SPN FIC - Glib
Nothing like a day off work for putting together a twofer -- so have another fic. Summer 1993 -- Dean's 14, and he's morphed into something John doesn't quite recognize, and isn't sure he wants to.
That was something else that had been both expected and not: that this son of his could, suddenly, out of nowhere, woo like a snake charmer, could flirt and tease and cajole and play, utterly sure of himself and quaking in his boots at the same time.
CHARACTERS: John and Dean
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1136 words
GLIB
By Carol Davis
"Dean," John said.
Already a dozen steps away from the car, his son turned around, impatient with the interruption, eyebrow hiked in something that was both What? and I hope this isn't gonna take long. He was rolling on the balls of his sneakered feet, hands loosely curled into fists, a runner poised and waiting for the starter's flag to drop.
When exactly he'd changed from the child who had called John "Daddy" to this tall, long-limbed, barely reined-in colt, John couldn't remember - though he was well aware that it hadn't happened overnight. He hadn't driven away from one of the thousand ramshackle places they'd called home over the past nine years, leaving behind a small, solemn, shaggy-haired boy, and returned a few days later to find…this. Still, a part of him persisted in thinking of Dean as an elfin-eyed little boy and balked when confronted with someone who was well on his way to being as tall as his father. Someone John sometimes thought he didn't recognize at all.
One eye on Dean, he moved to the back of the car and popped the trunk lid, took a moment to root around inside.
Let the boy stand there, cooling his jets.
"Gonna need about half an hour," he said as he collected the appropriate supplies, tucked a weapon for just-in-case into the waistband of his jeans, cold against the small of his back, and stashed the salt, the Zippo and the can of lighter fluid in the pockets of his jacket. "You figure you can handle that?"
"Yeah," Dean said.
"With your pants on?" John asked, and slammed the trunk lid home.
That was something else that had been both expected and not: that this son of his could, suddenly, out of nowhere, woo like a snake charmer, could flirt and tease and cajole and play, utterly sure of himself and quaking in his boots at the same time.
Sure of himself, he got from his mother.
Quaking in his boots, he got from the boy John had once been.
Stepping away from the car, John turned to look full-on at his son, at the surprised, chagrined, stubbornly annoyed expression on his son's face. Fourteen, John thought: just a kid, but grabbing for a firm handhold and toehold on the fence that kept him shut away from manhood, from having the freedom to use what biology told him he already could.
Inside the house they'd parked in front of were two women, mother and daughter, both of them nervous and scared and without the first glimmer of a clue about what had created all those cold spots, had dragged unseen fingers against their skin, creaked the floorboards and flickered the lights and rattled chunks of grit down inside the walls. It was an old house, so their guess was rats, bad wiring, badly caulked windows. John knew about the Dutton women through someone who'd told someone who'd told someone else, and had come to them claiming to be a handyman, good with old properties - he'd bought and flipped half a dozen old places and knew every one of their peculiarities, he'd told them over the phone when he called to introduce himself.
He chuckled at them when they said odd, brackish stuff came out of the pipes.
Would it take long to fix, they wanted to know. And the simple answer was no. Half an hour, no more, to dig up what was buried out back, put it to a salt and burn. Once that was done he could take a bit of time. Do a little fix-it work, something that would allow him to run on autopilot for a while. Replace a washer or two to make the faucets stop dripping. Oil some hinges. Run some weather stripping around the outside doors. He had the whole day available, nowhere else he needed to be until Sam got out of the little art workshop he'd insisted on being enrolled in. He could help these women. Do their chores, offer them a smile and a "Best of luck," then be on his way.
That single half hour, the one he needed out back, was the only sticking point.
"Well?" he said to Dean.
Dean frowned. Scowled. Looked affronted and sheepish. "Yeah," he muttered.
This was what was new, something more startling than height and body hair and a growing gruffness of voice: the appearance of another Dean, one his son hauled out when the occasion allowed him the freedom to play-act. He'd always been more likely to listen than to talk, and when he did talk, was low-key and respectful and all right with following whoever was trying to lead. What he was thinking while he did that might have been a lot less than docile, but either way, the Dean that John had known for the last fourteen years had no flash, no easy charm, no smooth and winning chatter.
But this other Dean? The one who went by any of a growing list of rock band-connected aliases? The one whose skin Dean stepped oh-so-easily into when he needed to get a job done?
It was a fine thing to watch.
Which wasn't to say that it wasn't a little unsettling. This boy, this son of John's, with that mile-high fence still separating him from the glorious green fields of adulthood, could be a little too charming. A little too smooth. He could get what he wanted; the question was, did he really know what he wanted? And could he handle it if he got it? Whether this new Dean had a purpose in mind with this shiny flashdance routine of his, or whether it was all just for show, John hadn't had occasion to find out - and being that the kid was fourteen, he hoped the eventual Ta Da! Would be a long time in coming.
"Cookies," John told him. "Settle for cookies."
Dean heaved a sigh, just this side of being long-suffering.
Fourteen, John thought. You're goddamn fourteen. Not twenty. Not thirty.
He could have switched roles with the kid, but Dean didn't have the muscle to unearth old bones as fast as John could.
And John had left charming a ways back along the road.
Feeling the weight of years crawl through his shoulders and down his back, he picked up the battered toolbox he'd set down alongside the car and nodded toward the Dutton women's big old haunted house.
"Half an hour," he said to Dean.
"Cookies," Dean scoffed.
"Cookies," John said firmly.
The corner of Dean's mouth twitched. Wanted to resolve itself into a smartassed grin, but didn't. Settled for a mild smirk.
