SPN FIC - Keys (7.02)
He's had 'em as far back as he can remember: keys to the pieces of his life. A few, to pieces of other people's.
CHARACTERS: Bobby, Dean (age 5), Sam (age less-than-1)
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: 7.02
LENGTH: 1000 words
KEYS
By Carol Davis
He's had 'em as far back as he can remember: keys to the pieces of his life. A few, to pieces of other people's.
Who gave him that first key to the house, way back when? Must've been his mother, though why she would have done that, he can't fathom. Back then, nobody locked their doors - and it wasn't as if the Singers had anything that was worth stealing.
Doesn't matter, anyway.
It's all moot now.
Keys to the house, the cars, safety deposit boxes. Couple of John's old storage units (one of which the boys know about, and others he'll tell 'em about someday, if time and fate allow). Rufus's home in Vermont and half a dozen of his go-to-ground places.
Bobby's fist curls around the keyring, around the little bits of metal that all mean something. That all unlock something.
"You're not s'posed to give him that. It's dirty."
It's a memory pure and clean as new snow: forty-odd pounds of stubborn in rolled-up jeans and a red striped t-shirt, standing between Bobby and the baby he was trying to amuse by jangling his keys. It's something you DO, dammit, he thought back then. Babies like keys. They're like friggin' magpies. They go for the shiny stuff.
"Easy, Junior," Bobby said. "Not gonna let him eat 'em."
The kid didn't give a bit of ground. Not an inch. Stood in between Bobby and that baby with his feet planted and his arms folded over his chest, like he was guarding the gate to the Kingdom of Glory.
"You wanna give me a little bit of credit for common sense?" Bobby asked.
Clearly, the answer was "no."
"How come you got so many keys, anyway?" the kid asked after a minute.
How come your old man figures I'm a decent babysitter? Bobby thought but didn't say. I don't have any kids. Didn't have any brothers and sisters, and my old man scared off anybody I tried to bring home. What I know about kids you could write on a damn index card and have room left over for the Gettysburg Address.
With one eye on the kid, he sorted through his collection and singled out a big brass key. "This one right here?" he said. "This one's for the dungeon. Where I lock up kids who mouth off to me."
The kid's expression shifted. Bounced back and forth between You're full of shit, old man and DUNGEON???
"You're mean" came out as a mutter.
"Yeah? Well, put yourself in my shoes. I don't know the bunch of you from Adam. You just landed here like" - and he hesitated for no more than a split second before he said the rest of it, because while he'd never raised a kid, he'd been one - "a giant turd from space."
The kid's eyes got big.
His breath hitched, like he was holding back a big snort of a laugh, something that would have given the house a level of cheer it hadn't reached in years - but to Bobby's disappointment, it stayed locked up inside.
It showed through in his eyes, though. Took the form of a gleam that was as bright as a searchlight. As had been true with Karen, there was something hugely satisfying in the way that gleam said, This is just between us. I'm not even gonna tell anybody you said it. I'm gonna hang onto it like it's a handful of gold coins.
Just as well. The kid's old man was a humorless son of a bitch.
All too soon, the kid heaved the sigh of somebody ten times his age. With a nod toward the baby he said, "He eats everything. He eats dirt. I gotta watch him so he doesn’t eat stuff that's not food."
"Gotcha," Bobby said.
"He's like a dog. He eats leaves and stuff off the ground. I gotta watch him all the time. It's gonna get worse when he learns how to walk."
"Sucks to be you, huh?" Bobby said mildly.
The kid frowned at that. Little by little, his attention unlocked from the baby - who was safe enough, tucked in amongst a bunch of pillows on the couch - and focused on the keys, considering them like they were some variety of a big deal. Not because he'd never seen a fistful of keys before, Bobby figured, or because he honestly couldn't imagine there being so many all in one place.
Maybe because he'd been looking for something to talk about.
Maybe, someone to talk to.
Bobby held back a smile as he held out the keyring, offering it like he'd offer a beer, or shares on a bucket of popcorn. "Why don't you tell me what you figure they go to," he offered. "Car key looks different from a house key. Strongbox key's small."
"Car keys are different," the kid said. "Chevy's different from Cadillac."
"That's right."
The keyring was bigger than the kid's fist. He had to hold it in both hands. "I'm sorry we dropped in on you like a turd, Mr. Singer," he said, half to Bobby and half to the floor.
Then his eyes came up and he looked at Bobby full on.
"Bobby."
"Huh?"
"You call me Bobby. Mr. Singer's…well, he ain't around any more."
Lotta things aren't around any more, he thinks as he stares at what little is left of the house he grew up in. The house he and Karen figured on raising a brood in, that she tended to so lovingly. He's let it go to seed ever since she died, something that makes him feel bad every now and then, even though nobody's ever complained.
Not out loud, at least.
The metal in his fist warms slowly, as the remaining embers of the fire cool and die.
Hell if he can remember who gave him that first key, or why.
Out of a fistful, he saves only three.
