ALL RIGHT ALL RIGHT ALL RIGHT! Aeicha is determined to get a Wee!chester story out of me. Why, I have no idea. I don't like kids very much. But she is worse than Dean on a roll about the Virtues Of Pie. In fact, she is a plot bunny, wearing a human skin. That's right, she found some poor unsuspecting human, and killed them, and skinned them, and is now walking around wearing that person's hide like a badly fitting Easter Bunny costume. We're onto you. You sick, sick individual. I'm not really sure if I can write Wee!chesters, but I'll give it a go. ANYTHING to MAKE HER STOP...
Disclaimer: No, they're not mine, but if they were, I'd let you hire them by the half hour (mate's rates for the Denizens). I'd charge a security deposit, though, for when I had to get lipstick stains out of their clothes. And you'd lose it if they came back bruised, scratched, or crying.
Title: The way Of Things
Rating: K+
Summary: Sam and Dean are staying with Uncle Bobby while their Dad takes care of a job. Nowhere is completely safe for the Winchester boys, but they have an extra pair of eyes to watch out for them, from the most unlikely place. Wee!chesters. Sam's eight, Dean's twelve.
Blame: As always, blame for this is borne ENTIRELY by the depraved, demanding, demented Denizens of the Jimiverse who just encourage me. And breed plot bunnies. And hide them in cakes, and send them to me.
The rumble of a large engine came to her attention through the ground rather than via her ears; her hearing might not be what it once was, but she was still alert, recognising the noise. The end of her tail twitched in anticipation – that noise preceded the arrival of the two Young.
It was warm in the sun. The younger dog was in his preferred snoozing spot, on the hood of a car body, which gave him a warm place to lounge and also a vantage point from which he could see a large area of the yard. It had been a long time since she'd joined him up there; her back legs were a bit wobbly, and arthritis twinged in her shoulders when it was cold, but she saw that he had detected the car's approach too, and was anticipating its arrival with pleasure.
The Angry Hunter brings his Young, he commented, joining her at ground level.
All Hunters are angry, she replied mildly, licking his muzzle fondly.
Not like this one. She knew he was right. Shall I call a Warning? he asked.
Of course, she instructed, You are Guardian here. They exchanged a brief growl-wrestle of friendship. In deference to her seniority, breeding and experience, he usually asked, although he would be within his rights to demand her submission. He was alpha here, in his prime. She was old enough – and useless enough now, she groused briefly to herself – to be his dam. She was old enough to have whelped his dam.
Rumsfeld set up a loud barking, warning of the car's approach, tail waving to signal the arrival of a known person. Kali sat, tongue lolling happily over her greyed muzzle, waiting patiently, enjoying the sun warming her old bones.
The large black car pulled into the yard, and rumbled to a halt. The smells assailed her – her nose had not aged along with the rest of her, remaining her most acute sense. The acrid tang of gunpowder, the piercing waft of solvent, the unmissable clean note of silver, scents she had known since she was a whelp, since she left her sire's pack, and chose her Hunter, her Alpha…
[The pup nibbled curiously at the piece of rag she'd stolen from the garbage, then sneezed and snorted, shaking her head at the horrible taste. Her Hunter – her Alpha! – laughed, and scooped her up. "What are you doing with that?" he smiled at her expression, and she stopped snorting and started wiggling and yipping in his grasp, tail wagging enthusiastically. "It's gun cleaning solvent. It's nasty stuff. But I guess you just learned that, huh?" She kissed his nose, and he ruffled her ears and they rassled with her fluffy hippo, and she never tried to taste anything that smelled of solvent ever again]
The old bitch shook her head as the memory receded. So long ago, so long ago, but sometimes it felt like just a few weeks before, that she was a pup, growing, learning, then taking her Place beside her Hunter, a Hunter's dog…
A new set of smells brought her out of her reverie: soap, and sticky-sugar and pencils. She pricked up her ears as the Hunter went to meet her Keeper, and his two Young climbed out of the car. Her tail started wagging, and she whuffed a little to them, cloudy old eyes dancing, trotting forward to meet them.
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"Dean! Sam!" John called to the two boys as they made a beeline for the dogs, "Don't pester the dogs!"
"It's okay, John," smiled Bobby, "The fire's long gone out of the old girl, and Rumsfeld knows them both. Mind how you play, boys," he called down to the scrum of two dogs and two boys that was forming, "Rumsfeld can play rough, and Kali is an old lady now."
