SPN FIC - Hopely - Faye, 1991
Second entry in my little small-town experiment that began here, with Eddie the thrift shop owner. Outsider POVs, a collection of portraits of the residents of a small town that John brings the boys to three times: 1984, 1991, and 1998. Every seven years, because there's something going on and he's determined to ... you know. Kill some evil sons of bitches. Some of these OCs will know there's a problem and some won't. All of them (and the places they live and work) are borrowed from my own life, with some literary license.
"You said you knew how to take care of a kid," she barks at him, figuring he'll flinch, but he doesn't.
CHARACTERS: Dean (12), Sam (8), OFC
GENRE: Gen (outsider POV)
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1210 words
HOPELY - FAYE, 1991
By Carol Davis
"No," he says, and she thinks, You little shit.
The last thing she needs right now is lip from a kid - not after she’s been on her feet all day at the market, listening to Trish yap about how she’s not checking people out fast enough, how they gotta meet their quota and show up good on the monthly report and what the fucking fuck EVER. Her head’s been pounding like a sonofabitch since she got up this morning, Charlie took a monstrous, greasy dump in his diaper, and this kid, this kid from across the hall - she just does not need any lip from him. Not from anybody, but particularly not from him.
"You said you knew how to take care of a kid," she barks at him, figuring he'll flinch, but he doesn't.
"Just me," the younger one says (Sam? Yeah, that one's Sam, she thinks), and his brother frowns a little but doesn't say anything.
"You, him, what's the difference?" She nods over her shoulder at Charlie, who's sitting in the middle of the living room floor playing with one of his trucks. She changed his diaper and cleaned him up with a whole fistful of baby wipes, but there's still kind of a smell drifting off of him, which makes her headache pulse hard. She oughta give him a bath. But for crying out loud, it's after six already and Danny's gonna pull up out front any minute. "All you gotta do is watch him. You can do that, right? Just make sure he stays in one piece. He'll fall asleep after a while."
The front hall's like… What did Dad always call that thing? The demilitarized zone. Faye's in her doorway and the two kids are in theirs, and the hallway's an empty buffer in between. There's a mess of something on the floor over there - something those kids are being careful not to step on, or mess up - but what it's there for, or from, she can't figure out. Looks like salt, or sugar. They couldn't have tracked it in; there's too much of it. "The hell's that mess?" she asks.
The older one looks at her, kind of poker-faced. Don? Dan? Something like that.
"I'll give you five bucks," she says.
How old is he? Eleven? Twelve? Five bucks is a lot of money, but the little shit doesn't even blink. Something tells her he's gonna hold out for twenty, but that ain't happening, no sir. If he was a teenager, maybe, because the going rate for getting up off your ass if you're over sixteen has gotten pretty high, but this kid's nowhere near sixteen. Sixteen's a long freakin' way down the road. "Five bucks," she presses. "For doin' nothing. All you gotta do is watch him. I'm not askin' you to repaint the place. What're you doing in there, anyway? Watching TV? Park him on the rug and he'll watch it with you. It ain't rocket science."
The kid (Don, Dean, Dan, whatever) looks down at his little brother, then behind him, into their apartment. It's got the same ugly furniture that was in there when Murph lived there - no surprise, since Murph just up and disappeared, probably because he was way past due on the rent, and bailing's always been the easiest way out of that; these people probably took it furnished. She wonders for a second where the hell Murph went, then dismisses the thought, and him. Guy was a royal pain in the ass anyway.
"How long?" the kid asks.
"Couple hours."
"Make it ten."
"The fuck," she squawks. "For doin' what?"
Quiet and calm, the kid says, "You're going out with your boyfriend. You never come back before midnight. That's almost six hours, not a couple."
"Whadda you do, spy on me? You little -"
"Ten, or no deal."
"You little son of a bitch."
She has to admire him, really, because he's so cool about the whole thing. Like he's a lot older than eleven or twelve, and he's been doing this for a long time. Conning people. Getting what he wants.
"And I want it up front," he says.
