SPN FIC - The First Time
Heh. You nudged. I wrote.
Characters: Dean, Sam, John, Bobby, Pastor Jim
Pairings: none
Rating: PG, for language
Spoilers: up through IMTOD
Length: 1000 words
Disclaimer: You know the drill. Not mine, no money.
The First Time
By Carol Davis
Dad has Sammy in his arms, and Sammy doesn't want to stay there. He wants down down down, wants to walk.
Wants to come too.
"Go ahead, son," Dad says.
Dean looks at the big door of the classroom. He can't see more than a little bit of what's inside: a pile of those cardboard things that look like bricks, and a big map tacked to the wall. Dad's been teaching him what maps are, what they mean. This one is of the whole United States.
They've been to seven states so far. Dad says someday they might get to all of them, all fifty, except maybe those ones that are across the ocean.
Dean lowers his head and murmurs something, then looks up at Dad.
"I can't hear you, Dean," Dad says, and he sounds a little mad, or maybe tired. "You need to speak up."
He bites down hard on his lower lip, because crying is for babies. And he's not a baby, he's five. After Christmas he'll be six.
"Will you come back?" he whispers.
"I always come back, Dean."
But he looks a little mad, a little tired, and Dean isn't exactly sure he believes him.
* * * * *
This is bad.
He feels hot and cold, hot and cold, sweaty and shivery at the same time. He can't get warm, can't cool off. The pillowcase and the sheets are damp and they stick to him the way Saran Wrap always does when you try to pull it off the roll.
"Dean?" Sammy says softly. He's standing near the bed. Dean has to squirm around to look at him. The movement makes him want to upchuck.
Sammy's got a cup in both hands, holding it tight, trying not to spill.
"I got you juice," he says. "Do you want juice?"
Dean wants to blink his eyes or twitch his nose or nod his head and make all of this stop, because he feels like puke on toast and he's supposed to be in charge. For a second he wills Sam to go away, then wills him not to, because Dad's been gone for two days and Sam is all he's got.
Sam seems to understand that. He carefully puts the cup down on the night table, then grabs hold of the blanket and pulls it up close around Dean's shoulders.
"It's okay," he says comfortingly. "Dad'll be back soon."
* * * * *
He didn't mean to get so close, but it's funny sometimes how your brain can make you do things and think thoughts when you don't intend to.
The sun is lying hot against his shoulders. From around the corner he can hear Sam stomping and splashing in the puddles left behind by the storm that came and went so fast it was like something out of a movie.
Like Poltergeist, he thinks.
Uncle Bobby spots him first and tosses a look to Dad. Dad lifts his head and frowns, but neither one of them says Dean shouldn't come closer, so he edges his way in, slowly, silently, almost sneaking up on the…well, yeah, it's a corpse.
"I thought," he says, and stops, then goes on. "I thought when the spirit left, they were supposed to -"
Come back. They're supposed to come back.
This one's not coming back. This one's really, really dead.
"Not always," Uncle Bobby says, and he sounds pissed.
Dad gets up from where he was crouching next to the (yeah, it's a corpse) and walks around the corner, looking like he wants to punch something. If Sam's got any sense, he'll stay out of Dad's way.
* * * * *
He's kept the conversation light - midway between the kind of small talk you'd make with somebody in an elevator and the bare-your-soul stuff Jim Murphy can always get out of him by giving him that Go ahead, tell me look.
The same kind of mostly-meaningless stuff comes back to him through the phone, as if they're playing ping pong and nobody's ahead, score's tied, we could be at this till Doomsday.
Then, right after Dean mentions the freakin' humidity in New Orleans for the third time, Jim says, "Dean."
And that's as good as The Look.
"You…" He has to stop for a second and wipe at the sweat on the back of his neck. "You heard anything from my dad lately?"
"How 'lately'?"
"Last couple weeks."
There's a little bit of silence at the other end. "No. You think there's a problem?"
He won't answer my voicemails. I keep callin', and he won't call me back. "I don't know," he says. "He never -"
"I'll call around. See if anybody's heard."
He'll be pissed if you check up on him. "Okay," Dean stammers.
"Dean."
"Yeah," Dean replies, fingers curled tightly around the phone. "I'm okay. I'll just…I'll just wait."
* * * * *
There's a lot of people around, so any other time he'd be nudging Sam away, out of his space, because it's too damn girly to have Sam all jammed up against him like this. Sam was clingy as a little kid, but back then it was okay - up to a point, anyway - because you could say, He's my baby brother. He thinks I'm his freakin' teddy bear.
That doesn't work any more, what with Sam being six foot five.
So any other time, he'd be telling Sam to back off. But not this time. This time he wants Sam close by, wants it with a desperation that makes his chest ache. Wants to be able to grab Sam without taking a single step - even though he won't do that. Won't pull Sam in close, won't embrace him because Sam is still here, and Dad…isn't.
"He was gone," Sam says softly, to no one in particular. "On the floor. When I touched him. He was already gone."
Then he turns to Dean, with that look he used to get when he was a little kid and he wanted Dean to fix something.
But there's no fixing this.