None of the giggling, woofing participants in what looked like a game of Twister with some very interesting improvised rules paid him any attention. Rumsfeld sprang from a play-bow into a leap, knocking eight-year-old Sam to the ground. The kid just laughed harder as Kali moved in stiffly, the elderly German Shepherd apparently intent on licking him into submission. Dean pulled his little brother back to his feet, and turned to scratch Rumsfeld's belly as the Rottweiler put his feet on the twelve-year-old's shoulders. Sam hugged Kali, burying his face in her thick ruff, as she wagged her tail and sniffed at his hair, licking the top of his head.
"Don't worry, I'll make sure the two-legged ones come inside to sleep," Bobby reassured John. "Now, come on in, and tell me what you know about this thing."
"It's not the first time this town has had a rash of unexplained disappearances," started John, following Bobby indoors.
Outside, the wrestling match petered out into a comfortable sprawl in the sun. Dean used Rumsfeld as a backrest, and Kali sprawled with her head in Sam's lap.
"How long will we stay with Uncle Bobby?" asked Sam a little plaintively, patting the grizzled old head while the dog humphed in contentment.
"Until Dad finishes the job, Sam, you know that," replied Dean, still ticked off about being left behind. His father had been adamant that he was not quite yet ready to Hunt, especially when they had no idea exactly what they were up against.
"He will… he will come back, right?" Sam said hesitantly. He'd been anxious for their father since he'd found out what their Dad's 'work' really involved, and Dean heard the real question under the enquiry. He's not going to die, is he? Like Mom?
"Course he will, squirt," Dean snorted derisively, "He always comes back. Though I could understand if he wanted to leave you behind, sometime, what with you being such an annoying little pest."
"I am not!" retorted Sam. "I'm the good one," he continued a big smugly, "I don't get in trouble at school."
"Neither do I, Sammy," Dean told him, "It's just that sometimes I have… misunderstandings."
"Like when you misunderstood Kieran at the end of term?" Sam queried, recalling being mortified when Dean beat the crap out of the oversized underbrained classmate who'd had the temerity to tease Sam about his Goodwill clothes.
"I didn't misunderstand him, Sammy," corrected Dean, "He misunderstood me. I told him to leave you alone, and he clearly didn't understand plain English. Some people just speak Fist better than English. Kieran was one of those people."
"What about Jenny, then?" probed Sam slyly. "Were you, ahem, 'misunderstanding' her behind the library?"
Dean's face was carefully blank. "I have no idea what you're rambling about, squirt." He and Rumsfeld settled more comfortably together.
"Cause I wouldn't call that misunderstanding," declared Sam, "I'd call that kissing. It was gross."
"Well, if it was kissing, and you were hiding somewhere watching, that makes you a perv," replied Dean.
"I was in the library, on the top shelf, helping Miss Davies put the books back before break," Sam told him primly, and I saw. I couldn't help it, you were right there, outside the window. Mr Harrington saw, too. He clearly thought it was kissing." He picked up a stick, and started drawing on the ground with it. "Does Daddy know you kiss girls?" he asked innocently.
Dean's poker face remained firmly in place. "He hasn't asked, so I haven't told him," he answered carefully.
"Aha!" Sam said triumphantly, "He doesn't know, does he?" He grinned at Dean.
"Maybe he does, I dunno, but don't you go telling him," he said.
"I won't," promised Sam, stroking Kali's fur, "If you give me half the M&Ms you have stuffed in your pack."
"What?" Dean looked puzzled. "I don't have any M&Ms in my pack."
"Yes you do," insisted Sam, "You lifted them at the gas station when we stopped a couple of hours ago. M&Ms, that pocket knife key ring, and… that magazine." Sam pronounced the word as though it tasted dirty. "Wrapped in plastic. Why do you want to look at ladies with no clothes on, anyway? You're weird."
"Okay, okay," Dean held his hands up in surrender, "I'll share the M&Ms with you, but I want you to know, I'll never forget the way you're blackmailing me."
"This isn't blackmailing, Dean," Sam smiled sunnily, "We're just having a… misunderstanding."
"Bitch," growled Dean.
"Jerk," grinned Sam.
"You know what happens to blackmailers, Sam?" frowned Dean seriously.
"Usually, they get money, but I'll be happy with M&Ms," replied his brother airily.
"No," Dean's grin was predatory, "They get… tickled!"
Rassling, barking, shrieking and general hijinks ensued.
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"So, Sam knows, then," said Bobby. It wasn't a question.
