SPN gen ficlet - Renovations
A few days ago, weesta posted a set of absolutely gorgeous pre-series secret postcards. After I managed to stop my ovaries exploding, I asked her permission to write a ficlet based on one of them. She very kindly agreed, and I've been working on it for the last couple of days.
A huge and heartfelt thank you to weesta for letting me play with her bunny. The link to the postcard in question is at the end of the fic.
TITLE: Renovations
RATING: PG13 (gen)
CHARACTERS: John and wee!Dean
DISCLAIMER: Not my boys, no matter how hard I wish
NOTES: 1935 words. Set pre-series, before Sam is born. John screws up on guard duty.
He’s pretty sure he only closed his eyes for a second.
He’s been working late at the shop the last couple of nights, and then Dean had landed on his stomach this morning at Odark30, demanding cheerios and cartoons. John really had no choice, because Mary’s blood pressure had spiked again at the prenatal yesterday, and the doc had ordered complete bed rest, threatening to haul her ass into hospital if she moved it out of bed for the next week.
So, yeah, he’s pretty sure he only closed his eyes for second, but when he opens them, Dean is gone. Sure, GI Joe and his jeep are still present and correct, parked right beside his goddamn foot, ready for him to trip up on, but the commander’s gone AWOL.
John checks the bathroom first, surreptitiously, because if Mary hears him yelling for Dean, she’ll know John screwed up and she’ll be on her feet and chasing after him, bed rest and blood pressure be damned.
Looks like the bathroom hasn’t seen recent action, though; Dean tends to be pretty enthusiastic with his territorial marking and it’d be hard to miss the evidence.
He checks the crawl space in the hallway next, even though Dean knows that’s out of bounds.
“But it’s a crawl space.” Dean pointed out with perfectly reasonable logic the last time John had hauled the dust-covered four-year-old feet-first from under the floor. “For crawlin’ in.”
The crawl space is empty.
John picks a path through the platoon of tiny green soldiers strewn across the floor and makes it to the kitchen relatively unscathed. Dean isn’t here, but there’s evidence that he came this way. The key is still hanging on the hook above the back door, but Dean left the cupboard door ajar after standing on it to reach for the key so he could unlock the door.
“The refrigerator is not a stepladder, son,” he’d informed Dean when he caught him balancing on the open door, trying to reach the candy stash in the top cupboard. Clearly Dean has taken that pretty literally; the refrigerator might be out of bounds, but cupboard doors are fair game.
It’s only when he sees the back yard is empty that the first wave of true panic hits him. Christ, the gate. He can’t remember locking the gate. Dean could be out on the goddamn freeway by now.
John throws the door open and scrambles down the step, almost tripping over his own feet as he rounds the corner at a run. The gate is still padlocked. Even Dean couldn’t slip through the gate and then lock it up after himself. John leans forward, presses his palms on to the top of his thighs and tries to get his ragged breathing under control. His heart is hammering hard enough to bust right out of his chest.
Where the hell is he then? He looks back into the yard and sees the garage door lying wide open. His heart kicks up a notch, and he figures it’s going to be doing that chest-busting thing a little ahead of schedule.
The sight that greets him when he gets to the door doesn’t so much raise his heart-rate as stop it altogether.
He actually feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise up, and he’s hot and cold and everything in between all at once. Somehow, and really he has no idea how, John manages not to yell.
“Dean.” His voice is barely a croak “Son.”
Dean looks up from the workbench, a nail firmly wedged between his teeth. “Mmm?”
In his mind, John fills the swear jar on the kitchen dresser to overflowing. Three times over.
“Put down the saw, Dean,” he whispers and he watches as his son wrestles with the huge saw, setting it down on the workbench. The saw blade is longer than Dean’s arm. Hell, it’s almost longer than his whole body.
Time slows and stretches as Dean spits the nail out into his palm and sets it down next to the saw. Then John is moving, feet fast-forwarding till he’s beside the boy, pulling him away from the workbench, from the saw, from the fucking nail gun.