"I got it covered," John's son told him, and headed away at a pace that was almost a dance.
John could do nothing but watch him go.
* * * * *
That was something else that had been both expected and not: that this son of his could, suddenly, out of nowhere, woo like a snake charmer, could flirt and tease and cajole and play, utterly sure of himself and quaking in his boots at the same time.
CHARACTERS: John and Dean
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1136 words
GLIB
By Carol Davis
"Dean," John said.
Already a dozen steps away from the car, his son turned around, impatient with the interruption, eyebrow hiked in something that was both What? and I hope this isn't gonna take long. He was rolling on the balls of his sneakered feet, hands loosely curled into fists, a runner poised and waiting for the starter's flag to drop.
When exactly he'd changed from the child who had called John "Daddy" to this tall, long-limbed, barely reined-in colt, John couldn't remember - though he was well aware that it hadn't happened overnight. He hadn't driven away from one of the thousand ramshackle places they'd called home over the past nine years, leaving behind a small, solemn, shaggy-haired boy, and returned a few days later to find…this. Still, a part of him persisted in thinking of Dean as an elfin-eyed little boy and balked when confronted with someone who was well on his way to being as tall as his father. Someone John sometimes thought he didn't recognize at all.
One eye on Dean, he moved to the back of the car and popped the trunk lid, took a moment to root around inside.
Let the boy stand there, cooling his jets.
"Gonna need about half an hour," he said as he collected the appropriate supplies, tucked a weapon for just-in-case into the waistband of his jeans, cold against the small of his back, and stashed the salt, the Zippo and the can of lighter fluid in the pockets of his jacket. "You figure you can handle that?"
"Yeah," Dean said.
"With your pants on?" John asked, and slammed the trunk lid home.
That was something else that had been both expected and not: that this son of his could, suddenly, out of nowhere, woo like a snake charmer, could flirt and tease and cajole and play, utterly sure of himself and quaking in his boots at the same time.
Sure of himself, he got from his mother.
Quaking in his boots, he got from the boy John had once been.
Stepping away from the car, John turned to look full-on at his son, at the surprised, chagrined, stubbornly annoyed expression on his son's face. Fourteen, John thought: just a kid, but grabbing for a firm handhold and toehold on the fence that kept him shut away from manhood, from having the freedom to use what biology told him he already could.
Inside the house they'd parked in front of were two women, mother and daughter, both of them nervous and scared and without the first glimmer of a clue about what had created all those cold spots, had dragged unseen fingers against their skin, creaked the floorboards and flickered the lights and rattled chunks of grit down inside the walls. It was an old house, so their guess was rats, bad wiring, badly caulked windows. John knew about the Dutton women through someone who'd told someone who'd told someone else, and had come to them claiming to be a handyman, good with old properties - he'd bought and flipped half a dozen old places and knew every one of their peculiarities, he'd told them over the phone when he called to introduce himself.
He chuckled at them when they said odd, brackish stuff came out of the pipes.
Would it take long to fix, they wanted to know. And the simple answer was no. Half an hour, no more, to dig up what was buried out back, put it to a salt and burn. Once that was done he could take a bit of time. Do a little fix-it work, something that would allow him to run on autopilot for a while. Replace a washer or two to make the faucets stop dripping. Oil some hinges. Run some weather stripping around the outside doors. He had the whole day available, nowhere else he needed to be until Sam got out of the little art workshop he'd insisted on being enrolled in. He could help these women. Do their chores, offer them a smile and a "Best of luck," then be on his way.
That single half hour, the one he needed out back, was the only sticking point.
"Well?" he said to Dean.
Dean frowned. Scowled. Looked affronted and sheepish. "Yeah," he muttered.
This was what was new, something more startling than height and body hair and a growing gruffness of voice: the appearance of another Dean, one his son hauled out when the occasion allowed him the freedom to play-act. He'd always been more likely to listen than to talk, and when he did talk, was low-key and respectful and all right with following whoever was trying to lead. What he was thinking while he did that might have been a lot less than docile, but either way, the Dean that John had known for the last fourteen years had no flash, no easy charm, no smooth and winning chatter.
But this other Dean? The one who went by any of a growing list of rock band-connected aliases? The one whose skin Dean stepped oh-so-easily into when he needed to get a job done?
It was a fine thing to watch.
Which wasn't to say that it wasn't a little unsettling. This boy, this son of John's, with that mile-high fence still separating him from the glorious green fields of adulthood, could be a little too charming. A little too smooth. He could get what he wanted; the question was, did he really know what he wanted? And could he handle it if he got it? Whether this new Dean had a purpose in mind with this shiny flashdance routine of his, or whether it was all just for show, John hadn't had occasion to find out - and being that the kid was fourteen, he hoped the eventual Ta Da! Would be a long time in coming.
"Cookies," John told him. "Settle for cookies."
Dean heaved a sigh, just this side of being long-suffering.
Fourteen, John thought. You're goddamn fourteen. Not twenty. Not thirty.
He could have switched roles with the kid, but Dean didn't have the muscle to unearth old bones as fast as John could.
And John had left charming a ways back along the road.
Feeling the weight of years crawl through his shoulders and down his back, he picked up the battered toolbox he'd set down alongside the car and nodded toward the Dutton women's big old haunted house.
"Half an hour," he said to Dean.
"Cookies," Dean scoffed.
"Cookies," John said firmly.
The corner of Dean's mouth twitched. Wanted to resolve itself into a smartassed grin, but didn't. Settled for a mild smirk.
"I got it covered," John's son told him, and headed away at a pace that was almost a dance.
John could do nothing but watch him go.
* * * * *