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Three times the Winchesters were most definitely not equine, no way. (2/3)
gen, PG-13, crack (naturally).
"Johnny," Bobby says as soon as John answers the call, without so much as a Hey or How you doing? "You got to get here. You got to see this."
John's breath sticks solid in his throat, clicks when he swallows. "Is it the boys? Are they--?"
"Just..." Bobby laughs a little breathlessly, the shaky tone of it apparent even through the crackly connection. "They're okay. Just get here as quick as you can, OK?"
"I'm five hours away," John says.
"Good." And the connection clicks closed.
It'd been dawn when Bobby called; it's pushing toward lunch time when John rolls the Chevy into the junk yard. No one comes out of the house, and he cruises the car around it to the high timber fence at the back, stops in front of the gate. The car rumbles idly for a few moments, but there's no sign of life anywhere so he tucks a pistol into the back of his belt before climbing out of the car, opening the gate himself, cruising through and closing it behind him.
Horses crowd the fenced pens that border the dusty path toward the stables, and John combs his gaze anxiously through them, but to no avail. He picks up his pace, fists flexing automatically as he sees the broad barn-style door swinging open on the side of the stables ahead. Bobby steps out; catching sight of him and hurrying forward straight away.
His long hair's greasy, kinked mid-way down where the edge of his hat usually rests. He's wearing an undershirt and his jeans slouch low and beltless. It's almost afternoon but he looks like he's just got out of bed.
"What the hell is going on?" John demands, and Bobby shakes his head, eyes wide.
"It's them, John," he says. "I swear it, even if he didn't... if Dean didn't look so much... Lula saw it. Was shovelling out the stables this morning, saw the whole goddamn thing."
John's frown deepens even as the throb of his heart speeds. Bobby's daughter is nowhere in sight; and that's a sign something was wrong more than anything. She'd taken to the boys since John'd brought them here near sixteen years ago, now, sure as the sun would rise Lula'd run out to meet him as he drove in, not changing even as she battered her way into womanhood.
"She's fuckin' terrified, Johnny," Bobby says, tilting his head in as if confiding something dire, voice low. "It's messed her up."
"You're an asshole," John grits, losing patience. He starts striding toward the stables, Bobby runs alongside. "Where the hell are my boys?"
It takes a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the dim light inside; the plexi sky lights in the high roof casting fuzzy-edge beams of light caught by the motes of hay a soft gold. There aren't the usual sounds of hoof-stomping, hay-rustling and snorting he's used to hearing in here, all the stalls leading up to the double-size one at the end are empty. John's belly twists as he approaches, gait slowing, tongue sticking to the roof of his suddenly-dry mouth as he swallows.
Usually they'd stick their heads out over the door of the stall as he approached; they'd jerk their heads and nuzzle at his pockets as he ran his hands over their sleek, warm flanks. This time he has to walk right up to the door before he sees them.
It's not them. It's not. They...
There are two men in the stall, naked skin gold in the light but pale against the hay. One lying in it, half-curled; the other standing, leaning against the rough-hewn wood of the back wall.
John's faintly aware of Bobby's presence still hovering somewhere behind him, wisely silent as John grips the top edge of the door with shaking hands.
"Dean," John says - croaks, more like - the man standing against the wall shifts, wobbling a little on his feet, lifting one foot and stamping it back down. His jaw's clenched firm, hair half-falling over his forehead and tops of his ears. The shape of his face is solid, masculine; but his mouth is full and delicate, nose almost aristocratic. John can't breathe all of a sudden because it is, it is him, it's Dean. "Dean," John says again, rough wood painful in his fierce grip. And the other, limbs folded in the hay, face half-tilted up and eyes glimpsed white through the longer hair. "Sammy."
John's reaching a hand out before he's even thought about it and Dean straightens, leaning away from the wall, standing on his own. His chin tilts up and eyes widen, white all around the iris. His shoulders are broad, powerful; his flank - thigh, hip and thigh - just as muscled, sleek line bunched hard and tense.
