's entitled to a coffee break and the back door is as good as place as any to chug caffeine.
They've drug the bike to the back yard and propped it up on cement blocks. Dean is on his back half under the damn thing and Sam is sitting cross-legged on the ground, reading what is appears to be an owner's manual. How in the hell Sammy found an owner's manual in that pile of crap in the barn, John doesn't know.
John steps a bit closer to the screen door. It's not eavesdropping, it's recon.
"Gimme the ¾ inch, Sam." Dean's hand appears near Sam, waiting expectantly.
John watches as Sam dutifully slaps the wrench in his brother's hand and John shakes his head and allows a small grin to play over his face. You would think it was a freaking operating room.
His boys.
They move easily together, both aware of where the other is. Dean shifts his weight, Sam slides away. Dean stretches; Sam pulls his legs up tight to allow him room. Sometimes watching them is like watching a dance of sorts. A dance punctuated by pummeling fists at times, but a dance nonetheless. John smiles ruefully, neither of his boys would be happy hearing him refer to them as dance partners.
"So what's in this for Dad?" Sam motions vaguely toward the bike but John is pretty sure that from where Dean is, he can't really see his brother.
"Dunno. He's probably just happy to have us out from underfoot."
John considers that.
He swallows another gulp of the dark brew and it tastes far bitterer than it had a moment ago. He sets the coffee cup on the counter, opens the fridge and pulls out three cokes. He opens two bottles, holds them firmly by the necks in his right hand, and leaves the unopened one in his left. John bumps the screen door with his hip and steps down the steps into the blazing heat.
Sam turns to his father, smudge of grease on his face. "Hey, Dad."
"Sam." John waggles a coke in offering and Sam smiles, "Thanks."
John stops next to Dean's supine body and toes Dean's sneakered feet with his booted ones.
"Howzit goin' under there?"
Dean shoulders his way out from under the bike. "Slow."
But he grins and damn if the kid doesn't have more grease on him than Sammy does. Sitting up, knees akimbo, Dean pulls a rag from his jean pockets and wipes first his forehead and then his hands. He reaches for the Coke, slips the bottle cap off with his ring and swigs half of it down in one deep pull.
"Thanks, Dad."
John squats next to the bike, feeling his knees protest, dangling the Coke between his legs.
"Well, it looks like you got a good handle on things."
"Yes, sir. " Dean agrees, his ass settling in the dirt next to his father.
Sam runs the hand of his unbroken arm over the yellowed papers and then carefully wipes a spot of grease off.
"Did you know there are different kinds of motorcycle engines, Dad? There are two-strokes and four strokes. This bike has a four-stroke engine."
John can't help the edge of annoyance in his voice; he's a fucking master mechanic for chrisakes, "I'm aware."
Sam pays no mind to John and why doesn't that surprise John one bit?
Flipping the owner's manual page over, Sam continues his train of thought, "Did you know that a four-stroke is environmentally a better choice than a two-stroke?"
John chuckles then in spite of himself. "No, Son. Didn't know that." Then, because he does know what he's talking about, "I'd suspect that it burns cleaner though, no oil mixed in the gasoline."
Sam nods, shaggy hair falling damply across his forehead. John's not sure if he is being agreed with or dismissed.
John throws a quick look at Dean. The freckles across the bridge of his nose and cheeks are more pronounced than this morning courtesy of that hellatious Georgia sun. John reckons he should say something parental about that but instead he quiets his hand before it reaches for Dean's sandy hair.
The kids know what they are doing.
"Well, if you boys need anything…." John stands, brushes his hands down his jeans.
He has work to do this afternoon.
John opens the back door and notices the bike standing where it was earlier this afternoon. It hasn't been abandoned, but instead carefully covered with the tarp from the barn. There is a coffee can next to it and John would bet it is full of little bits of bike, but other than that, there is no evidence of the boys. He places two fingers to his mouth and whistles sharp and loud. Sam's head peeks out of the barn first and a moment later Dean pushes the barn doors open, shoving his little brother ahead of him. Sam stumbles a bit but catches himself and they both move toward the house.
The boys file in Dean first, followed by Sam. Dean sniffs appreciatively at the smell of chili and starts to make a beeline for the chair.
John intercepts him, "Hit the head and wash up boys."
Dean offers a half grin in apology and reaches behind to grab Sam by the collar. "Yeah, dumbass, no one wants to sit next to your stink for the next half an hour."
