Authority always wins, for geminigrl11 (gen, PG)

[spnsummer-mod.livejournal.com]

Title: Authority always wins
Author: marinarusalka / Arethra Franklin
Recipient: geminigrl11
Rating: PG for teenage boys swearing
Notes: 3500 words. Written for spn_summergen. The prompt was: "The boys on down time, just enjoying each other's company, laughing at shared stories, pranking other people (like Bobby), etc. Any ages." I have the boys, downtime, Bobby and pranking, though maybe not quite in the combination you meant. Hope you enjoy it! Huge thanks to dotfic and ignipes for beta reading.
Summary: Bobby doesn't mind babysitting. After all, the Winchester boys are always well-behaved... right?

~
"It's only for a couple of days, I promise." John was smiling, but there was a shifty look in his eyes that Bobby didn't like. John Winchester was seldom shifty. If he had a problem with you, he tended to just walk up and punch you in the face. It was one of the things Bobby had always appreciated about the man.

"You know Sammy and Dean are always welcome here," Bobby said. "I just never knew them to need a babysitter before, that's all." The boys were eleven and fifteen now, if he remembered correctly, and John had never before had any qualms about parking them in a motel room while he hunted.

John gave a twitchy shrug, still not meeting Bobby's eyes. "I don't think a babysitter's what they need," he muttered. "It's... they've been a bit ornery lately."

"Ornery," Bobby repeated blankly. He wondered if John maybe had some misguided notion of what the word meant. It had been a couple of years since he'd last seen either of the Winchester boys, but he had trouble imagining either of them being ornery. Sam was a thoughtful, soft-spoken kid, serious and polite, happy to sit in a corner with a book for hours. And Dean... well, Dean was so goddamn steady and obedient, Bobby sometimes considered sneaking a few drops of holy water into his glass of pop, just to double-check. It wasn't natural for a teenage boy to be so well-behaved.

"You know how it is." John scuffed his left boot toe against the edge of Bobby's rug, looking for all the world like an ornery kid himself, despite the streaks of grey in his stubble. "Sammy seems to be hitting his teen rebellion stage early, Dean's coming into his late, and I guess they're sort of sparking off each other. Jim Murphy says they might do better with a..." He frowned and scratched at the back of his neck, as if struggling to recall Jim's exact words. "A non-parental authority figure. I would've left them with him, but he's laid up with a broken leg. Out of action for at least a month, he tells me."

"I see," Bobby said. "And I'm the next most likely sucker, is that it?"

"Pretty much, yeah." John's grin looked a lot more genuine this time. "The boys respect you, they always have. And I reckon you're less likely to shoot 'em in a fit of temper than Caleb is. What do you say, Bobby? Just for the weekend."

Bobby glanced through the open door toward the driveway, where the Impala was parked behind his old junker of a pickup truck, with the boys standing next to it. Dean had his hands shoved into his pockets and his shoulders hunched into an uncharacteristic slouch. He'd gotten hold of a leather jacket somewhere, scruffy and a couple of sizes too big for him. He was wearing it with the collar turned up, like James Dean.

Sammy, in contrast to Dean's slouch, stood as if someone had ripped his spine out and replaced it with an iron poker. He was a couple of inches taller than Bobby remembered, and a lot less pudgy, though his face was still round with baby fat. Both boys looked sulky and resentful. Bobby figured he could deal with sulky and resentful.

"Sure, John," he said. "No problem."

---

Thud.

Crash.

"Ow! Get off me, you little shit!"

"Give it back, asshole!"

"I told you, I don't have it!"

"Bullshit." Crash "Owww! That hurt!"

"I told you to get off, didn't I? Dickface."

"Shithead."

"Asswipe."

"All right, that's enough." Bobby stood in the doorway and aimed his best non-parental authority figure glare at the two disheveled boys sprawled across his guestroom floor. "I'm surprised at you boys. First of all, I know for a fact your daddy don't stand for that kind of language. Second of all, what the heck's so important that you two have to fight over it?"

"He took my book!" Sam wailed.

Dean looked outraged. "Did not."

"Did too."

"Did not. Like I'd even want it. Little people with furry feet, what kind of stupid sh-- crap is that?"

"You had it! I saw you."

"That was three days ago. And I gave it back."

"Well, you took it again."

"Did not."

"Did too."