Little bastard's got her over a barrel. Danny's coming any minute, she's still got to change her clothes, and there's nobody else to call, not on five minutes' notice. If she'd called this morning, Pat might have come over, but she didn't know until half an hour ago that Danny got off work early. If she tries to dump Charlie off at Pat's, Pat'll have a cow.
"Your old man know you scam people like this?" she demands.
"I'm not scamming anybody. You'd have to pay a real babysitter three times that much."
It occurs to her then that they could have each other over a barrel. These kids' old man is gone half the time. Working, they claim, and maybe that's true and maybe it isn't. Either way, the last Faye heard, twelve's not old enough to be left alone, far's the social workers are concerned. Twelve's not old enough to be running the show.
But she's got to hand it to this kid. The both of 'em are clean and neat, pretty much. The TV's a little loud once in a while, but other than that, you wouldn't even know they were in there. When they play outside, they're not trashing anything. The bunch that used to live upstairs pulled half the siding off the back wall just for the hell of it, but these kids… If anything, they tidy up. She saw 'em one day, sweeping up the pieces of a bottle somebody broke in the street.
They're good kids.
Charlie's gonna be safe with them.
Silently, she goes to her purse and fishes out a five and some ones. Hands them to Mr. Con Job. Then she scoops up her son and carries him across the hall, careful to step over that mess of sugar or salt or whatever that is. When she sets him down on the rug, Charlie whoops as if being here is some big adventure.
"Thanks," Faye says as she straightens up. "I - look. It won't be midnight."
The older kid shrugs, looks from Charlie to his brother. "Diapers," he tells her. "Baby food. We don't have any of that."
"Okay. Yeah."
She has to move fast: change clothes, run a brush through her hair, swish some mouthwash, then gather up Charlie's stuff and run it across the hall. By the time she drops the package of diapers on Murph's old swaybacked couch, Sam's gotten himself all settled on the floor with Charlie and they're playing with some little Matchbox cars. The older kid's watching them, and he's smiling a little. Like that's something he needs to see.
He's a good kid, she thinks.
He is.
So she makes one more dash into her apartment and returns with another five bucks. "Here," she says, and presses it into his hand. "It's - you're a good kid. You know?"
There's no time to make any more of it than that, because Danny's out front, engine rumbling, ready to get moving. "Thanks," she tells the kid, and takes a step toward the front door. "Thanks, Dean."
Then she runs on out.
* * * * *
"You said you knew how to take care of a kid," she barks at him, figuring he'll flinch, but he doesn't.
CHARACTERS: Dean (12), Sam (8), OFC
GENRE: Gen (outsider POV)
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1210 words
HOPELY - FAYE, 1991
By Carol Davis
"No," he says, and she thinks, You little shit.
The last thing she needs right now is lip from a kid - not after she’s been on her feet all day at the market, listening to Trish yap about how she’s not checking people out fast enough, how they gotta meet their quota and show up good on the monthly report and what the fucking fuck EVER. Her head’s been pounding like a sonofabitch since she got up this morning, Charlie took a monstrous, greasy dump in his diaper, and this kid, this kid from across the hall - she just does not need any lip from him. Not from anybody, but particularly not from him.
"You said you knew how to take care of a kid," she barks at him, figuring he'll flinch, but he doesn't.
"Just me," the younger one says (Sam? Yeah, that one's Sam, she thinks), and his brother frowns a little but doesn't say anything.
"You, him, what's the difference?" She nods over her shoulder at Charlie, who's sitting in the middle of the living room floor playing with one of his trucks. She changed his diaper and cleaned him up with a whole fistful of baby wipes, but there's still kind of a smell drifting off of him, which makes her headache pulse hard. She oughta give him a bath. But for crying out loud, it's after six already and Danny's gonna pull up out front any minute. "All you gotta do is watch him. You can do that, right? Just make sure he stays in one piece. He'll fall asleep after a while."
The front hall's like… What did Dad always call that thing? The demilitarized zone. Faye's in her doorway and the two kids are in theirs, and the hallway's an empty buffer in between. There's a mess of something on the floor over there - something those kids are being careful not to step on, or mess up - but what it's there for, or from, she can't figure out. Looks like salt, or sugar. They couldn't have tracked it in; there's too much of it. "The hell's that mess?" she asks.