Sam allows Dean to man handle him up the stairs and doesn't offer a single protest.
John shakes his head, remembering more than one occasion when he had to threaten bodily injury to Sam for him to get a damn bath. John remembers toddler Sam, steadfastly ignoring John's increasing agitation at his lack of personal hygiene, standing naked and filthy in the bathroom but refusing to step into the bath. Revenants and poltergeists he could handle, but a two-year-old boy had routinely foiled him. Then Dean would scoop up his brother and deposit him in the tub to peals of laughter.
Always Dean. Dean is Sam's true north.
John ladles out the three-alarm chili into mismatched bowls, then throws a bag of shredded cheese on the table and pours two full glasses of milk for the boys and a beer for himself. Then, as an afterthought, he grabs some white bread and butter. It's not exactly a feast but he's moderately pleased at the dinner he's managed to scrounge up.
Sam and Dean are down quickly, and while not pristine they are no longer covered in a layer of grease. They settle at the table with little preamble. John watches with amusement as they wolf down dinner. There is very little the boys won't eat with relish. John attributes the way they devour food to teenage metabolism – it's certainly not his fine cooking skills. That being said, Dean's eats with a little more gusto than his brother, something that never fails to annoy Sam.
"Wanna shovel, Dean?" Sam questions, brows furrowed at his big brother's lack of table manners.
Dean growls a little, much like a terrier with a bone. "That's the best you got, Dickhead?"
"Language, Dean." John's on automatic pilot, the words out before he even processes Dean's latest putdown. The boy has a mouth like a sailor. Or a Marine, John thinks to himself.
"Yeah, Dean, you're an ingrate. Plus. It's not a freakin' contest. Just eat like a human being." Sam sounds both frustrated and resigned.
They both reach for the bread and the subsequent bitch slapping session is almost enough to make John want to take his chili into the living room. Dean wins the tug of war and snatches the bread triumphantly over to his side of the table.
Sam nurses his unbroken hand and rubs the sting of his brother's slap out. "You know? Ever heard of 'food aggressive?' That's what they say about dogs that try to bite you when you take away their damn kibble."
John snorts at that one, watches as Dean grins through the chili and then wrinkles his sunburned nose.
"Nah, Sammy. That's 'survival of the fittest.' I'm the alpha wolf, little brother."
"Think again, kiddo. " John grabs the bread from Dean. "I'm the alpha wolf and I've been known to bite."
John slathers his bread thickly with butter and then just because he can, he hands to bread to Sam. Sam's triumphant snort of glee is worth the effort.
Dean laughs then and it shocks John how easy it can be sometimes.
He can't help but look hard at the boys; knuckles scraped, sunburned and tired but obviously content, and think about how it could have been. How it should have been. But then, just as quickly, John shoves that shit so far down it ain't never seeing sunlight again.
"How's the arm, Sammy?" John asks and he knows almost right away that he shouldn't have.
"S'alright." Sam studies his chili with far more interest than a food should ever be given.
"Well good. We see the doc in a couple more weeks. Get the hell out of this Podunk town, eh?" John tries to lighten it up with a light slap to Sam's back.
"Yes, sir."
How can the kid say Yes, sir, and have it sound like Fuck you?
John fights the urge to push it - to push Sam. Because all he has done was ask about his fucking arm. He takes a deep breath and rolls his shoulders and for some reason that seems to be the deciding factor for Dean.
"Yeah, Fucktard. We need to get the hell outta this town and kick some fugly supernatural ass."
John cuts a sharp glance at Dean. "Dean. Watch your mouth." The kid's playing with fire. John doesn't make a habit of repeating himself and twice in five minutes might actually be some kind of new benchmark.
"Sorry. Sir." Dean drops his eyes but doesn't look apologetic in the least. Kid's a damn actor, that's what he is, John thinks.
"Can I be excused?" Sam asks, head still down, shoving chili around his plate like it's dog shit.
John glares. Is it the formality of the request or the fact that he asked at all? John's not sure but it grates on his nerves and he finds himself counting to ten.
Doesn't help. "No. You got food to eat. Eat it."
Sam doesn't respond. Hair hanging shaggy over his face and John itches to reach over and with the damn butter knife and hack it off. But finally Sam takes another bite of chili. For some reason that act of obedience settles hard in John's belly far more than Sam's rebelliousness ever has. That pisses him off almost more.
The remainder of dinner is quiet.
