Bobby's Rules

[saberivojo]

Title: Bobby's Rules
Author: Saberivojo
Rating: G
Genre: Gen, Pre-series
Pairing: None
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Some potty mouth
Disclaimer: I own nobody.
Notes: Bobby only has a few rules.

Man, it’s hot.   Sam swiped a hand across his sweaty forehead and stopped to think about his predicament. There was no doubt where this particular issue stood in the John Winchester standard of rules, but they were at Bobby’s and he needed to rethink the rules. In all his ten years, Sam had not run into this one.  He quickly reviewed the Bobby rules.

The first of the Bobby rules was don’t tease the dogs. And really, the dogs took care of making sure they toed the line on that one. Bobby swore if either boy got bit, he would kill them, if the dog didn’t take care of it first.  Sam believed him. Bobby sure loved his dogs.

Rule number two was, don’t waste bullets.  Hit what you were aiming at and aim careful. That one drove Dean crazy.  Not that he wasn’t a dead shot, but sometimes Dean just liked to shoot the hell out of things.

Rule number three was Don’t Do Anything Stupid.  Of course, that covered quite a bit and since Bobby seemed to think that both boys had shit for brains, he never seemed all that shocked at the level of their stupidity.

 Bobby was not a great believer in discipline in the traditional sense, but his few forays into crime and punishment had taught the boys that Uncle Bobby’s creative punishments were almost worse than the standard “drop and give me twenty.”  So Sam generally did his best to follow Bobby’s rules.  Plus, even though Bobby was a grown up, he wasn’t a rat. As a kid, Sam really appreciated that one. Pastor Jim could never keep his mouth shut if the boys misbehaved.  Sam liked to think it was because he was a man of God and just plain couldn’t lie.  Especially when Dad asked him how things went or “the boys didn’t give you any trouble did they?” No matter how mad he was, Bobby wouldn’t spill his guts to Dad, which was a handy thing to know. What happened at Bobby’s stayed at Bobby’s.

So for rule number one, he was good, there were no dogs involved. Sam felt pretty confident that one wasn’t being broken. There were no guns either.  But, and here is where it got a little dicey - there were explosives involved, some in the form of carefully cut open shotgun shells.  If Sam worked that out, he figured Uncle Bobby might find the indiscriminate use of explosives and shotgun shells to be wasteful. But they weren’t shotguns shells anymore so he couldn’t be accused of wasting bullets. And in terms of aiming what he hit, Sam knew that that one would be covered.  He planned on taking it out with the precision of a surgeon with a scalpel.

But rule three could be problematic. It might be considered stupid.

Sam pondered carefully.  “Stupid” was a matter of perspective.  Some people might consider this stupid, others might think he was…”taking initiative.” Yeah. “taking initiative” almost sounded John Winchester-like and that tipped the scales back into the safe zone. He grinned to himself. 

He dropped to the ground and carefully thought out his game plan.  Where to strategically place his charges, where they would be most effective.  He gauged how much time he would have to scamper out of the way.  Sam wondered if there was a market for learning how to blow stuff up.  He reckoned that would be a pretty cool job.  Sam Winchester – Demolitions Expert!

Sam carefully dug into the bank and the rocks, digging a pocket for his makeshift Molotov cocktail, trailing  gunpowder from charge to charge, creating new areas to shove in the explosives and moving to the next spot. A little accelerant here, a little accelerant there. Sam sniffed, nothing like the smell of gasoline in the mid afternoon heat. He allowed a small smile to play across his face. It was going to be spectacular.

Sam settled back on his heels to admire his handiwork. He eyed it up critically, calculating amount of explosive versus desired effect

Yup, that’ll work.

Sam stood, backed up, then backed up again. Hell, yeah.  He grabbed the book of matches, lit the match to the trail of gunpowder and watched it go.  It wasn’t quite as accurate as the Bugs Bunny cartoons had led him to believe, but it worked. 

The first charge was deafening.  He flattened himself to the ground, feeling the pebbles, earth and spray of water hit him, stinging the back of his tanned legs and neck.  Sam lifted his head carefully off the ground, squinting in the bright sunlight. Another explosion rocked the streambed, Sam watched the rock fall into the water, then a nearby sapling fell strategically across the stream.  Sam laughed out loud. Perfect.

Sam grinned at the carnage, the absolute decimation.   The entire bank and adjoining rock had fallen into the creek.  The splashes continued as the nearby rock face kept falling into the water with every additional charge that blew.  A beaver couldn’t have done it better.  Here, right here on Bobby’s property. Here was the perfect answer to one of the hottest summers in history. This was Sam’s pond, and it was filling up beautifully.  Once that water cleared up, it would be an awesome place to cool off.

Sam dusted off the gunpowder, brushed the dirt from his jeans and shook his head, sending dirt and debris flying off his hair. Sam giggled with satisfaction. What a damn fine dam.  He laughed to himself. He was good!

