Doing Your Best to Get By
SO I tried to write a Sam-centric coda and it got weird. Then I was like 'oh, hey, let's write more of Dean with kids?' FML.
Doing Your Best to Get By
Um, is this really a verse? I kind of want it to be XD
Ben & Dean, post 5.22; 1,400 words
When he wakes, when he sees shadows that can’t immediately be explained, hears creaky floorboards, he goes to Dean’s side of the bed. Sometimes he tugs on Dean’s hand, others he waits to see if Dean’s already awake. Most times he is.
“What’s it tonight?” Dean asks lightly.
“Shadows under the door.”
Dean hauls himself out of bed and puts a hand on Ben’s head, steering towards his bedroom. “Let’s see how bad it is.”
Ben doesn’t know if Dean searches his room like this because it’s funny or because he actually means business. It seems a little of both. So when Dean pulls out a small flashlight and checks under dressers and the bed, even behind the curtains closing off the window, Ben stays in the doorway and watches.
There is always a point near the end of the search when Dean looks over his shoulder, holds Ben’s look, and then gives a tiny smile before he checks one more place and calls it a done deal. Ben always holds his breath until it happens.
“Okay, kiddo,” Dean announces as he starts to move out of the closet. “All clean in here. No ghosts, goblins, or ghouls.”
Ben smiles a little, comforted by Dean actually looking, but also a bit scared that there’s something he may have missed.
“Wait, a second.” Dean steps back into the closet and Ben’s heart hammers loudly. His hand grips at the doorway and he dares himself to take a closer step, but then he’s moving back as Dean comes back into the room. “What in the world?” he asks with a small puppet tucked over his hand. Dean is staring at the thing like it’s made of gold, spreading his fingers to make it move, smiling lightly.
“I hate that thing,” Ben says, part angry and part embarrassed. “Clowns are creepy.”
Dean freezes, and Ben instantly feels bad for saying anything about it. Though he knows he shouldn’t. It’s not like Dean bought it for him. It came from some guy his mom used to hang out with who liked to buy him things whenever they went out. But he still left him and his mom behind in the end.
He hates the carnival for any number of reasons.
The puppet is more of the focus than Dean’s open face, and Ben can’t stop staring at how Dean shucks it around while he talks. “You wanna toss it?”
“Can we burn it?”
“What?”
“Like the channeling,” Ben asks, brightening up.
Dean watches him for a few seconds then seems to fight a smile and a frown at the same time. “You mean the changeling?”
“Yeah, Sam set that thing on fire and it died. We should kill the clown. What if it’s the shadow thing I keep seeing?” As he keeps talking, his voice is no longer excited and more of worry. He knows it and tries to keep rattling on, but Dean closes the space between them and puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezes to distract and comfort at once.
“Ben, stop. There’s no spirit in the puppet.”
He looks up with wide, sad eyes.
“It’ll make you feel better?” Dean asks, voice breaking with nerves.
Ben nods, mumbles, “Yeah, it will.”
*
They’re in the backyard, crouched low to the ground. Ben has a spade in hand, digging into the earth with gusto, grinning from ear to ear. Dean’s letting him do it, barely giving instruction, but is right next to him through it all.
Ben drops the puppet into the makeshift grave, shakes the peacock salt shaker from the kitchen table, and watches Dean drizzle lighter fluid he’d snatched from the garage.
Dean breathes deep, shuffles closer to the hole, breathes again. He finally lights a match before dropping it onto the clown and setting it on fire. He’s staring right into the flames and Ben can’t stand the silence.
“So, this is how you did it all the times before?”
He nods and looks at Ben for a second before kneeling and sitting back on his heels.
“Why salt?”
It takes a few moments for Dean to answer, but when he does, there’s a hint of importance to his words. “Some say it purifies the soul. Ghosts hate salt, demons, too.”
“Maybe I should keep salt in my room.”
Dean gives a kind look and swipes a hand over Ben’s back. “There’re no ghosts in your room.”
“You never know.”
“I’ve looked the last … how many nights? There’s nothing in there.”
Ben feels the anger and fear rise up and he spins towards Dean. “You don’t know that! What if they come tomorrow or next week?”
“Then I’ll take -” and he stops, tempering himself down and nodding. “Nothing’s gonna happen.”
“You sure?” Ben asks, staring right into Dean and trying to read the answer in his face than his words.
Dean’s face hardens, blocking off any fear or worry or whatever else Ben is looking for. He nods, staring right back into Ben. “I’m sure. You’re safe.”
He leans closer to Dean, wants to feel that confidence through the warmth of his arm around his shoulder. Ben looks up from time to time, but Dean’s eyes are intent on the fire. “Are you …” he starts, but stops when Dean looks at him, eyes sad but obviously trying to be there. “Are you waiting for something to happen?” He points at the fire. “You keep staring at it.”