“What the he - heck do you think you’re doing?” John hisses, and he feels Dean trembling in his grip, but he doesn’t seem to be able to release him.
Dean just stares at him dumbly, his eyes widening, like he’s only just figuring out that maybe he’s done something wrong.
John shakes him a little. “You never ever do that again, you hear?”
Dean blinks, as if he’s not sure whether he should nod or shake his head or maybe just burst into tears.
John sees the liquid shining in Dean’s eyes and he can feel his son’s pulse skittering wildly under his own trembling fingers.
“You go on inside and sit on the time-out stair.” He relaxes his grip on the kid’s arm, but doesn’t let go just yet. “You move your butt off that step and you won’t sit down for a week, you got that?”
Dean nods wordlessly, his eyes huge and round and terrified.
“I want to hear a yessir out of you when I ask you a question, you understand me, Dean?” He punctuates the instruction with a small shake of Dean’s wrist.
“Yes, sir,” Dean whispers, his voice wavering. John releases him then, and Dean backs away from him uncertainly, tiptoes out of the garage.
The time-out isn’t for Dean.
John’s legs give way and he sags against the work bench, the sour taste of bile burning the back of his throat. His palms are slick with sweat as he lifts the saw and puts it back in the tool box. The box hadn’t been locked; he knows full well he left it out on the workbench after he’d gone hunting for his wrench last night.
John runs his hand over his face. He is the worst parent ever. Leaving his tools out as an open invitation for Dean to amputate his hand.
John’s gonna have to shape up; when the new baby comes, Mary isn’t going to have the time to be chasing after Dean. It’s not that Dean’s disobedient. He only has to be told once, and he doesn’t do it again. It’s just that he’s an inquisitive kid, and it’s not always easy to predict what he’ll get into next.
Bleach is not a foodstuff.
Light fixtures are not jungle vines.
Tools are not toys-John closes his eyes momentarily, and when he opens them again, he sees what Dean was working on. It’s half of a frame, two short planks; the corners roughly mitered to fit together. John runs his hand along the wood, wondering what exactly Dean had been making.
His temper has cooled when he gets back to the house, and the sight of Dean hunched on the bottom stair sends a jolt of guilt through him. The kid has his arms wrapped tight around his legs, his face pressed into his knees.
“Dean.” He says it softly, and Dean uncurls, lifts his head.
“Yes, sir?” John feels a wave of shame at the formal address, at the tremble in his son’s voice, at the red blotches around his eyes.
“Come on.” He holds out his hand, and Dean takes it obediently. He’s still shaking, his little fingers quivering in John’s broad palm. John leads him into the kitchen and pulls out a chair at the table.
Dean’s chin wobbles, but he squares his shoulders, and John figures the kid thinks he’s going to get the spanking that John threatened earlier.
“Sit.” John guides him onto the chair, then goes to the refrigerator and fills a cup with apple juice. He sets it down on the table, then pours himself a cup of stewed coffee and sits down at the table next to Dean. Dean is watching him warily, trying to figure out what his next move should be.
Aw, hell. “It’s okay, son.” John nods to the cup. “Drink up.”
Dean obeys meekly, the cup wobbling a little in his unsteady grip. After a couple of forced gulps, he looks up at his father, and John is dismayed to see fear in his son’s eyes.
“Dean, buddy,” John begins, and Dean straightens in the chair, his shoulders twitching. “You know how dangerous those tools are.” Dean nods, eyes fixed on John. John sighs and scrapes his palm across his chin. “They’re not toys, son.”
“Yes, Daddy-uh, sir,” Dean whispers, and John rubs the heel of his hand over his eyes.
“Just daddy, Dean.”
“I know they’re not toys and I was bein’ real careful. I wasn’t gonna get hurt.”
“Dean, people get hurt without anyone ever meaning it,” John explains, and he closes his eyes to banish the image of Dean with the saw in his hand. “You can’t play with the tools, son.”
“But I wasn’t playing, honest,” Dean pleads softly.
John thinks of the half frame, of the carefully angled joints matched together. “What were you doing then?”