He'd not let Bobby - or Lula, for that matter - break them in. Not that, never that; he'd rather set them wild and never see them again before bearing the thought of some cowboy saddling them up, shove a bit in their mouths. He's wondering if he'd made a mistake by being so strong about it, now. They trusted Lula, she'd practically grown up with them, tolerated him if he had something for them to eat. He had tried not to think too much about whether they knew him, remembered him. But now, jesus, if they were a little more tame--
His hand's shaking. Dean's facing him head-on, now, mouth twitching and eyes still wide. Green. Dean's eyes are green, lashes as ridiculous as they'd been since he was a baby, brows expressive in their distrust. "Dean," John says again. "It's me. It's Dad." He pauses. "It's Daddy."
Bobby clears his throat; John doesn't turn around, doesn't look away. "I'll just... I'll leave you. Be just outside, holler if you..." John gives a short nod, not breaking eye contact with Dean.
The stable door creaks, latching loudly, and Dean huffs heavily. John swallows again.
"Daddy?" The word is slurred, voice soft and rough-edged but tone deep. John's gaze shifts from Dean to Sam, Sammy, he's stirring, pushing himself upright, looking at John.
"Sammy," John says, chokes it out as he feels tears, goddamn tears heating his eyes and blurring his vision.
Sam struggles to his feet and jesus, he's huge, just as broad-shouldered and deep-chested, narrow hips and wavering on his ankles before he widens his stance, settles his balance. Taller than Dean, and John only realises he's smiling when a tear burns along a deep crease leading from the corner of his eye. His face aches, chest aches. Six-year-old Sammy held precious in his memory replaced immediately, gloriously, by this. Baby boy.
Dean steps forward; haltingly at first, but rapidly gaining steadiness, positioning himself between John and Sam, chin still jutting.
"Hey, buddy," John says softly, slowly-slowly turning his hand around; palm-up and fingers curled a little. Sammy shifts his weight, shoulder jostling Dean's and then Dean whuffs again and leans forward and presses nose and mouth into John's palm. John doesn't move, keeping his joints loose as Dean tilts his head a little, and John can feel the dry brush of Dean's lips, heat of his breath, prickle of stubble on Dean's cheek against his fingertips. Dean breathes in, out heavily, straightens. He leans, and the muscles along he and Sammy's shoulders tense as they rest weight against each other.
"Dad," Dean rasps.
Getting them into clothes is the hardest thing, harder than getting them up and mobile again. The awkwardness of their limbs seems momentary before they pick up an easy, liquid coordination, a grace that holds when they're still as much as when they're moving. It's a couple of days before John can convince them to come inside the house, let alone the car. John doesn't see Lula, even when he's got the boys dressed - into pairs of his jeans and wifebeater undershirts that seem to be one of the few tolerable items, any kind of sleeve completely and immediately rejected. Boardin' Lula had always called their arrangement, even when John called it agistment in bitter tones. Figures she was young enough when John brought them in that all she remembers is a pair of leggy colts, uneasy on their spindly, knobbly legs, snuffling at her little-girl hands for treats.
"You do anything?" Bobby asks him the morning after he gets there, when he finally comes back out of the stables. "Because I sure as hell didn't."
"No," John answers, the surge of guilt accompanying it old and familiar. Be careful what you wish for. It'd been a long time since he'd actively sought out a way to turn them back. "Not deliberately, anyway. I think maybe... I think maybe finding the real colt broke the spell, somehow."
Bobby nods slowly. "Makes sense," he says. "As much sense as it can, anyway."
The boys don't talk much, not at all to each other and only in halting, child-like, short sentences to John. He watches from the porch steps as Sam wriggles his toes in the bristly grass of the patchy lawn and grins; Dean steps forward into him, leaning and tilting to gnaw a little at Sammy's left shoulder as Sam does the same to Dean's.
John snorts, shakes his head. Rubs a hand over the back of his neck.
"They'll get over it," Bobby says, laughter clear in his tone, joyful. "Thought you missed out on the fun of teaching a boy how to groom himself, huh?" He slaps John's back, the boys turning to watch them impassively at the sudden sound.