"Sit down, both of you," Bobby snapped. The boys glared daggers at each other but sat, Sam on the bed and Dean on the sleeping bag he'd dragged in from the Impala before John had left. Bobby pulled up a chair for himself and straddled it, leaning his arms against the back. "Let's work this out. Dean, did you take Sammy's book?"

"No," Dean spat the word out as if it tasted bad. "He just--"

"I just wanted a yes or a no. Sammy, when did you last see the book?"

"Three days ago." Sam glared at his brother. "When he had it."

Dean looked as if he was about to speak up again, but Bobby held up a hand to silence him.

"But he gave it back?"

"Yeah..."

"So what happened then?"

Sam shrugged. It was a remarkably eloquent shrug, somehow managing to convey I hate my brother, adults are stupid, life sucks and nobody understands me in a single quick lift and drop of the shoulders.

"Dad came in and got all pi--"

Bobby cleared his throat. Sam scowled.

"Dad came in and said we were leaving again, and we had to hurry up and pack again, and then we came here."

"Okay," Bobby said. "So you packed in the hurry, and this is the first chance you've had to unpack, and the book's not in your bag?"

"I guess."

Bobby glanced at the far corner of the room, where all the Winchester family belongings -- minus the small subset John had taken with him on the hunt -- were stacked in a pyramid of scuffed canvas duffels.

"Tell you what, Sammy, why don't you go through all these bags, nice and careful, and see if you can find your book. And Dean, you come out back with me, I need your help with one of the cars."

Neither boy looked particularly happy at this, but they both grumbled "yes, sir" under their breath with only a token delay. Sam stomped toward the bags, while Dean slouched deeper inside his leather jacket and followed Bobby out the door. Bobby led the way outside, feeling a bit like a kindergarten teacher who'd just sent all the squabbling toddlers to their respective corners.

Dean and Bobby were half-way done replacing the disc brakes on a '65 Sting Ray when Sam appeared on the back porch clutching a battered paperback copy of The Two Towers in one hand.

"It was in one of the supply bags," he said resentfully, "under the spare first-aid kit. I didn't put it there."

"I didn't either," Dean said immediately.

"Doesn't matter who put it there," Bobby told them. "No harm no foul, and you're both going to shut up about it now, right?"

"Right," the boys grunted in not-quite-unison.

There, Bobby thought as he turned his attention back to the Sting Ray. That wasn't so bad. Problem solved.

---

Thump.

"Ow!"

"What'd you do to it, you little zit-squeeze?"

"Nothing! Leggo of me!"

"I told you not to mess with my stuff!"

"I was just borrowing it for a--"

CRASH!

That final explosion of noise and the silence that followed made Bobby take the three porch steps in a single leap. He was half-expecting to see blood spilled when he ran into the front room, but all he found was some scattered books, an overturned chair, and the hideous ceramic lamp that little Jo Harvelle had made for him two Christmases ago scattered in pieces on the floor. And in the middle of the wreckage, Dean, holding his brother pinned in a three-quarter nelson.

"All right, what now?" Bobby grabbed Dean by the scruff and hauled him off Sammy with a grunt. The boy was getting too big to easily move anymore.

"He took my Walkman!" Dean yelled.

There was indeed a Walkman half-buried in the mess. Bobby raised a questioning eyebrow at Sam, who glared back.

"Only for a minute. It's not like he was using it."

"That doesn't mean you get to mess with it," Dean snapped.

"I wasn't messing. I just wanted to play my tape, that's all."

Dean's scowl abruptly transformed into a leering grin.

"That pussy mix tape your girlfriend made for you? I don't even want that thing touching my Walkman."

Sam's face went bright pink all the way to the tips of his ears. "Shut up!"

Dean leaned over and nudged Bobby's ribs with his elbow.

"Susie Carlton made him a mix tape when we moved away from Springfield last month," he announced in an exaggerated stage whisper. "She drew little hearts in pink sparkle pen all over the--"

"Shut up!" Sam launched himself at his brother.

Bobby barely managed to intercept the flying tackle. "Cut it, both of you. Do you want me to have to call your daddy in the middle of a hunt?"

That had some effect, at least. Both boys stood up straight and stared down at the floor.

"No, sir."

"Good. Now stop all this squabbling and clean up this mess. And while you're at it, think about how you're going to replace my lamp." Not that he wasn't glad of an excuse to be rid of the ugly thing, but there were principles at stake here.