He tosses the rest into the dirt and ashes, turns, and walks away.
* * * * *
CHARACTERS: Bobby, Dean (age 5), Sam (age less-than-1)
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: 7.02
LENGTH: 1000 words
KEYS
By Carol Davis
He's had 'em as far back as he can remember: keys to the pieces of his life. A few, to pieces of other people's.
Who gave him that first key to the house, way back when? Must've been his mother, though why she would have done that, he can't fathom. Back then, nobody locked their doors - and it wasn't as if the Singers had anything that was worth stealing.
Doesn't matter, anyway.
It's all moot now.
Keys to the house, the cars, safety deposit boxes. Couple of John's old storage units (one of which the boys know about, and others he'll tell 'em about someday, if time and fate allow). Rufus's home in Vermont and half a dozen of his go-to-ground places.
Bobby's fist curls around the keyring, around the little bits of metal that all mean something. That all unlock something.
"You're not s'posed to give him that. It's dirty."
It's a memory pure and clean as new snow: forty-odd pounds of stubborn in rolled-up jeans and a red striped t-shirt, standing between Bobby and the baby he was trying to amuse by jangling his keys. It's something you DO, dammit, he thought back then. Babies like keys. They're like friggin' magpies. They go for the shiny stuff.
"Easy, Junior," Bobby said. "Not gonna let him eat 'em."
The kid didn't give a bit of ground. Not an inch. Stood in between Bobby and that baby with his feet planted and his arms folded over his chest, like he was guarding the gate to the Kingdom of Glory.
"You wanna give me a little bit of credit for common sense?" Bobby asked.
Clearly, the answer was "no."
"How come you got so many keys, anyway?" the kid asked after a minute.
How come your old man figures I'm a decent babysitter? Bobby thought but didn't say. I don't have any kids. Didn't have any brothers and sisters, and my old man scared off anybody I tried to bring home. What I know about kids you could write on a damn index card and have room left over for the Gettysburg Address.
With one eye on the kid, he sorted through his collection and singled out a big brass key. "This one right here?" he said. "This one's for the dungeon. Where I lock up kids who mouth off to me."
The kid's expression shifted. Bounced back and forth between You're full of shit, old man and DUNGEON???
"You're mean" came out as a mutter.
"Yeah? Well, put yourself in my shoes. I don't know the bunch of you from Adam. You just landed here like" - and he hesitated for no more than a split second before he said the rest of it, because while he'd never raised a kid, he'd been one - "a giant turd from space."
The kid's eyes got big.
His breath hitched, like he was holding back a big snort of a laugh, something that would have given the house a level of cheer it hadn't reached in years - but to Bobby's disappointment, it stayed locked up inside.
It showed through in his eyes, though. Took the form of a gleam that was as bright as a searchlight. As had been true with Karen, there was something hugely satisfying in the way that gleam said, This is just between us. I'm not even gonna tell anybody you said it. I'm gonna hang onto it like it's a handful of gold coins.
Just as well. The kid's old man was a humorless son of a bitch.
All too soon, the kid heaved the sigh of somebody ten times his age. With a nod toward the baby he said, "He eats everything. He eats dirt. I gotta watch him so he doesn’t eat stuff that's not food."
"Gotcha," Bobby said.
"He's like a dog. He eats leaves and stuff off the ground. I gotta watch him all the time. It's gonna get worse when he learns how to walk."
"Sucks to be you, huh?" Bobby said mildly.
The kid frowned at that. Little by little, his attention unlocked from the baby - who was safe enough, tucked in amongst a bunch of pillows on the couch - and focused on the keys, considering them like they were some variety of a big deal. Not because he'd never seen a fistful of keys before, Bobby figured, or because he honestly couldn't imagine there being so many all in one place.
Maybe because he'd been looking for something to talk about.
Maybe, someone to talk to.
Bobby held back a smile as he held out the keyring, offering it like he'd offer a beer, or shares on a bucket of popcorn. "Why don't you tell me what you figure they go to," he offered. "Car key looks different from a house key. Strongbox key's small."
"Car keys are different," the kid said. "Chevy's different from Cadillac."
"That's right."
The keyring was bigger than the kid's fist. He had to hold it in both hands. "I'm sorry we dropped in on you like a turd, Mr. Singer," he said, half to Bobby and half to the floor.
Then his eyes came up and he looked at Bobby full on.
"Bobby."
"Huh?"
"You call me Bobby. Mr. Singer's…well, he ain't around any more."
Lotta things aren't around any more, he thinks as he stares at what little is left of the house he grew up in. The house he and Karen figured on raising a brood in, that she tended to so lovingly. He's let it go to seed ever since she died, something that makes him feel bad every now and then, even though nobody's ever complained.
Not out loud, at least.
The metal in his fist warms slowly, as the remaining embers of the fire cool and die.
Hell if he can remember who gave him that first key, or why.
Out of a fistful, he saves only three.
He tosses the rest into the dirt and ashes, turns, and walks away.
* * * * *