SPN FIC - Little Man
This isn't what John needed right now: a car with four sketchy tires and a fluttery knock somewhere in the engine. Two kids, one of 'em screaming and the other one green as a toad. But once in a while, you get what you do need -- a little bit of sunlight, a swing set, and a minute to breathe.
CHARACTERS: John, Dean (age 5), Sam (age 1)
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1000 words
LITTLE MAN
By Carol Davis
This is not what he needed right now, or ever: another day that provides more questions than answers. The constant, pressing sensation that something's watching him. Waiting. Laughing its ass off at the way he flounders through what's left of his life. A car with four sketchy tires and a fluttery knock somewhere in the engine.
Two kids.
One of 'em screaming and the other one green as a toad.
When he looks at the rearview mirror, Dean's smiling, but it's as ghastly an expression as John's ever seen.
"We'll be there soon," he tells his son.
Dean nods at that. He stops that frozen smiling after a second, but not in a good way.
There's no choice but to pull over. It won't hurt anything; there's still plenty of daylight left, and they're no more than twenty miles from the place the old man said to go to, the one they need to reach before dark. The alternative is to keep going, and let Dean blow chunks all over the back seat - then deal with the smell.
And the crying.
And that unending fllllllwwhaaaaap in the engine.
Up ahead, there's a little park, safe and bright, well populated by people walking dogs and throwing Frisbees. There's an ice cream vendor, and a hot dog cart. Other carts selling pizza and subs.
Office buildings across the street, John realizes. The carts are for people looking for a cheap lunch.
He pulls the car into a small, low-walled parking lot that offers a few open spaces. It's a quick maneuver, as non-jarring as he can manage. He's out of the car an instant after the engine's stopped, pulling the rear door open and stepping aside so Dean can scramble out. The poor kid looks like he's about to return-to-sender everything he's eaten in the last two weeks.
The home fries from breakfast, John thinks. Okay for him, but way too greasy for a small stomach.
He waits.
Dean quivers a little and goes from green to ashen. He's doing a damn fine job of slow, even breathing, but whether he'll win this contest is still anybody's guess, and John spends half a minute cussing the home fries and the grease and the diner and himself for stopping there and pretty much everything that's happened to them in the past seven months.
"Do what you need to do," John tells his son quietly. "Nobody's looking."
Not gonna happen, though.
Not with this kid: the one who's spent the past seven months doing his damnedest to behave himself.
"I'm sorry, Dad," Dean murmurs.
"Not your fault."
With a hand on Dean's trembling shoulder, John takes another look at the curbside vendors. Several of them have soda on the menu, and the one that has soup will probably have saltine crackers in those little cellophane two-packs. Ginger ale and some crackers should do the trick, if Dean sips the soda a little at a time. It's pleasant here, warm and sunny - a good place to stop for a while. They've got the time to do that.
"Stay right here," he tells his boy. "All right? Stay right here with Sam. I'm going right over there."
Maybe it's the fresh air that helps. Maybe it's the surroundings: the trees and grass and the dogs chasing after Frisbees. Maybe it's none of that. Whatever the reason, by the time John returns to the car with a couple of cans of pop and a fistful of saltines, Dean looks a little pinker, a little less like he's going to ralph.
"I'm better," he says softly.
John pops the tab on the ginger ale anyway and hands it over. "You drink that. Little sips."
They lean side by side against the car, Dean following John's lead, the way he's done since he was old enough to string a thought together. He dutifully sips his drink, and nibbles at the crackers John holds out to him, and after a while it's like they stopped here for the same reason everyone else did: to enjoy the day.
"Dad?" Dean says.
His small hand comes up and points to something just beyond a nearby row of trees. A swing set. Sliding board. Jungle gym.
Dean doesn't ask the question, but it's on his face: Can we?
Can we.
The world's coming up on summer, the way it has every year before this one. The way it did last year, when they were a family of four, and there was a house involved. Dinner every night around a small table with a wobbly leg, something he never quite got around to fixing (and it certainly doesn't matter any more). Toys and TV and lawn to mow, flower beds to water and long, warm, sticky nights with cicadas chirping over the hum of a window fan.
Without offering an answer to Dean, John leans into the car and unfastens the straps that pinion Sam into his car seat. The baby's stopped crying, which is a blessing, and John doesn't bother to think of what the reason for Sam's sudden contentment is as he lifts Sam out of the car, shifts him into a good, secure grip, and pushes the car door closed.
There's a baby swing at the far left end, a red plastic contraption that makes Sam goggle with amazement as John lowers him into it.
"I can push," Dean offers.
When John steps aside, Dean moves into place, rests a hand on the red plastic and gives it a gentle nudge, then another, as Sam whoops and giggles and flaps his small fat hands in the air. When Sam begins to jump and wiggle in the seat, Dean tells him firmly, "No, Sammy. You just swing, okay? I'm gonna push."
Sam stares at him raptly, as if Dean is delivering the Gettysburg Address.
