SPN FIC - Of Mice and Dean
No more seedy motel rooms -- not with the Leviathans watching their every move. Now, "home" is a bunch of abandoned, falling-down houses.
And in this particular house, they're not alone.
CHARACTERS: Dean and Sam (with flashbacks to Dean age 10, Sam age 6)
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 775 words
OF MICE AND DEAN
By Carol Davis
"He has kind eyes," Sammy says softly, somewhere in the recesses of Dean's memory.
And that entire day comes spinning back, in all its full-color glory, as if he's watching it on TV. That beat-up Nike box, reeking so much of Dumpster that Dean's first instinct was to hurl - all over Sam, that stinking box, and its contents.
"Are you serious?" he bleats. "Dad's not gonna let you keep that."
Bitchface Number 47(b) appears on cue, as Dean expected it to: the Dad Doesn't Let Me Have Anything I Want face. Well-justified in this case, Dean believes. (Dad's almost-certain objection, not the bitchface.) There's a rodent in the box. It might well stink as much as the box does; it's hard to tell. Its name is Murphy, Sam says. For Pastor Jim.
Because they both have kind eyes.
Which will cut exactly no ice with Dad, his friendship with Jim Murphy notwithstanding.
Also occupying the shoebox are chunks of an old sock, some of which the mouse has shredded; bits of half-chewed Cap'n Crunch, and - for no reason Dean can fathom - a green plastic Army man. Part of its head and half its rifle are gone. Chewed off, Dean suspects.
"It's only little," Sam coaxes.
"You can't have a rat in a box."
"It's a mouse."
"It's the same thing."
Sam's mouth shapes the word "no," but his conviction fades rapidly. "They're not the same," he murmurs. "Are they?"
They might be. They might not be. What's beyond argument is that Dad's going to say no, just as he said no to each one of Sam's previous requests for a pet. Dogs. Cats. Hamsters. Goldfish, lizards, guinea pigs, the garter snake he found in the yard back in Hopely. "I'll take care of it," Sam promised, each and every time, and each and every time it cut no ice.
Sidney the spider managed to escape Dad's notice for almost a week, then met an untimely - and entirely accidental, though Sam didn't believe that then, and probably still doesn't - squashing underneath the phone book Dad hurled onto the table.
"You could help me."
"It's probably got fleas," Dean counters.
"No it doesn't."
"Why? Did you look?"
"He only eats a little. And you don't gotta take him for a walk or nothing. And he doesn't bite."
Yet, Dean thinks. "How do you know it's a he?"
Sam's mouth lolls open.
"What're you gonna do if it has babies? If there's like a hundred of them? Dad's gonna go apeshit, Sam. You can't have a rat in a box. Go put it back where you found it, and get rid of that crappy box. Then go wash your hands about fifty times. You smell like puke."
"I do not."
"SAM."
Only Sam could be proud of a rat in a shoebox.
Mouse.
His name is Murphy.
Here, now, black, gleaming eyes stare out at Dean from the depths of the cabinet over the sink.
This is something he and Sam have always done, sometimes with enthusiasm, sometimes not: search cabinets and drawers, under the beds and in the corners of closets, for things other people have left behind. Magazines. Paperback books. Half-empty bags of chips. Coins, keys, bits of broken toys. A single shoe. A screwdriver. Rubbers both used and not. Earrings. Once, a wadded-up dollar bill.
Sometimes, the place they've chosen to stay is a treasure trove. Far more often, it's not.
This place offers nothing at all. A floor, some walls, a badly leaking roof.
And a rodent, peering out at him from the shadows.
Kind eyes, he thinks.
What kind of sorry shit is that?
Small and gray. More frightened than it would like to be, he guesses. Foraging for bits of food, a place to rest, a few hours beyond the reach of the things that see it as prey.
Behind him, on the surface of a battered, three-legged kitchen table, are the remains of his lunch, a sandwich he couldn't finish eating. With a glance into the other room, where his brother is earnestly sifting through web pages, he breaks off a thumb-sized piece of the roll and reaches into the cabinet with it, sliding it slowly across the filthy shelf toward the mouse.
For a moment, they observe each other.
More alike than Dean would care to admit. At least, not aloud.
"You find something?" Sam calls from the other room.
Dean smiles, fleetingly, thinking of that other day, of a mouse named Murphy and a reeking shoebox; of loss and hope and the tear-filled eyes of a six-year-old.
