SPN FIC - Bunnies
charis_kalos -- I'm not sure when you'll have a chance to read this, so I'm posting a little early in case you have a few seconds of free time before Friday. Happy, happy birthday, and thank you for the gift of knowing you.
Everyone else -- this seems like exactly the right week to post this sort of fic (and there will be another one following shortly). Hope you all enjoy it.
Seven years old, he thought. Still young enough to believe in some things, old enough to reject others. Old enough, according to John, to be told (over Jim’s objection) that monsters were real. Old enough to be told that Santa Claus wasn’t.
CHARACTERS: Pastor Jim and the Wee!Chesters
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 582 words
BUNNIES
By Carol Davis
After that day, Jim would think with amusement of The Power Of Shoes.
He didn’t say anything; didn’t need to. All he did was stand alongside the bed, nothing of him visible to them but his sneakers and the cuffs of his jeans, and within maybe twenty seconds the boys had come scrabbling out from underneath - Dean pensive and chagrined and, yes, a little defiant. Sammy pouting with dismay and…yes, betrayal.
“What’s going on?” Jim asked mildly.
They weren’t supposed to be in his room. Not that there was anything in his room that they shouldn’t see, nor was there much that they could break. And nothing he would mourn for if they did break it. Still, his bedroom was supposed to be off limits.
“Well?” he prompted.
“She said,” Sammy scowled.
“Mrs. Lundquist?”
Sam’s small head bobbed up and down. He could hammer nails with the force of that chin.
“What did she say?”
Sammy glanced over at his brother, Dean now obviously complicit in whatever had gone wrong. “She said there was bunnies under there.”
Jim held back a smile. “I see.”
“There’s no bunnies. There’s just this.”
A pencil, well coated with dust. Jim took it from Sam and displayed it for Dean, who at seven was certainly old enough to understand that Caroline meant dust, not rabbits. “What’s your story?” he asked, rolling the pencil between his fingers.
Dean shrugged.
Eloquently, Jim thought.
“Go on downstairs,” he told the boys. “I think lunch is almost ready.”
As they passed him, he gave Dean a pat on the shoulder that made Dean look up at him, still wearing that layer of chagrin. He stood watching as the boys went on out into the hall and listened to the quiet thump of their footsteps going down the stairs. A minute later he followed them, sat down opposite Dean at the kitchen table, and told the boy, “Thank you.”
“For what?” Dean frowned.
“I know what my sermon’s going to be about.”
“Disobedience?” Dean ventured after a moment.
Jim shook his head.
Seven years old, he thought. Still young enough to believe in some things, old enough to reject others. Old enough, according to John, to be told (over Jim’s objection) that monsters were real. Old enough to be told that Santa Claus wasn’t.
Old enough to help care for Sam.
And young enough to want someone to help care for him.
Did he believe there were bunnies under the bed? Probably not. No…certainly not. But did he want there to be bunnies under the bed? Had the smallest part of his grown-up little boy’s heart said a prayer as he slithered underneath, asking for something good to be real?
Maybe so.
Maybe so.
Lunch was bologna sandwiches and chips and glasses of milk. After Caroline had distributed the plates, Jim folded his hands and waited until the boys - with the fussy reluctance of children - had folded theirs, then gave a quiet thanks for the meal.
Added, silently, his thanks for the gift of knowing these boys.
When he gave the nod of approval, Sam grabbed up his sandwich and began to gobble it down. Dean, though, sat with his hands in his lap, letting his lunch bide its time, his expression telling Jim You didn’t answer the question.
Jim let him wait a moment more, then smiled.
“Hope,” he told the boy. “I’m going to talk about the power of hope.”
* * * * *