They've got time, John thinks as he leans against the frame of the swing, sipping at his drink and watching his boys.
With any luck, they always will.
* * * * *
CHARACTERS: John, Dean (age 5), Sam (age 1)
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1000 words
LITTLE MAN
By Carol Davis
This is not what he needed right now, or ever: another day that provides more questions than answers. The constant, pressing sensation that something's watching him. Waiting. Laughing its ass off at the way he flounders through what's left of his life. A car with four sketchy tires and a fluttery knock somewhere in the engine.
Two kids.
One of 'em screaming and the other one green as a toad.
When he looks at the rearview mirror, Dean's smiling, but it's as ghastly an expression as John's ever seen.
"We'll be there soon," he tells his son.
Dean nods at that. He stops that frozen smiling after a second, but not in a good way.
There's no choice but to pull over. It won't hurt anything; there's still plenty of daylight left, and they're no more than twenty miles from the place the old man said to go to, the one they need to reach before dark. The alternative is to keep going, and let Dean blow chunks all over the back seat - then deal with the smell.
And the crying.
And that unending fllllllwwhaaaaap in the engine.
Up ahead, there's a little park, safe and bright, well populated by people walking dogs and throwing Frisbees. There's an ice cream vendor, and a hot dog cart. Other carts selling pizza and subs.
Office buildings across the street, John realizes. The carts are for people looking for a cheap lunch.
He pulls the car into a small, low-walled parking lot that offers a few open spaces. It's a quick maneuver, as non-jarring as he can manage. He's out of the car an instant after the engine's stopped, pulling the rear door open and stepping aside so Dean can scramble out. The poor kid looks like he's about to return-to-sender everything he's eaten in the last two weeks.
The home fries from breakfast, John thinks. Okay for him, but way too greasy for a small stomach.
He waits.
Dean quivers a little and goes from green to ashen. He's doing a damn fine job of slow, even breathing, but whether he'll win this contest is still anybody's guess, and John spends half a minute cussing the home fries and the grease and the diner and himself for stopping there and pretty much everything that's happened to them in the past seven months.
"Do what you need to do," John tells his son quietly. "Nobody's looking."
Not gonna happen, though.
Not with this kid: the one who's spent the past seven months doing his damnedest to behave himself.
"I'm sorry, Dad," Dean murmurs.
"Not your fault."
With a hand on Dean's trembling shoulder, John takes another look at the curbside vendors. Several of them have soda on the menu, and the one that has soup will probably have saltine crackers in those little cellophane two-packs. Ginger ale and some crackers should do the trick, if Dean sips the soda a little at a time. It's pleasant here, warm and sunny - a good place to stop for a while. They've got the time to do that.
"Stay right here," he tells his boy. "All right? Stay right here with Sam. I'm going right over there."
Maybe it's the fresh air that helps. Maybe it's the surroundings: the trees and grass and the dogs chasing after Frisbees. Maybe it's none of that. Whatever the reason, by the time John returns to the car with a couple of cans of pop and a fistful of saltines, Dean looks a little pinker, a little less like he's going to ralph.
"I'm better," he says softly.
John pops the tab on the ginger ale anyway and hands it over. "You drink that. Little sips."
They lean side by side against the car, Dean following John's lead, the way he's done since he was old enough to string a thought together. He dutifully sips his drink, and nibbles at the crackers John holds out to him, and after a while it's like they stopped here for the same reason everyone else did: to enjoy the day.
"Dad?" Dean says.
His small hand comes up and points to something just beyond a nearby row of trees. A swing set. Sliding board. Jungle gym.
Dean doesn't ask the question, but it's on his face: Can we?
Can we.
The world's coming up on summer, the way it has every year before this one. The way it did last year, when they were a family of four, and there was a house involved. Dinner every night around a small table with a wobbly leg, something he never quite got around to fixing (and it certainly doesn't matter any more). Toys and TV and lawn to mow, flower beds to water and long, warm, sticky nights with cicadas chirping over the hum of a window fan.
Without offering an answer to Dean, John leans into the car and unfastens the straps that pinion Sam into his car seat. The baby's stopped crying, which is a blessing, and John doesn't bother to think of what the reason for Sam's sudden contentment is as he lifts Sam out of the car, shifts him into a good, secure grip, and pushes the car door closed.
There's a baby swing at the far left end, a red plastic contraption that makes Sam goggle with amazement as John lowers him into it.
"I can push," Dean offers.
When John steps aside, Dean moves into place, rests a hand on the red plastic and gives it a gentle nudge, then another, as Sam whoops and giggles and flaps his small fat hands in the air. When Sam begins to jump and wiggle in the seat, Dean tells him firmly, "No, Sammy. You just swing, okay? I'm gonna push."
Sam stares at him raptly, as if Dean is delivering the Gettysburg Address.
They've got time, John thinks as he leans against the frame of the swing, sipping at his drink and watching his boys.
With any luck, they always will.
* * * * *