Then, gently, he closes the cabinet door and tells his brother, "No."
* * * * *
And in this particular house, they're not alone.
CHARACTERS: Dean and Sam (with flashbacks to Dean age 10, Sam age 6)
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 775 words
OF MICE AND DEAN
By Carol Davis
"He has kind eyes," Sammy says softly, somewhere in the recesses of Dean's memory.
And that entire day comes spinning back, in all its full-color glory, as if he's watching it on TV. That beat-up Nike box, reeking so much of Dumpster that Dean's first instinct was to hurl - all over Sam, that stinking box, and its contents.
"Are you serious?" he bleats. "Dad's not gonna let you keep that."
Bitchface Number 47(b) appears on cue, as Dean expected it to: the Dad Doesn't Let Me Have Anything I Want face. Well-justified in this case, Dean believes. (Dad's almost-certain objection, not the bitchface.) There's a rodent in the box. It might well stink as much as the box does; it's hard to tell. Its name is Murphy, Sam says. For Pastor Jim.
Because they both have kind eyes.
Which will cut exactly no ice with Dad, his friendship with Jim Murphy notwithstanding.
Also occupying the shoebox are chunks of an old sock, some of which the mouse has shredded; bits of half-chewed Cap'n Crunch, and - for no reason Dean can fathom - a green plastic Army man. Part of its head and half its rifle are gone. Chewed off, Dean suspects.
"It's only little," Sam coaxes.
"You can't have a rat in a box."
"It's a mouse."
"It's the same thing."
Sam's mouth shapes the word "no," but his conviction fades rapidly. "They're not the same," he murmurs. "Are they?"
They might be. They might not be. What's beyond argument is that Dad's going to say no, just as he said no to each one of Sam's previous requests for a pet. Dogs. Cats. Hamsters. Goldfish, lizards, guinea pigs, the garter snake he found in the yard back in Hopely. "I'll take care of it," Sam promised, each and every time, and each and every time it cut no ice.
Sidney the spider managed to escape Dad's notice for almost a week, then met an untimely - and entirely accidental, though Sam didn't believe that then, and probably still doesn't - squashing underneath the phone book Dad hurled onto the table.
"You could help me."
"It's probably got fleas," Dean counters.
"No it doesn't."
"Why? Did you look?"
"He only eats a little. And you don't gotta take him for a walk or nothing. And he doesn't bite."
Yet, Dean thinks. "How do you know it's a he?"
Sam's mouth lolls open.
"What're you gonna do if it has babies? If there's like a hundred of them? Dad's gonna go apeshit, Sam. You can't have a rat in a box. Go put it back where you found it, and get rid of that crappy box. Then go wash your hands about fifty times. You smell like puke."
"I do not."
"SAM."
Only Sam could be proud of a rat in a shoebox.
Mouse.
His name is Murphy.
Here, now, black, gleaming eyes stare out at Dean from the depths of the cabinet over the sink.
This is something he and Sam have always done, sometimes with enthusiasm, sometimes not: search cabinets and drawers, under the beds and in the corners of closets, for things other people have left behind. Magazines. Paperback books. Half-empty bags of chips. Coins, keys, bits of broken toys. A single shoe. A screwdriver. Rubbers both used and not. Earrings. Once, a wadded-up dollar bill.
Sometimes, the place they've chosen to stay is a treasure trove. Far more often, it's not.
This place offers nothing at all. A floor, some walls, a badly leaking roof.
And a rodent, peering out at him from the shadows.
Kind eyes, he thinks.
What kind of sorry shit is that?
Small and gray. More frightened than it would like to be, he guesses. Foraging for bits of food, a place to rest, a few hours beyond the reach of the things that see it as prey.
Behind him, on the surface of a battered, three-legged kitchen table, are the remains of his lunch, a sandwich he couldn't finish eating. With a glance into the other room, where his brother is earnestly sifting through web pages, he breaks off a thumb-sized piece of the roll and reaches into the cabinet with it, sliding it slowly across the filthy shelf toward the mouse.
For a moment, they observe each other.
More alike than Dean would care to admit. At least, not aloud.
"You find something?" Sam calls from the other room.
Dean smiles, fleetingly, thinking of that other day, of a mouse named Murphy and a reeking shoebox; of loss and hope and the tear-filled eyes of a six-year-old.
Then, gently, he closes the cabinet door and tells his brother, "No."
* * * * *