There’s a small, painful chuckle, then Dean shakes his head. “No, nothing’s gonna happen.”
Ben burrows in closer, one hand braced on Dean’s ankle and the other on his leg. He’s never sat this close to another man before, always kept distance with his mom’s friends. Sometimes he gets close to Dean and most times he backs away in the end. Right now he doesn’t want to, because Dean’s intent on keeping him safe. He needs this. He trusts this.
Dean pulls him in even tighter, hand softly grazing his shoulder in repeated moves and it calms Ben in seconds. Dean clears his throat. “He hated clowns, too.”
He’s ready to ask who, but this isn’t the first time Dean’s made random comments without a name attached. It doesn’t happen often, but Ben’s heard it enough that he knows. “They’re super creepy,” Ben all-but whispers.
“Yeah, they are,” Dean says lightly, almost smiling.
“What kinds of things don’t you like?”
Dean looks down on him, mouth tight but slowly opening with a careful smile. “Flying.”
Ben frowns. “Really? You don’t think pilots are cool?”
He shifts away to sit properly, legs criss-crossing, and then he pulls Ben back in more comfortably. “Pilots are cool, but I don’t like the idea of danglin’ fifty thousand feet in the air.”
“I hate boats. I get all sick with the,” and Ben makes a motion with his hand.
“I’ve actually never been on a boat,” Dean says with an easy tone, beginning to smile. “But I guess we can’t break that without you emptying your stomach.”
Ben makes a face and shakes his head as he leans back into Dean. He stares into the grave, now a tiny, dull glow as the stuffing of the clown’s head melts and the fire burns out. It’s creepier to look at than before, but he’s thankful to know it’s done.
Dean hands him the spade and while Ben shovels dirt back into the hole, Dean sits forward and sweeps dirt and grass back into place with his bare hands.
They both wipe their hands, freeing dirt and grime, then rest back to sit with hands on their knees.
“We should probably do something more constructive next time.”
“Were we supposed to build a coffin?” Ben asks with confusion.
Dean chuckles, moves a hand over Ben’s head. “No, just, something less hunting, something more average.”
“Average like what?”
“What do kids do at your age?”
“What did you do at my age?”
He pauses, frowns for a moment. “Hunting.”
Ben frowns, too, picking at the grass at his feet. “Most everyone else is in boy scouts. They’re building soap box cars.”
“I can do cars,” Dean says with a smirk.
Next | Can We Pretend?: When Dean's by himself, he counts stars; one time Ben joins him.
Doing Your Best to Get By
Um, is this really a verse? I kind of want it to be XD
Ben & Dean, post 5.22; 1,400 words
When he wakes, when he sees shadows that can’t immediately be explained, hears creaky floorboards, he goes to Dean’s side of the bed. Sometimes he tugs on Dean’s hand, others he waits to see if Dean’s already awake. Most times he is.
“What’s it tonight?” Dean asks lightly.
“Shadows under the door.”
Dean hauls himself out of bed and puts a hand on Ben’s head, steering towards his bedroom. “Let’s see how bad it is.”
Ben doesn’t know if Dean searches his room like this because it’s funny or because he actually means business. It seems a little of both. So when Dean pulls out a small flashlight and checks under dressers and the bed, even behind the curtains closing off the window, Ben stays in the doorway and watches.
There is always a point near the end of the search when Dean looks over his shoulder, holds Ben’s look, and then gives a tiny smile before he checks one more place and calls it a done deal. Ben always holds his breath until it happens.
“Okay, kiddo,” Dean announces as he starts to move out of the closet. “All clean in here. No ghosts, goblins, or ghouls.”
Ben smiles a little, comforted by Dean actually looking, but also a bit scared that there’s something he may have missed.
“Wait, a second.” Dean steps back into the closet and Ben’s heart hammers loudly. His hand grips at the doorway and he dares himself to take a closer step, but then he’s moving back as Dean comes back into the room. “What in the world?” he asks with a small puppet tucked over his hand. Dean is staring at the thing like it’s made of gold, spreading his fingers to make it move, smiling lightly.
“I hate that thing,” Ben says, part angry and part embarrassed. “Clowns are creepy.”
Dean freezes, and Ben instantly feels bad for saying anything about it. Though he knows he shouldn’t. It’s not like Dean bought it for him. It came from some guy his mom used to hang out with who liked to buy him things whenever they went out. But he still left him and his mom behind in the end.
He hates the carnival for any number of reasons.
The puppet is more of the focus than Dean’s open face, and Ben can’t stop staring at how Dean shucks it around while he talks. “You wanna toss it?”
“Can we burn it?”
“What?”
“Like the channeling,” Ben asks, brightening up.
Dean watches him for a few seconds then seems to fight a smile and a frown at the same time. “You mean the changeling?”