Dean squirms a little in the chair, he’s not quite tall enough for his feet to reach the floor. “See, Mommy said ‘cos I got my new bed that the crib doesn’t fit in my room, and where’s the new baby gonna sleep if the crib can’t go in my room? Babies can’t sleep in the bathroom, Daddy.”
John nods solemnly. “No, son, they sure can’t.”
“So, I thought maybe I could build a new part on to my room and make it big enough for the new bed and the baby’s crib.”
John heart clenches. He reaches over and puts his hand on the back of Dean’s neck, pressing lightly. “Okay, son, okay.” He curls his fingers through the soft downy hair. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. You and me, we’re gonna go on a hunt. We’re gonna find a house that’s got a room big enough for you and the new baby. He - heck, maybe we’ll even find one with a room just for the baby.”
Dean considers this. “But he’ll get lonely.” Dean has already decided the baby is a boy. John wonders if he should warn Mary.
“Okay,” John doesn’t argue, he figures Dean will change his mind quick enough when the baby starts wailing for a three am feed. “So, we’re gonna find the perfect house, and then we’ll surprise your mom.”
Mary’s been talking about it, about how the apartment is too small for the three of them already, never mind the one on the way. To be honest, John hadn’t really noticed, not until today, not until he’d been the one home with Dean.
“That sound like a plan, buddy?” John lifts his hand from Dean’s neck, and looks him in the eye.
Dean nods, and he’s giving John his best co-conspirator look. “You mean it’s like a secret mission?”
John feels a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. “Need to know basis only.” He pauses. “How about we don’t tell your momma about the whole toolbox thing?”
“She doesn’t need to know?”
Not if they don’t want another premature labor. John shakes his head and then sits up straight, fixes Dean with the sternest gaze he can muster.
“Just so you know, kiddo.” He needs to make this very clear. “You ever, ever touch my tools again and I will bust your butt. You understand me?”
“Yes, sir.” Dean nods vigorously, clearly recognizing the reprieve hidden within the dire threat.
“Good boy.” And this time John doesn’t correct the yessir.
Go here to view weesta's gorgeous postcard that prompted the fic.
A huge and heartfelt thank you to weesta for letting me play with her bunny. The link to the postcard in question is at the end of the fic.
TITLE: Renovations
RATING: PG13 (gen)
CHARACTERS: John and wee!Dean
DISCLAIMER: Not my boys, no matter how hard I wish
NOTES: 1935 words. Set pre-series, before Sam is born. John screws up on guard duty.
He’s pretty sure he only closed his eyes for a second.
He’s been working late at the shop the last couple of nights, and then Dean had landed on his stomach this morning at Odark30, demanding cheerios and cartoons. John really had no choice, because Mary’s blood pressure had spiked again at the prenatal yesterday, and the doc had ordered complete bed rest, threatening to haul her ass into hospital if she moved it out of bed for the next week.
So, yeah, he’s pretty sure he only closed his eyes for second, but when he opens them, Dean is gone. Sure, GI Joe and his jeep are still present and correct, parked right beside his goddamn foot, ready for him to trip up on, but the commander’s gone AWOL.
John checks the bathroom first, surreptitiously, because if Mary hears him yelling for Dean, she’ll know John screwed up and she’ll be on her feet and chasing after him, bed rest and blood pressure be damned.
Looks like the bathroom hasn’t seen recent action, though; Dean tends to be pretty enthusiastic with his territorial marking and it’d be hard to miss the evidence.
He checks the crawl space in the hallway next, even though Dean knows that’s out of bounds.
“But it’s a crawl space.” Dean pointed out with perfectly reasonable logic the last time John had hauled the dust-covered four-year-old feet-first from under the floor. “For crawlin’ in.”
The crawl space is empty.
John picks a path through the platoon of tiny green soldiers strewn across the floor and makes it to the kitchen relatively unscathed. Dean isn’t here, but there’s evidence that he came this way. The key is still hanging on the hook above the back door, but Dean left the cupboard door ajar after standing on it to reach for the key so he could unlock the door.