---

The threat of calling John was enough to prevent further outbreaks of violence for the next few hours, but Bobby could see that both boys were permanently stuck at a slow simmer. He kept them apart for the rest of the afternoon, setting Sam to alphabetize and shelve a new crateful of books he'd received from a friend in Boston a couple of days before and taking Dean out to do more work on the Sting Ray. He hoped Dean might be up for some sort of man-to-man talk once they were alone, something to explain what the problem was, but all he got for his efforts was a lot of shrugs and grunts and a single muttered "nothing, Sam's just being a douche." By the time supper came around, Bobby was sure that Dean didn't even know what he and his brother were really fighting about, and he suspected that Sam, if pressed, wouldn't be able to say either.

Supper was an awkward half-hour of hostile stares, furtive kicks under the table, and mutterings of "cuntrag" and "cockbite" whenever Bobby looked as if he wasn't paying attention. Afterwards, he put Sam to doing the dishes, sent Dean down out to the tool shed to look for a wrench he knew perfectly well wasn't there, and went upstairs to call Jim Murphy.

"So you got stuck with them, huh?" Jim sounded amused. "I was wondering who the poor victim was going to be."

"Yeah, I'm the sucker," Bobby sighed. "You didn't fake that broken leg to get out of it, did you?"

"I would've if I'd thought of it. Have they killed each other yet?"

"Not for lack of trying. Jim, what the devil's gotten into those boys? They've always been thick as thieves."

"Nothing's gotten into them." There was a grunt and some creaking noises as Jim apparently rearranged himself and his busted leg. "They're a couple of adolescent boys cooped up together twenty four-seven with no other friends, no hobbies, a father who cuts them no slack, and no way to let off steam except at each other. It was bound to happen sooner or later." Jim's voice sounded weary. "Honestly, I think all they need is a few days without John breathing down their necks every time they step out of line. Let them get it out of their system."

"Easy for you to say." Bobby liked to think of himself as a patient man, but he was not about to sign on for several days of mediating between Winchesters. Sainthood was Jim's line of business, not his. "I'm thinking I need to speed up the process a little."

He went downstairs to find Sam drying the last plate.

"Hey, Sammy, why don't you run out to the shed and tell your brother I found that wrench he's looking for? Tell him to meet me back at the car."

Sam glowered in a disturbingly John-like manner, and for a moment Bobby thought he might actually refuse, but then all he did was mutter "yeah, whatever" before shuffling out. Bobby waited until he was off the porch before going out to the driveway, where Aspin and Baker were chained up by the gate.

The dogs lifted their heads and wagged their tails as Bobby approached. He tossed them a couple of jerky treats, gave their ears a good rub, and let them get a deep whiff of the two t-shirts -- one of Sam's and one of Dean's -- that he'd brought out with him. They panted in growing excitement as Bobby removed the chains from their collars.

"Go on now, fellas. Catch thief."

He leaned against the gatepost and watched the dogs disappear around the back of the house, ears and tails flying high. A few moments later there was an explosion of barking and a joint cry of "oh shit!" followed by a crashing and rattling noises that Bobby interpreted as "Winchesters clambering over junked cars." Bobby listened for a minute or so, then walked over to the back porch just in time to see Dean leap up and hook his arms around one of the thick lower braches of the cottonwood that loomed over the south corner of the yard. Sam was already straddling a higher branch; Dean must've boosted him up first. As Bobby watched, Sam reached down, grabbed the collar of Dean's jacket and pulled. Dean swung his legs onto the branch, Aspin snapping at his heels while Baker ran around the circles and barked.

When both boys appeared secure, Bobby went inside and got a beer from the fridge before wandering out to the cottonwood. The dogs sprawled at the base of the trunk, thumping their tails against the ground and gazing up into the branches with slitted eyes.

"Bobby!" Dean made as if to swing down from his branch but hastily pulled up again when Aspin lifted his head and growled. "Call your stupid mutts off."

"Oh, I don't know." Bobby tossed another two pieces of jerky and watched the dogs scarf them up. "They seem pretty happy where they are."

"But we're not!" Sam wailed.

Bobby grinned up at him. "And why do you think that is, Sammy?"

"What do you mean why?" Sam looked outraged. "Because your dogs chased us up a tree, that's why!"

"Hmm.... I think maybe you need to think about that some more. You and your brother both." Bobby bent down to give Aspin and Baker another ear rub. "Guard," he told them, and ambled back toward the house, ignoring the frantic shouts of "Bobby, wait, come back!" trailing behind him.