“Yeah, Sam set that thing on fire and it died. We should kill the clown. What if it’s the shadow thing I keep seeing?” As he keeps talking, his voice is no longer excited and more of worry. He knows it and tries to keep rattling on, but Dean closes the space between them and puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezes to distract and comfort at once.
“Ben, stop. There’s no spirit in the puppet.”
He looks up with wide, sad eyes.
“It’ll make you feel better?” Dean asks, voice breaking with nerves.
Ben nods, mumbles, “Yeah, it will.”
*
They’re in the backyard, crouched low to the ground. Ben has a spade in hand, digging into the earth with gusto, grinning from ear to ear. Dean’s letting him do it, barely giving instruction, but is right next to him through it all.
Ben drops the puppet into the makeshift grave, shakes the peacock salt shaker from the kitchen table, and watches Dean drizzle lighter fluid he’d snatched from the garage.
Dean breathes deep, shuffles closer to the hole, breathes again. He finally lights a match before dropping it onto the clown and setting it on fire. He’s staring right into the flames and Ben can’t stand the silence.
“So, this is how you did it all the times before?”
He nods and looks at Ben for a second before kneeling and sitting back on his heels.
“Why salt?”
It takes a few moments for Dean to answer, but when he does, there’s a hint of importance to his words. “Some say it purifies the soul. Ghosts hate salt, demons, too.”
“Maybe I should keep salt in my room.”
Dean gives a kind look and swipes a hand over Ben’s back. “There’re no ghosts in your room.”
“You never know.”
“I’ve looked the last … how many nights? There’s nothing in there.”
Ben feels the anger and fear rise up and he spins towards Dean. “You don’t know that! What if they come tomorrow or next week?”
“Then I’ll take -” and he stops, tempering himself down and nodding. “Nothing’s gonna happen.”
“You sure?” Ben asks, staring right into Dean and trying to read the answer in his face than his words.
Dean’s face hardens, blocking off any fear or worry or whatever else Ben is looking for. He nods, staring right back into Ben. “I’m sure. You’re safe.”
He leans closer to Dean, wants to feel that confidence through the warmth of his arm around his shoulder. Ben looks up from time to time, but Dean’s eyes are intent on the fire. “Are you …” he starts, but stops when Dean looks at him, eyes sad but obviously trying to be there. “Are you waiting for something to happen?” He points at the fire. “You keep staring at it.”
There’s a small, painful chuckle, then Dean shakes his head. “No, nothing’s gonna happen.”
Ben burrows in closer, one hand braced on Dean’s ankle and the other on his leg. He’s never sat this close to another man before, always kept distance with his mom’s friends. Sometimes he gets close to Dean and most times he backs away in the end. Right now he doesn’t want to, because Dean’s intent on keeping him safe. He needs this. He trusts this.
Dean pulls him in even tighter, hand softly grazing his shoulder in repeated moves and it calms Ben in seconds. Dean clears his throat. “He hated clowns, too.”
He’s ready to ask who, but this isn’t the first time Dean’s made random comments without a name attached. It doesn’t happen often, but Ben’s heard it enough that he knows. “They’re super creepy,” Ben all-but whispers.
“Yeah, they are,” Dean says lightly, almost smiling.
“What kinds of things don’t you like?”
Dean looks down on him, mouth tight but slowly opening with a careful smile. “Flying.”
Ben frowns. “Really? You don’t think pilots are cool?”
He shifts away to sit properly, legs criss-crossing, and then he pulls Ben back in more comfortably. “Pilots are cool, but I don’t like the idea of danglin’ fifty thousand feet in the air.”
“I hate boats. I get all sick with the,” and Ben makes a motion with his hand.
“I’ve actually never been on a boat,” Dean says with an easy tone, beginning to smile. “But I guess we can’t break that without you emptying your stomach.”
Ben makes a face and shakes his head as he leans back into Dean. He stares into the grave, now a tiny, dull glow as the stuffing of the clown’s head melts and the fire burns out. It’s creepier to look at than before, but he’s thankful to know it’s done.
Dean hands him the spade and while Ben shovels dirt back into the hole, Dean sits forward and sweeps dirt and grass back into place with his bare hands.
They both wipe their hands, freeing dirt and grime, then rest back to sit with hands on their knees.
“We should probably do something more constructive next time.”
“Were we supposed to build a coffin?” Ben asks with confusion.
Dean chuckles, moves a hand over Ben’s head. “No, just, something less hunting, something more average.”
“Average like what?”
“What do kids do at your age?”
“What did you do at my age?”
He pauses, frowns for a moment. “Hunting.”
Ben frowns, too, picking at the grass at his feet. “Most everyone else is in boy scouts. They’re building soap box cars.”
“I can do cars,” Dean says with a smirk.
Next | Can We Pretend?: When Dean's by himself, he counts stars; one time Ben joins him.