“The refrigerator is not a stepladder, son,” he’d informed Dean when he caught him balancing on the open door, trying to reach the candy stash in the top cupboard. Clearly Dean has taken that pretty literally; the refrigerator might be out of bounds, but cupboard doors are fair game.
It’s only when he sees the back yard is empty that the first wave of true panic hits him. Christ, the gate. He can’t remember locking the gate. Dean could be out on the goddamn freeway by now.
John throws the door open and scrambles down the step, almost tripping over his own feet as he rounds the corner at a run. The gate is still padlocked. Even Dean couldn’t slip through the gate and then lock it up after himself. John leans forward, presses his palms on to the top of his thighs and tries to get his ragged breathing under control. His heart is hammering hard enough to bust right out of his chest.
Where the hell is he then? He looks back into the yard and sees the garage door lying wide open. His heart kicks up a notch, and he figures it’s going to be doing that chest-busting thing a little ahead of schedule.
The sight that greets him when he gets to the door doesn’t so much raise his heart-rate as stop it altogether.
He actually feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise up, and he’s hot and cold and everything in between all at once. Somehow, and really he has no idea how, John manages not to yell.
“Dean.” His voice is barely a croak “Son.”
Dean looks up from the workbench, a nail firmly wedged between his teeth. “Mmm?”
In his mind, John fills the swear jar on the kitchen dresser to overflowing. Three times over.
“Put down the saw, Dean,” he whispers and he watches as his son wrestles with the huge saw, setting it down on the workbench. The saw blade is longer than Dean’s arm. Hell, it’s almost longer than his whole body.
Time slows and stretches as Dean spits the nail out into his palm and sets it down next to the saw. Then John is moving, feet fast-forwarding till he’s beside the boy, pulling him away from the workbench, from the saw, from the fucking nail gun.
“What the he - heck do you think you’re doing?” John hisses, and he feels Dean trembling in his grip, but he doesn’t seem to be able to release him.
Dean just stares at him dumbly, his eyes widening, like he’s only just figuring out that maybe he’s done something wrong.
John shakes him a little. “You never ever do that again, you hear?”
Dean blinks, as if he’s not sure whether he should nod or shake his head or maybe just burst into tears.
John sees the liquid shining in Dean’s eyes and he can feel his son’s pulse skittering wildly under his own trembling fingers.
“You go on inside and sit on the time-out stair.” He relaxes his grip on the kid’s arm, but doesn’t let go just yet. “You move your butt off that step and you won’t sit down for a week, you got that?”
Dean nods wordlessly, his eyes huge and round and terrified.
“I want to hear a yessir out of you when I ask you a question, you understand me, Dean?” He punctuates the instruction with a small shake of Dean’s wrist.
“Yes, sir,” Dean whispers, his voice wavering. John releases him then, and Dean backs away from him uncertainly, tiptoes out of the garage.
The time-out isn’t for Dean.
John’s legs give way and he sags against the work bench, the sour taste of bile burning the back of his throat. His palms are slick with sweat as he lifts the saw and puts it back in the tool box. The box hadn’t been locked; he knows full well he left it out on the workbench after he’d gone hunting for his wrench last night.
John runs his hand over his face. He is the worst parent ever. Leaving his tools out as an open invitation for Dean to amputate his hand.
John’s gonna have to shape up; when the new baby comes, Mary isn’t going to have the time to be chasing after Dean. It’s not that Dean’s disobedient. He only has to be told once, and he doesn’t do it again. It’s just that he’s an inquisitive kid, and it’s not always easy to predict what he’ll get into next.
Bleach is not a foodstuff.
Light fixtures are not jungle vines.
Tools are not toys-John closes his eyes momentarily, and when he opens them again, he sees what Dean was working on. It’s half of a frame, two short planks; the corners roughly mitered to fit together. John runs his hand along the wood, wondering what exactly Dean had been making.