John feels a surge of pride. "I'm looking forward to it," he says.
"Johnny," Bobby says as soon as John answers the call, without so much as a Hey or How you doing? "You got to get here. You got to see this."
John's breath sticks solid in his throat, clicks when he swallows. "Is it the boys? Are they--?"
"Just..." Bobby laughs a little breathlessly, the shaky tone of it apparent even through the crackly connection. "They're okay. Just get here as quick as you can, OK?"
"I'm five hours away," John says.
"Good." And the connection clicks closed.
It'd been dawn when Bobby called; it's pushing toward lunch time when John rolls the Chevy into the junk yard. No one comes out of the house, and he cruises the car around it to the high timber fence at the back, stops in front of the gate. The car rumbles idly for a few moments, but there's no sign of life anywhere so he tucks a pistol into the back of his belt before climbing out of the car, opening the gate himself, cruising through and closing it behind him.
Horses crowd the fenced pens that border the dusty path toward the stables, and John combs his gaze anxiously through them, but to no avail. He picks up his pace, fists flexing automatically as he sees the broad barn-style door swinging open on the side of the stables ahead. Bobby steps out; catching sight of him and hurrying forward straight away.
His long hair's greasy, kinked mid-way down where the edge of his hat usually rests. He's wearing an undershirt and his jeans slouch low and beltless. It's almost afternoon but he looks like he's just got out of bed.
"What the hell is going on?" John demands, and Bobby shakes his head, eyes wide.
"It's them, John," he says. "I swear it, even if he didn't... if Dean didn't look so much... Lula saw it. Was shovelling out the stables this morning, saw the whole goddamn thing."
John's frown deepens even as the throb of his heart speeds. Bobby's daughter is nowhere in sight; and that's a sign something was wrong more than anything. She'd taken to the boys since John'd brought them here near sixteen years ago, now, sure as the sun would rise Lula'd run out to meet him as he drove in, not changing even as she battered her way into womanhood.
"She's fuckin' terrified, Johnny," Bobby says, tilting his head in as if confiding something dire, voice low. "It's messed her up."
"You're an asshole," John grits, losing patience. He starts striding toward the stables, Bobby runs alongside. "Where the hell are my boys?"
It takes a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the dim light inside; the plexi sky lights in the high roof casting fuzzy-edge beams of light caught by the motes of hay a soft gold. There aren't the usual sounds of hoof-stomping, hay-rustling and snorting he's used to hearing in here, all the stalls leading up to the double-size one at the end are empty. John's belly twists as he approaches, gait slowing, tongue sticking to the roof of his suddenly-dry mouth as he swallows.
Usually they'd stick their heads out over the door of the stall as he approached; they'd jerk their heads and nuzzle at his pockets as he ran his hands over their sleek, warm flanks. This time he has to walk right up to the door before he sees them.
It's not them. It's not. They...
There are two men in the stall, naked skin gold in the light but pale against the hay. One lying in it, half-curled; the other standing, leaning against the rough-hewn wood of the back wall.
John's faintly aware of Bobby's presence still hovering somewhere behind him, wisely silent as John grips the top edge of the door with shaking hands.
"Dean," John says - croaks, more like - the man standing against the wall shifts, wobbling a little on his feet, lifting one foot and stamping it back down. His jaw's clenched firm, hair half-falling over his forehead and tops of his ears. The shape of his face is solid, masculine; but his mouth is full and delicate, nose almost aristocratic. John can't breathe all of a sudden because it is, it is him, it's Dean. "Dean," John says again, rough wood painful in his fierce grip. And the other, limbs folded in the hay, face half-tilted up and eyes glimpsed white through the longer hair. "Sammy."
John's reaching a hand out before he's even thought about it and Dean straightens, leaning away from the wall, standing on his own. His chin tilts up and eyes widen, white all around the iris. His shoulders are broad, powerful; his flank - thigh, hip and thigh - just as muscled, sleek line bunched hard and tense.
