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There's not many things that scare Bobby. Sam Winchester, oddly enough, is one of them.
He's a little old-fashioned, but he tries to keep an open mind when John dumps two lovable brats on him for weeks at a time. Dean's stiff and stilted, holds himself like an overstuffed doll even before he's old enough for junior high. He doesn't say much, unless it's to Sammy. And Sammy's about as normal a kid as he can be. All skinned elbows and bruised knees, squirming into and out of Bobby's lap whether he likes it or not. He's got a head full of wild curls and wilder ideas, and more than once he's rescued the kid from his own harebrained schemes. Lemonade stands at the truck stop, jumping off the roof with wings made of newspaper, tinkering with machinery he knows damn well he isn't supposed to touch. Sometimes Bobby's a little too late.
One day Bobby finds Sammy's nose in a book full of Latin, brow furrowed thoughtfully as he mouths the words to himself. Every so often he jots something down in a ratty yellow spiral notebook. Kid's eight.
"Whatcha doing, Sammy?"
Bright hazel eyes glance up, and he smiles. "Latin's a lot like English, almost all the words are the same. Look, I'm making a spell!" He turns the notebook around to show him.
It's good. It's better than some of the amateur stuff that gets run by him every other week. It also has some words and phrases that make Bobby look up at the kid sharply. "This looks like a summoning ritual. What are you doing with this?"
"Ad altiora tendo," Sammy replies, his pronounciation bad but the meaning intact. I strive for higher things. Then an angelic smile. "I guess I thought if you and Dean won't tell me about the monsters then I'll have to ask them myself."
Bobby scoots the dusty old book across the table, out of reach, and shuts it. "You're a smart kid, Sam," he says. "You know better than to be messing with that."
Sammy frowns, and Bobby can see the gears grinding in his head. Formulating, calculating.
"Quit it," he says, and points at the notebook. "You've got a real talent for it, and I want you to learn. But if I catch you trying to summon monsters on my property you're gonna have a lot worse to worry about than whether it's gonna eat you whole or not, you understand me?"
"What kind of monsters eat people whole?" Sammy asks eagerly.
"Bad ones," Bobby snaps, and then sighs through his nose. "Leave this alone, kid. You're gonna find out a whole lot more than you ever want to know."
"But I want to know," Sammy persists.
"No, you don't," he says firmly, and makes the kid tear out his spell.
...
"I want to know," Sam says.
Bobby's pretty damn well pinned against the wall, plaster cracking around his ears. He avoids looking at Sam. There's nothing wrong with his eyes, none of that empty, demonic black crap Dean warned him about. Sam doesn't need it. There's a coldness to his gaze, something sharp and searching.
"I'm not playing games with you, Sam," he grits out. "Let me down. Let's talk this through."
"We are talking." Sam's smug. His certainty is suffocating. "You don't have to tell me. I'll find out." It's not idle boast. They both know he's capable of much, much worse than what he's done. Doesn't really need the powers when he already has that mind of his.
"And what are you gonna do when you find out? What's the point?" He's tired. Tired of fighting, tired of jawing. Tired of jawing about what they're fighting over.
There's a flash of a smirk, there for just long enough to send a chill down his spine. "Ad altiora tendo," Sam says with a little shrug.
Bobby can hear his own ragged breath in his ears.