Dad's not coming back.
Characters: Dean, Sam, John, Bobby, Pastor Jim
Pairings: none
Rating: PG, for language
Spoilers: up through IMTOD
Length: 1000 words
Disclaimer: You know the drill. Not mine, no money.
The First Time
By Carol Davis
Dad has Sammy in his arms, and Sammy doesn't want to stay there. He wants down down down, wants to walk.
Wants to come too.
"Go ahead, son," Dad says.
Dean looks at the big door of the classroom. He can't see more than a little bit of what's inside: a pile of those cardboard things that look like bricks, and a big map tacked to the wall. Dad's been teaching him what maps are, what they mean. This one is of the whole United States.
They've been to seven states so far. Dad says someday they might get to all of them, all fifty, except maybe those ones that are across the ocean.
Dean lowers his head and murmurs something, then looks up at Dad.
"I can't hear you, Dean," Dad says, and he sounds a little mad, or maybe tired. "You need to speak up."
He bites down hard on his lower lip, because crying is for babies. And he's not a baby, he's five. After Christmas he'll be six.
"Will you come back?" he whispers.
"I always come back, Dean."
But he looks a little mad, a little tired, and Dean isn't exactly sure he believes him.
* * * * *
This is bad.
He feels hot and cold, hot and cold, sweaty and shivery at the same time. He can't get warm, can't cool off. The pillowcase and the sheets are damp and they stick to him the way Saran Wrap always does when you try to pull it off the roll.
"Dean?" Sammy says softly. He's standing near the bed. Dean has to squirm around to look at him. The movement makes him want to upchuck.
Sammy's got a cup in both hands, holding it tight, trying not to spill.
"I got you juice," he says. "Do you want juice?"
Dean wants to blink his eyes or twitch his nose or nod his head and make all of this stop, because he feels like puke on toast and he's supposed to be in charge. For a second he wills Sam to go away, then wills him not to, because Dad's been gone for two days and Sam is all he's got.
Sam seems to understand that. He carefully puts the cup down on the night table, then grabs hold of the blanket and pulls it up close around Dean's shoulders.
"It's okay," he says comfortingly. "Dad'll be back soon."
* * * * *
He didn't mean to get so close, but it's funny sometimes how your brain can make you do things and think thoughts when you don't intend to.
The sun is lying hot against his shoulders. From around the corner he can hear Sam stomping and splashing in the puddles left behind by the storm that came and went so fast it was like something out of a movie.
Like Poltergeist, he thinks.
Uncle Bobby spots him first and tosses a look to Dad. Dad lifts his head and frowns, but neither one of them says Dean shouldn't come closer, so he edges his way in, slowly, silently, almost sneaking up on the…well, yeah, it's a corpse.
"I thought," he says, and stops, then goes on. "I thought when the spirit left, they were supposed to -"
Come back. They're supposed to come back.
This one's not coming back. This one's really, really dead.
"Not always," Uncle Bobby says, and he sounds pissed.
Dad gets up from where he was crouching next to the (yeah, it's a corpse) and walks around the corner, looking like he wants to punch something. If Sam's got any sense, he'll stay out of Dad's way.
* * * * *
He's kept the conversation light - midway between the kind of small talk you'd make with somebody in an elevator and the bare-your-soul stuff Jim Murphy can always get out of him by giving him that Go ahead, tell me look.
The same kind of mostly-meaningless stuff comes back to him through the phone, as if they're playing ping pong and nobody's ahead, score's tied, we could be at this till Doomsday.
Then, right after Dean mentions the freakin' humidity in New Orleans for the third time, Jim says, "Dean."
And that's as good as The Look.
"You…" He has to stop for a second and wipe at the sweat on the back of his neck. "You heard anything from my dad lately?"
"How 'lately'?"
"Last couple weeks."
There's a little bit of silence at the other end. "No. You think there's a problem?"
He won't answer my voicemails. I keep callin', and he won't call me back. "I don't know," he says. "He never -"
"I'll call around. See if anybody's heard."
He'll be pissed if you check up on him. "Okay," Dean stammers.
"Dean."
"Yeah," Dean replies, fingers curled tightly around the phone. "I'm okay. I'll just…I'll just wait."
* * * * *
There's a lot of people around, so any other time he'd be nudging Sam away, out of his space, because it's too damn girly to have Sam all jammed up against him like this. Sam was clingy as a little kid, but back then it was okay - up to a point, anyway - because you could say, He's my baby brother. He thinks I'm his freakin' teddy bear.
That doesn't work any more, what with Sam being six foot five.
So any other time, he'd be telling Sam to back off. But not this time. This time he wants Sam close by, wants it with a desperation that makes his chest ache. Wants to be able to grab Sam without taking a single step - even though he won't do that. Won't pull Sam in close, won't embrace him because Sam is still here, and Dad…isn't.
"He was gone," Sam says softly, to no one in particular. "On the floor. When I touched him. He was already gone."
Then he turns to Dean, with that look he used to get when he was a little kid and he wanted Dean to fix something.
But there's no fixing this.
Dad's not coming back.