"Yeah, Sam knows," confirmed John, his voice tired. "In a way, it's a relief, but at the same time…"
"Yeah," agreed Bobby. He smiled ruefully. "At least now, maybe I can let him start lookin' at some books. The kid's been pestering me about them since, well, since he was old enough to pester."
"It'll keep him quiet, at least," agreed John. He stood, putting his coffee mug on the sink, and glanced out the window. His sons and the two dogs were engaged in a tug of war, Sam and Rumsfeld at one end of a long piece of frayed rope, Dean and the old Shepherd at the other. There was a lot of shouting, and laughing, and accusations of cheating.
It looked achingly normal.
"I'd best get on my way," he told Bobby, "I'll get the boys to bring their gear in."
"They'll be fine, John," Bobby reassured him, "They always are. They're safe here. The place is warded, the dogs stick close to 'em, and Dean always has at least one eye on Sam."
"I know." He watched his boys play. "When I've taken care of this, I may have another lead..." he started.
"You go follow it up, John, just keep me posted," said Bobby, sighing inwardly. The merest whisper of information about the yellow-eyed demon would have John on the trail, like a bloodhound that would track obsessively until it worked itself to death.
Ten minutes later, the Impala rumbled out of the yard. Sam, Dean and Bobby stood to wave goodbye.
"How long will he be gone, Uncle Bobby?" Sam asked again.
"Well, it'll probably be a week at least to take care of this job," Bobby answered as reassuringly as he could, "Then he has some information that he has to go check out after that, but he'll be back here as quick as he can." Sam's face fell. "Come on, buck up, I'm sure we can find you things to keep you occupied while you're here." Bobby played his high card. "I got some books I've been meanin' to sort through, maybe you could help me out with that, Sam."
Sam looked up, his eyes wide. "I can… I can come and look at your books?" he asked in amazement.
"Sure, if you'd like to," Bobby assured him. Sam's face lit up like a chocoholic offered the title deed to a cocoa plantation.
Dean rolled his eyes. "Jeez, you caught a bad case of nerd when you were just a toddler," he grumped as bobby shepherded them indoors. "There should be antibiotics or something for that. Antinerdotics. An extra-strong dose."
"Never mind, Dean," said Sam dismissively, "While I read real books, you can read your… magazine…"
Bobby watched The Look that passed between the Winchester boys bemusedly, and wondered, not for the first time, whether it was true that insanity was hereditary: people caught it from their kids.
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The Young would be staying at the yard for a while, she thought, relaxing again in the sun. That would be enjoyable. They liked to be with the dogs, they liked to play. The smaller one was very tactile, always wanting to pet, stroke, be near. And sometimes, if she looked particularly endearing, the Keeper would let her indoors, where she could curl up on a warm rug, and be near them
While they were here, she always felt that sense of purpose stir: Protect. Protect your Hunter.
They weren't Hunters of course. They were a Hunter's Young, though, and there was something about each of them, something that made her want to stick close to them.
Protect.
It had been trained into her, bred into her – just because she was old (it should never have come to this) and her body was aged (it should never have come to this), that didn't mean she didn't feel that instinct, that drive.
I am a Hunter's dog, she told herself, remembering what she had learned at her Dam's flank, before she was old enough to understand what it meant, A Hunter's dog. We Hunt. We protect. Protect your Hunter. We will kill to protect the Hunter. We will die to protect the Hunter. For Hunter's dogs, this is the way of things.
She let out a long, contented sigh. Right now, the sun was warm, and she was comfortable. The Young would be here. They would play, and argue, and squabble, and get into things they shouldn't, just like pups did. She would stay near, and watch. It felt very… right.
This is the way of things.
She yawned, dropped her muzzle to her paws, and snoozed.
My Grandmother had West Highland White Terriers for my entire life. Every single one of them was called Princey. When one died, she'd just get another one, and carry on as though nothing had changed. I lost count, but I'm pretty sure there were at least six. In the Jimiverse, Bobby is like that with his Rottweilers. Donald Rumsfeld must've impressed him with his first stint as Secretary of State, or possibly even before that.
If I continue with this one, I do NOT want to hear any carry-on from the Denizens about it if I'm trying to make progress with 'Piening For The Ones We Can't Save'. I can only stomp one plot bunny at a time, and the Update Inspiration Fairy is sluggish in the cold weather (winter has really hit Down Here this week). And I'm afraid that I absolutely, positively cannot write gargoyles or nerdy scientifc angels (Sheldon!Cas?) into this one. Not without snapping a con rod in the TARDIS.
Reviews are the German Shepherd Cuddles on the Sofa Of Life! (and German Shepherd cuddles are awesome.)