The older one looks at her, kind of poker-faced. Don? Dan? Something like that.
"I'll give you five bucks," she says.
How old is he? Eleven? Twelve? Five bucks is a lot of money, but the little shit doesn't even blink. Something tells her he's gonna hold out for twenty, but that ain't happening, no sir. If he was a teenager, maybe, because the going rate for getting up off your ass if you're over sixteen has gotten pretty high, but this kid's nowhere near sixteen. Sixteen's a long freakin' way down the road. "Five bucks," she presses. "For doin' nothing. All you gotta do is watch him. I'm not askin' you to repaint the place. What're you doing in there, anyway? Watching TV? Park him on the rug and he'll watch it with you. It ain't rocket science."
The kid (Don, Dean, Dan, whatever) looks down at his little brother, then behind him, into their apartment. It's got the same ugly furniture that was in there when Murph lived there - no surprise, since Murph just up and disappeared, probably because he was way past due on the rent, and bailing's always been the easiest way out of that; these people probably took it furnished. She wonders for a second where the hell Murph went, then dismisses the thought, and him. Guy was a royal pain in the ass anyway.
"How long?" the kid asks.
"Couple hours."
"Make it ten."
"The fuck," she squawks. "For doin' what?"
Quiet and calm, the kid says, "You're going out with your boyfriend. You never come back before midnight. That's almost six hours, not a couple."
"Whadda you do, spy on me? You little -"
"Ten, or no deal."
"You little son of a bitch."
She has to admire him, really, because he's so cool about the whole thing. Like he's a lot older than eleven or twelve, and he's been doing this for a long time. Conning people. Getting what he wants.
"And I want it up front," he says.
Little bastard's got her over a barrel. Danny's coming any minute, she's still got to change her clothes, and there's nobody else to call, not on five minutes' notice. If she'd called this morning, Pat might have come over, but she didn't know until half an hour ago that Danny got off work early. If she tries to dump Charlie off at Pat's, Pat'll have a cow.
"Your old man know you scam people like this?" she demands.
"I'm not scamming anybody. You'd have to pay a real babysitter three times that much."
It occurs to her then that they could have each other over a barrel. These kids' old man is gone half the time. Working, they claim, and maybe that's true and maybe it isn't. Either way, the last Faye heard, twelve's not old enough to be left alone, far's the social workers are concerned. Twelve's not old enough to be running the show.
But she's got to hand it to this kid. The both of 'em are clean and neat, pretty much. The TV's a little loud once in a while, but other than that, you wouldn't even know they were in there. When they play outside, they're not trashing anything. The bunch that used to live upstairs pulled half the siding off the back wall just for the hell of it, but these kids… If anything, they tidy up. She saw 'em one day, sweeping up the pieces of a bottle somebody broke in the street.
They're good kids.
Charlie's gonna be safe with them.
Silently, she goes to her purse and fishes out a five and some ones. Hands them to Mr. Con Job. Then she scoops up her son and carries him across the hall, careful to step over that mess of sugar or salt or whatever that is. When she sets him down on the rug, Charlie whoops as if being here is some big adventure.
"Thanks," Faye says as she straightens up. "I - look. It won't be midnight."
The older kid shrugs, looks from Charlie to his brother. "Diapers," he tells her. "Baby food. We don't have any of that."
"Okay. Yeah."
She has to move fast: change clothes, run a brush through her hair, swish some mouthwash, then gather up Charlie's stuff and run it across the hall. By the time she drops the package of diapers on Murph's old swaybacked couch, Sam's gotten himself all settled on the floor with Charlie and they're playing with some little Matchbox cars. The older kid's watching them, and he's smiling a little. Like that's something he needs to see.
He's a good kid, she thinks.
He is.
So she makes one more dash into her apartment and returns with another five bucks. "Here," she says, and presses it into his hand. "It's - you're a good kid. You know?"
There's no time to make any more of it than that, because Danny's out front, engine rumbling, ready to get moving. "Thanks," she tells the kid, and takes a step toward the front door. "Thanks, Dean."
Then she runs on out.
* * * * *