Sam’s giggle stopped instantly when he felt strong hands grab him from behind. Shit, Uncle Bobby! And he was pissed.  Sam’s brain raced through the rules.  Dogs? Bullets? Stupid?  Yeah, stupid. Damn that rule number three. Bobby pulled him in quickly; hands lightly dancing along Sam’s body searching for blood or broken bones.  He grabbed Sam by the shoulders and shook him hard. Hard enough to rattle the old gray matter. Then Bobby narrowed his eyes and smacked Sam’s ass once resoundingly. Uncle Bobby growled low in a very John Winchester-like way that worried Sam a bit. Then he jabbed his index finger in the general direction of the house, brows furrowed under his ever present hat.  It was almost as if he didn’t trust himself to speak.

No amount of justification seemed to work.  The showing initiative?  The trying to find a way to cool off?  The creativity involved and mad math skills? The amazing way the rocks fell into place. The effort that Sam had gone to. None of it worked.  Nothing. Nada.

***********************************************************************

“So, Dean…you think Bobby will forgive me?”

Sam’s voice sounded small even to himself. He wasn’t used to being in Bobby’s bad graces.

Dean humphed in a way that could mean a myriad of things.  Sammy hoped it was a positive sound.

“I mean, I did everything he asked.” Sam tried again, quietly.

“He wasn’t askin’, Sam.  He was tellin’.”

Now it was Sam turn to humph. Turns out that Bobby could really yell if he wanted to.  Sam continued on.

“I wrote that essay on Disruption of Natural Wetlands and its Impact on the Environment.” 

He turned toward Dean, kicking the light sheet off his body.  God, it’s hot.

“Then translated it to Latin.”

Dean arched an eyebrow in his brother’s direction.  “He made you translate it to Latin?”

Sam nodded quietly, pushing back the shaggy hair falling over his forehead in damp clumps.

“I cleaned his guns.  Bobby’s got more guns than Dad.”

“Probably ‘cause he has more room for ‘em.”

Sam nodded again.  That seemed reasonable. 

“Dean, he made me catalogue his language books. From archaic to present day. Said he wants it to make sure I keep up with it every time we visit.” Sam propped himself up on an elbow, gazed over at his brother in the darkness. “How can a punishment go on for eternity like that?  Isn’t there some kind of statute of limitations or something?”

“Dunno, Sammy.  But it‘s not like you can complain about it. Ya can’t bitch to Dad, that’s for sure.”

Sam flipped his pillow over to the cool side.

“Hey, Dean?”

Dean’s voice was patient, without a hint of irritation.

“Yeah, Sammy.”

“What did you think about it?  The dam?”

“I think you were an idiot, Sam.  You could’ve blown yourself up.” 

Sam folded his hands behind his head; fingers laced together and gazed up at the dingy ceiling. “Nah, Dean.  I had it planned perfectly. I knew exactly what I was doin’. Besides, it was perfect, Dean.  It IS perfect.  That water is filling up even as we speak.  It’s gonna be at least four feet deep, I know it.”

Sam could feel Dean’s eyes on him from across the room.

“Four feet deep?  Ya think?”

“Yeah, Dean…I went over the dimensions.  Did the math.  It’s not gonna be huge but it’s gonna be deep enough to swim in. Not far, mind you, but enough.”

Dean mused quietly from his side of the room.  “I bet that water has cleared up quite a bit huh?”

“Probably.  Probably crystal clear.  Cold too.”

There was quiet again, nothing but the sound of an old box fan moving air sluggishly around the bedroom. Sam heard Dean flip his pillow too, and then punch it once for good measure.

The silence was broken by Dean’s cough.  A little dry, a little embarrassed. “Uh, Sammy…Bobby’s pretty mad and all but…” 

There was a pause.  Sam smiled to himself.  Jeeze, Dean…spit it out.

“Do ya think?  Are you willin’ to take a chance?  We could be back in half an hour tops and I’ll take the blame if we get caught.”

Sam was already out of bed, heading toward the window.  There was a scramble to the sash, both boys giggling in an attempt to get out first.  Dean stopped though, looked at Sam, pale moonlight washing over summer freckles.

“What happens at Bobby’s…”

Sam finished the sentence.  “stays at Bobby’s, I know."

Sam shouldered into Dean as they jostled through the window, then scrambled out onto the roof. Sam laughed as he scampered down the angled rooftop. “Shhh Sammy, we don’t wanna wake Bobby.” But Sam could hear the laughter in Dean’s voice too. A midnight swim at Bobby’s. Awesome.

Their voices drifted down onto the porch where Bobby Singer sat and watched the boys shimmy down the drain pipe. He watched them drop lightly to the ground. They were still giggling as they took off across the junkyard toward the stream.  Bobby settled back into his chair, hat pulled low, listening to the fading sound of laughter in the hot summer night. He debated for a minute about “catching” the boys when the snuck back in.  Nah, let ‘em have tonight. Let ‘em be kids. He never liked that scraggly ass stream anyway. He reached down and scratched the head of the big mastiff cross that chuffed quietly at his feet. Wasn’t even deep enough for the dogs to take a dip in. He smiled to himself. . At least it wasn’t this morning.  Those Winchester boys were gonna be the death of him yet.

Damn idjits.