He'd not let Bobby - or Lula, for that matter - break them in. Not that, never that; he'd rather set them wild and never see them again before bearing the thought of some cowboy saddling them up, shove a bit in their mouths. He's wondering if he'd made a mistake by being so strong about it, now. They trusted Lula, she'd practically grown up with them, tolerated him if he had something for them to eat. He had tried not to think too much about whether they knew him, remembered him. But now, jesus, if they were a little more tame--
His hand's shaking. Dean's facing him head-on, now, mouth twitching and eyes still wide. Green. Dean's eyes are green, lashes as ridiculous as they'd been since he was a baby, brows expressive in their distrust. "Dean," John says again. "It's me. It's Dad." He pauses. "It's Daddy."
Bobby clears his throat; John doesn't turn around, doesn't look away. "I'll just... I'll leave you. Be just outside, holler if you..." John gives a short nod, not breaking eye contact with Dean.
The stable door creaks, latching loudly, and Dean huffs heavily. John swallows again.
"Daddy?" The word is slurred, voice soft and rough-edged but tone deep. John's gaze shifts from Dean to Sam, Sammy, he's stirring, pushing himself upright, looking at John.
"Sammy," John says, chokes it out as he feels tears, goddamn tears heating his eyes and blurring his vision.
Sam struggles to his feet and jesus, he's huge, just as broad-shouldered and deep-chested, narrow hips and wavering on his ankles before he widens his stance, settles his balance. Taller than Dean, and John only realises he's smiling when a tear burns along a deep crease leading from the corner of his eye. His face aches, chest aches. Six-year-old Sammy held precious in his memory replaced immediately, gloriously, by this. Baby boy.
Dean steps forward; haltingly at first, but rapidly gaining steadiness, positioning himself between John and Sam, chin still jutting.
"Hey, buddy," John says softly, slowly-slowly turning his hand around; palm-up and fingers curled a little. Sammy shifts his weight, shoulder jostling Dean's and then Dean whuffs again and leans forward and presses nose and mouth into John's palm. John doesn't move, keeping his joints loose as Dean tilts his head a little, and John can feel the dry brush of Dean's lips, heat of his breath, prickle of stubble on Dean's cheek against his fingertips. Dean breathes in, out heavily, straightens. He leans, and the muscles along he and Sammy's shoulders tense as they rest weight against each other.
"Dad," Dean rasps.
Getting them into clothes is the hardest thing, harder than getting them up and mobile again. The awkwardness of their limbs seems momentary before they pick up an easy, liquid coordination, a grace that holds when they're still as much as when they're moving. It's a couple of days before John can convince them to come inside the house, let alone the car. John doesn't see Lula, even when he's got the boys dressed - into pairs of his jeans and wifebeater undershirts that seem to be one of the few tolerable items, any kind of sleeve completely and immediately rejected. Boardin' Lula had always called their arrangement, even when John called it agistment in bitter tones. Figures she was young enough when John brought them in that all she remembers is a pair of leggy colts, uneasy on their spindly, knobbly legs, snuffling at her little-girl hands for treats.
"You do anything?" Bobby asks him the morning after he gets there, when he finally comes back out of the stables. "Because I sure as hell didn't."
"No," John answers, the surge of guilt accompanying it old and familiar. Be careful what you wish for. It'd been a long time since he'd actively sought out a way to turn them back. "Not deliberately, anyway. I think maybe... I think maybe finding the real colt broke the spell, somehow."
Bobby nods slowly. "Makes sense," he says. "As much sense as it can, anyway."
The boys don't talk much, not at all to each other and only in halting, child-like, short sentences to John. He watches from the porch steps as Sam wriggles his toes in the bristly grass of the patchy lawn and grins; Dean steps forward into him, leaning and tilting to gnaw a little at Sammy's left shoulder as Sam does the same to Dean's.
John snorts, shakes his head. Rubs a hand over the back of his neck.
"They'll get over it," Bobby says, laughter clear in his tone, joyful. "Thought you missed out on the fun of teaching a boy how to groom himself, huh?" He slaps John's back, the boys turning to watch them impassively at the sudden sound.
John feels a surge of pride. "I'm looking forward to it," he says.