No quick banter from the boys. No cussing. Nothing. John tries to enjoy the silence but it feels worse some how.
Morning rolls in hot and hard. It is as if in Georgia there is no transition from early morning to day. John's up before the boys, early enough to have three cups of coffee under his belt before Sam shuffles in to the kitchen.
He's wearing nothing but his boxers. That's not surprising considering how hot it is but John can't help but notice as Sam settles at the kitchen table that the kid is all sharp angles. Any baby fat that Sam may have had is gone with adolescence. Slender wrists angle to narrow hands that grab for the orange juice carton. Sam's hipbones jut out just above the waistband of his underwear. He's skinny but he has a layer of muscle that barely covers his ribs. Even from John's vantage point he can see Sam's belly is flat and taut. It's good to see the sit-ups are doing their job. He's just starting to get that leggy colt look and it suddenly occurs to John that Sam is gonna be taller than his brother.
"Eggs?"
It's not really a peace offering but it's the best he can do.
"Sure." Monosyllabic is SOP for Winchesters in the morning. Sam is positively chatty compared to Dean.
John scrambles the eggs, puts in extra for Dean then dumps them into a hot skillet. Another look at Sam shows the kid shoving a butter knife down his casted arm.
"Stop scratchin,' you'll make it worse." Sam drops the knife with a clatter on to the table. He sighs in a way that only a teenager can do. The kid is already making him nuts and it's just a little after oh eight hundred.
John takes a deep breath and moves the eggs around the pan. He's pretty sure he's burning them.
"Go get your brother up.
Sam groans but stands and starts to stumble back to their bedroom, but Dean saunters into the kitchen looking far perkier than anyone should on a Monday morning.
"Hey, Dad. Thanks." Dean the heads to the coffee pot and John looks hard at him.
"Where's my son and what have you done with him?"
"Ha ha. You and Sam should start a show."
John cuts the eggs in threes and slides equal measures on three different plates.
"I gotta be at the garage in fifteen. Do you boys need anything while I'm in town?"
Dean pulls a list from his jeans and grins that shit-eating grin that is so Dean. John can't help but smile. This boy could charm the pants off a nun.
"Well, I did ask huh?" John grabs the list. A cursory glance tells him he can get most of it without too much trouble. He supposes it's one of the perks of working as a mechanic.
John grabs the keys to the car, shoves them in his pocket and heads out toward the front door. He opens it and then shuts it quickly before stepping out on the front porch. Shit, he left his lunch on the kitchen table. There is a low rumble from behind him in the kitchen. He can't help but hear the scuffle from where he is standing.
Christ he can't leave the boys alone for a second.
"Shut up, Shithead," Dean is obviously agitated and that voice usually is the precursor to a slap. "If you can't keep your mouth shut, maybe I'll just break the other arm."
Then Sam's voice low but clear. "Do it. At least we'd be able to stay here a little longer."
"Yeah, like you fucking care about staying here."
He can hear Sam's snort, part incredulous, part pissed.
"You know what Dean? You're an ass. Just leave me alone."
Then his oldest, calling after Sam. "Yeah, well, fuck you and the horse you rode in on."
He hears the back door slam.
Suddenly, the thought of left over chili for lunch isn't appetizing anymore.
John wakes with a start, hands automatically finding the shotgun next to his bed. His first thoughts are for the boys and he instinctively moves to check their rooms within seconds but pauses when he hears Dean's laughter from outside his window. A quick look at his watch confirms his brief disorientation – it's 0230 and why the hell is his boy out in the back yard?
It occurs to John that he just might have to kick some Winchester ass and it is far too early in the morning to have that conversation. A moment later he hears Sam shushing his older brother and the irritation backs off to a slow burn.
Those two better have a real good reason for fucking around before the ass crack of dawn. He carefully puts the shotgun down and pads to the open window. He can see both boys standing in the pale moonlight and there is a bright warmth that settles in his chest…it's good to see they are back on speaking terms again but he can't quite forget the fact that it's 2:30 in the morning.
"Dude, Dad's gonna kill us." Sam doesn't sound entirely convinced that's the case though because John can see by the light of the moon, that Sam has that soft smile that John doesn't often get directed at him.
"Nah, he's the one who told us to fix the bike. Besides, he's sound asleep."
John furrows a brow at that one. How could Dean even imagine John sleeping through this racket? Well, racket might be a strong word.