His temper has cooled when he gets back to the house, and the sight of Dean hunched on the bottom stair sends a jolt of guilt through him. The kid has his arms wrapped tight around his legs, his face pressed into his knees.
“Dean.” He says it softly, and Dean uncurls, lifts his head.
“Yes, sir?” John feels a wave of shame at the formal address, at the tremble in his son’s voice, at the red blotches around his eyes.
“Come on.” He holds out his hand, and Dean takes it obediently. He’s still shaking, his little fingers quivering in John’s broad palm. John leads him into the kitchen and pulls out a chair at the table.
Dean’s chin wobbles, but he squares his shoulders, and John figures the kid thinks he’s going to get the spanking that John threatened earlier.
“Sit.” John guides him onto the chair, then goes to the refrigerator and fills a cup with apple juice. He sets it down on the table, then pours himself a cup of stewed coffee and sits down at the table next to Dean. Dean is watching him warily, trying to figure out what his next move should be.
Aw, hell. “It’s okay, son.” John nods to the cup. “Drink up.”
Dean obeys meekly, the cup wobbling a little in his unsteady grip. After a couple of forced gulps, he looks up at his father, and John is dismayed to see fear in his son’s eyes.
“Dean, buddy,” John begins, and Dean straightens in the chair, his shoulders twitching. “You know how dangerous those tools are.” Dean nods, eyes fixed on John. John sighs and scrapes his palm across his chin. “They’re not toys, son.”
“Yes, Daddy-uh, sir,” Dean whispers, and John rubs the heel of his hand over his eyes.
“Just daddy, Dean.”
“I know they’re not toys and I was bein’ real careful. I wasn’t gonna get hurt.”
“Dean, people get hurt without anyone ever meaning it,” John explains, and he closes his eyes to banish the image of Dean with the saw in his hand. “You can’t play with the tools, son.”
“But I wasn’t playing, honest,” Dean pleads softly.
John thinks of the half frame, of the carefully angled joints matched together. “What were you doing then?”
Dean squirms a little in the chair, he’s not quite tall enough for his feet to reach the floor. “See, Mommy said ‘cos I got my new bed that the crib doesn’t fit in my room, and where’s the new baby gonna sleep if the crib can’t go in my room? Babies can’t sleep in the bathroom, Daddy.”
John nods solemnly. “No, son, they sure can’t.”
“So, I thought maybe I could build a new part on to my room and make it big enough for the new bed and the baby’s crib.”
John heart clenches. He reaches over and puts his hand on the back of Dean’s neck, pressing lightly. “Okay, son, okay.” He curls his fingers through the soft downy hair. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. You and me, we’re gonna go on a hunt. We’re gonna find a house that’s got a room big enough for you and the new baby. He - heck, maybe we’ll even find one with a room just for the baby.”
Dean considers this. “But he’ll get lonely.” Dean has already decided the baby is a boy. John wonders if he should warn Mary.
“Okay,” John doesn’t argue, he figures Dean will change his mind quick enough when the baby starts wailing for a three am feed. “So, we’re gonna find the perfect house, and then we’ll surprise your mom.”
Mary’s been talking about it, about how the apartment is too small for the three of them already, never mind the one on the way. To be honest, John hadn’t really noticed, not until today, not until he’d been the one home with Dean.
“That sound like a plan, buddy?” John lifts his hand from Dean’s neck, and looks him in the eye.
Dean nods, and he’s giving John his best co-conspirator look. “You mean it’s like a secret mission?”
John feels a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. “Need to know basis only.” He pauses. “How about we don’t tell your momma about the whole toolbox thing?”
“She doesn’t need to know?”
Not if they don’t want another premature labor. John shakes his head and then sits up straight, fixes Dean with the sternest gaze he can muster.
“Just so you know, kiddo.” He needs to make this very clear. “You ever, ever touch my tools again and I will bust your butt. You understand me?”
“Yes, sir.” Dean nods vigorously, clearly recognizing the reprieve hidden within the dire threat.
“Good boy.” And this time John doesn’t correct the yessir.
Go here to view weesta's gorgeous postcard that prompted the fic.