---

It was a cool, pleasant evening. Bobby worked on the Sting Ray until it got too dark, then grabbed another beer and spent a couple of quiet hours sorting through his collection of notes on pre-Christian exorcisms. It was nearly midnight by the time a fresh burst of distant barking roused him from his work. It seemed that the Winchesters were making an escape attempt. Bobby came out to the porch, taking his dog whistle with him just in case the barks turned menacing. Aspin and Baker wouldn't bite without extreme provocation, but given the way Sam and Dean had been carrying on all day, extreme provocation wasn't outside the realm of possibility.

The barking moved westward toward the tool shed, then settled. About half an hour later it started up again, slightly muffled compared to before. Bobby retreated to the kitchen, made a couple of peanut butter sandwiches, grabbed two bottles of Coke from the fridge and carried them outside just in time to see Sam and Dean climbing the steps to the back porch.

"Gimme that!" Dean grabbed a sandwich from the plate Bobby held out and stuffed half of it into his mouth in one bite. Sam followed suit with only slightly more restraint.

"Your dogs are a goddamned menace, Bobby," Dean muttered with his mouth full.

"I think it's an open question who's the goddamn menace around here," Bobby said. "Come inside before the mosquitoes eat all of us."

"They've made a good start," Sammy grumbled, scratching at his left elbow.

"So," Bobby asked when the sandwiches were gone and the Coke bottles half-empty, "where are the dogs?"

"Locked in the tool shed," Dean said.

"We didn't hurt them or anything," Sammy added quickly.

"Of course you didn't," Bobby said, "because you both know that if you did, I'd kick your scrawny butts so bad, there wouldn't be enough of you to salt and burn afterwards. So what did you do?"

"Well..." Dean frowned at him. "We tried throwing sticks at first, but your stupid mutts won't fetch."

"You keep insulting my dogs," Bobby told him, "and I'll send you back out to the shed to apologize."

"Uhm, right. Sorry." Dean shifted nervously in his chair and took a long gulp of his pop. "So then we decided--"

"I was my idea," Sam piped up. Bobby braced himself for another round of insults, but Dean just smiled and bumped his fist against Sam's shoulder.

"Yeah, it was. Sammy figured out that if he climbed out to the end of the longest branch -- he's still enough of a shrimp that it could hold him -- he could make it from there to the top of the fence. And from there--"

"--I could kind of scooch along the top," Sam broke in.

"Scooch?" Dean smirked at him. "Is that a technical term?"

"Yeah." Sam kicked him in the ankle. "Anyhow, when I went, the dogs followed me. Which meant--"

"--I could make a run for the shed." Dean bounced in his chair, looking highly pleased with himself. "They took off after me as soon as they noticed, but I got the door shut just in time."

"Not bad." Bobby scratched at his chin. "But how'd you end up with the dogs in the shed and you outside it?"

"Oh, that was the coolest part!" Now Sam was bouncing too. "He rigged up this--"

"Hey!" Dean smacked Sam's arm with the back of his hand. "Let me tell it. You weren't even there."

"Sorry." Sam sat on his hands, as if that was somehow going to keep him from talking.

Dean took another swig of Coke before continuing. "You had some rope in the back of the shed, and a box of junk -- old brake disks and chains and stuff. So I rigged the door with a couple of pulleys, one to open it and one to close. I could do it from all the way in the back. So I opened the door--"

Sam grinned "And the dogs ran in--"

"And I shut the door on them and shagged ass out the window."

"It was just like MacGyver!" Sam kicked his heels against the legs of his chair,

It was pretty impressive, though Bobby wasn't about to say so. He'd known the boys would make their escape one way or another, but had expected it to take at least a couple of hours longer. Bobby wondered if he was supposed to deliver some sort of Talk now, words of wisdom about teamwork and the value of having someone to watch your back. But nothing really sprang to mind and anyway, there was a limit as to how far he was willing to take that whole "authority figure" business.

"Go on, you two. Off to bed. You've been enough nuisance for one day."

"Yessir." The boys dropped their empty bottles in the trash and filed out of the kitchen.

"Dude." Dean's voice drifted back from the hallway as they headed toward the guest room. "I can't believe you said that. I'm way cooler than MacGyver."

"Are not."

"Am too."

"Well... maybe a tiny bit cooler. But he has way better hair."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."