"Just do it, Sam." Dean hands his brother a gas can and shoves his brother. Sam laughs low and then trots around to the side of the house. John moves from the back yard window to the side yard window, follows the slim form of Sam as he makes his way to the Impala.
What the hell? Sam pauses by the gas tank of the Impala. Is Sammy really siphoning gas from his girl? The moon is bright and he can see clear as day as Sam siphons with practiced ease. That should worry John just a bit but instead he nods appreciatively as the boy keeps the gas from touching her paint, hand cupping the hose with reverence.
Good boy, he thinks.
A moment later and Sam joins Dean by the motorcycle.
Dean pours the gas into the tank and it occurs to John that the bike can't possibly be ready to start up yet. They've only been working on it a few days. But Dean straddles the seat, faces Sam with a grin and toggles the rocker switch. He pumps the throttle twice and then kickstarts it hard. Once, twice…third times a charm. There is a brief cough and sputter and then oddly enough the throaty whine of a four stroke reverberates through the night.
John can't hear the boys over the din but Dean says something to Sam and Sam swings a leg over the seat and settles behind his brother, both the good and casted arm wrapping tightly around his brother's middle.
They are not going to do this.
No helmets, no fucking lights, Dean is shirtless and Sam is wearing shorts. Christ, John thinks, he's not even sure if Sam is wearing shoes! Why in the hell did John let them rebuild a fucking bike and how did they manage it so quickly? John thinks if he could bellow out the window and be heard he would, instead he says a brief prayer to a God he isn't sure exists and watches in horror as Dean pops the clutch, throws it in gear and the bike lurches forward.
John's running out the bedroom and heading to the back door in just boxers and bare feet. He makes it to the back yard just in time to see the bike fishtailing through the back yard and hear Sam's howl of delight. Then the bike careens hard to the left. Dean straightens it back in what only can be considered an act against the law of physics and gravity.
The reprieve is momentary though and because John's physically unable to shut his eyes no matter how bad the train wreck, he watches in slow motion as Dean drops the bike hard. The bike skitter-shimmies, plowing through dead crab grass and hard Georgia clay. It cuts out quickly and then there is nothing.
John makes it to the bike in the blink of an eye all heartbeat and stilted breath and shit, shit, shit, shit. But Dean is grinning, blood dripping from a cut on over his eye and Sam is laughing half pinned under his brother and the motorcycle.
"Better than a Carney ride, eh Sammy?" Dean's voice sounds loud in the quite aftermath of the screaming bike noise.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" John asks gruffly, reaching down to pull the motorcycle off the boys. If Sam hurt his broken arm—or hell, broke the other one—he will kill them both.
But neither boy answers, instead they're laughing so hard that John thinks that maybe they both got their brains scrambled in the crash.
"Jesus Christ," John mutters as he runs a hand through his hair, catching a glimpse of Dean's right arm, covered in what would be called road rash if the boys had been riding on the street.
"Nope…just me." Dean responds and then laughs again and suddenly it is kind of funny.
John shakes his head trying to grab hold of the justifiable anger that was there a moment ago. He should kick their asses. Stupid dumb-ass kids. But he can't with the infectious laughter of both boys. When was the last time he heard those two really laughing?
It's been a while.
He chuckles to himself. Why fight it?
"C'mere, you nub." He roughly pulls Dean up with one arm and then uses the other to grab Sam. He tilts Dean's head back and eyes the bloody stripe over his eye. It's just a scratch, probably from one of the damn rocks that are all over this back yard. "Ya damn morons…who the hell put you two to work fixing a dirt bike anyway?"
Sam's hip bumps John a bit. "Our dad." Sam looks at John a little sheepish but then he juts his chin out and throws a bit of defiance at John. Damn, if that's not Sam in a nutshell.
"Well don't just stand there. Let's get this baby up and running again." John tries to make it sound like an order but it doesn't and that doesn't surprise him one bit.
Dean claps Sam on the back and they take a look at the damage done. Dean wipes a grimy hand across his face and jiggles the spark plug. A moment later the bike is roaring again. Sam slides in behind Dean and salutes John, cast tapping his forehead. The damn kid is lucky he doesn't clock himself in the head.
They take off in a roar of flying clay.
Later John will berate himself for not playing the Dad card. For not giving those two hell. But it's 0230 and his kids are having a ball driving a battered motorcycle around the backyard of a Georgia farmhouse. There's not a ghost in sight and his boys?
Well, they're acting like a couple of boys.
Not a bad night at all.