SPN FIC - Wish Book
It's one of those days. The washer's on the fritz. The milk's gone sour. And her little boy's found something he needs to show her. Right now. Because it's important.
When she finally lowers her hands, the first thing she sees is her son, hovering nearby, half hidden by John's recliner. He's rubbing his lips with the knuckle of his right thumb. They've taught him not to suck his thumb, told him that big boys don't do that, but he's still tempted, now and then.
CHARACTERS: Mary, wee!Dean
GENRE: Gen
RATING: G
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 998 words
WISH BOOK
By Carol Davis
"Mom," he says. "MOM."
This day? This particular day? What she does not need is a child determined to pester her. The washer's on the fritz, the half carton of milk they had left went sour two days before the expiration date, and it's pouring outside - has been for more than an hour now. The mini-mart's only four blocks away, but a trip to the store in this rain to get more milk… No. Just, no.
"MommEEEEE."
"Dean," she snaps. "Stop it."
She turns, arms wrapped around that part of the laundry she can wash out in the sink, and instead of being a few steps away, as he was a few seconds ago, Dean is now right underfoot. She's not often grateful for the training her father gave her, beginning when she wasn't much older than Dean is now - but there's definitely something to be said for having a sense of balance that allows her to dance around her child instead of falling on top of him.
Seven and a half months pregnant. Arms full of laundry. She doesn't stumble, but something rises up inside her, something that says Enough, okay??? ENOUGH, already!!!, and for a moment she's close to tears.
The "something" must be contagious. When she looks down at Dean, his face is beet red and his lower lip is quivering.
"I just wanna show you," he mutters.
And you want another one? she thinks. Sure. Okay. And you know what? Let's go down to the pound and get half a dozen puppies to go along with it. And maybe a chimpanzee. Let's just have a zoo.
A single tear begins a slow, steady slide down Dean's cheek.
"I'm sorry," he whispers.
She can't think how to reply to that, not when every nerve ending in her body is firing up to perform Disco's One Hundred Greatest Hits (complete with rotating mirror ball) so rather than give it a try, she drops the laundry to the floor, steps around it, trudges into the living room and sinks down onto the couch.
Seven and a half months, she thinks. It's like having a disco ball shoved inside your skin.
Maybe it's her father's training that keeps her from crying. Maybe it's something else. Who the hell knows. She sits for a while with her face buried in her hands, listening to the drumming of the rain against the living room windows, and little by little the surge of adrenaline bleeds away, leaving her feeling rubbery and exhausted.
When she finally lowers her hands, the first thing she sees is her son, hovering nearby, half hidden by John's recliner. He's rubbing his lips with the knuckle of his right thumb. They've taught him not to suck his thumb, told him that big boys don't do that, but he's still tempted, now and then.
Seriously? She's more than a little tempted to do it herself.
"What is it?" she asks softly.
Dean shakes his head.
"It's all right, sweetheart. Mommy's sorry. I'm just very tired, okay?"
Luckily, he's an easy sell, particularly when there might be hugs involved. He hesitates for a moment, then nods. Disappears for a minute and comes back lugging the big Montgomery Ward Christmas catalog. That's a puzzle, since Christmas was months ago (and Dean has a pretty firm handle on concepts like "three months ago" and "next summer"; has for some time now), but he seems determined to show the book to her.
He settles himself on the couch beside her and lays the book open on his lap, then turns the pages carefully to one he's marked by turning down the corner.
It's the Infants and Toddlers section.
"This one," Dean says, and points.
"We have a crib, sweetheart," Mary tells him. "Remember? The baby is going to use your crib."
"No," he insists. "This."
"I - what?"
He's pointing to a baby, a grinning, blond, apple-cheeked little boy in a fluffy blue sleeper. "I want this one," he says. "This brother."
And he beams at her, like he's got this all figured out.
"Oh, honey," she says. "That's not how it works."
"It's not?"
"No, sweetheart."
"But… you pick all the things from this book."
He's right, she realizes. Curtains, jeans, their Christmas tree, the runner for the upstairs hallway, the new set of frying pans. They let Dean put together his letter to Santa using this catalog. The Wish Book, they call it. Everyone calls it that; that's been true as far back as she can remember. The Monkey Wards Wish Book.
"You said if I wish," he insists. "You said Santa would know."
Yes. She did say that. But she was talking about Matchbox cars and a Superman bedspread.
"Honey," she says, and for a minute she's lost for what to tell him.
Then she takes his small hand and rests it on her belly. "See," she says softly, "Daddy and I already wished."
"You did?"
"Uh-huh. And we picked this brother for you. Is that okay? Do you think you could like this one, the one that we picked, instead of that other one?"
Dean ponders that for a good long while. Clearly, it's a question of great cosmic importance.
Of course it is, Mary thinks.
There's not a whole lot that could be any more important.
Finally, Dean nods with all the solemnity of an elderly Supreme Court justice, leans over and rests his cheek against her belly. It's really nothing more than a response to the sudden warmth, the pressure, but inside her, the baby shifts around and nudges Dean as if to say, "Hey, there."
"What do you think?" she asks. "Is it okay to keep this one?"
Dean wraps an arm around that giant disco ball. Gives it his best attempt at a one-armed hug.
"Yeah," he allows, and when he looks up at her, he's smiling. "That's okay."
"I'm glad."
And she thinks, Yes, looking down at that small, earnest face.
I want two.
* * * * *
When she finally lowers her hands, the first thing she sees is her son, hovering nearby, half hidden by John's recliner. He's rubbing his lips with the knuckle of his right thumb. They've taught him not to suck his thumb, told him that big boys don't do that, but he's still tempted, now and then.
CHARACTERS: Mary, wee!Dean
GENRE: Gen
RATING: G
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 998 words
WISH BOOK
By Carol Davis
"Mom," he says. "MOM."
This day? This particular day? What she does not need is a child determined to pester her. The washer's on the fritz, the half carton of milk they had left went sour two days before the expiration date, and it's pouring outside - has been for more than an hour now. The mini-mart's only four blocks away, but a trip to the store in this rain to get more milk… No. Just, no.
"MommEEEEE."
"Dean," she snaps. "Stop it."
She turns, arms wrapped around that part of the laundry she can wash out in the sink, and instead of being a few steps away, as he was a few seconds ago, Dean is now right underfoot. She's not often grateful for the training her father gave her, beginning when she wasn't much older than Dean is now - but there's definitely something to be said for having a sense of balance that allows her to dance around her child instead of falling on top of him.
Seven and a half months pregnant. Arms full of laundry. She doesn't stumble, but something rises up inside her, something that says Enough, okay??? ENOUGH, already!!!, and for a moment she's close to tears.
The "something" must be contagious. When she looks down at Dean, his face is beet red and his lower lip is quivering.
"I just wanna show you," he mutters.
And you want another one? she thinks. Sure. Okay. And you know what? Let's go down to the pound and get half a dozen puppies to go along with it. And maybe a chimpanzee. Let's just have a zoo.
A single tear begins a slow, steady slide down Dean's cheek.
"I'm sorry," he whispers.
She can't think how to reply to that, not when every nerve ending in her body is firing up to perform Disco's One Hundred Greatest Hits (complete with rotating mirror ball) so rather than give it a try, she drops the laundry to the floor, steps around it, trudges into the living room and sinks down onto the couch.
Seven and a half months, she thinks. It's like having a disco ball shoved inside your skin.
Maybe it's her father's training that keeps her from crying. Maybe it's something else. Who the hell knows. She sits for a while with her face buried in her hands, listening to the drumming of the rain against the living room windows, and little by little the surge of adrenaline bleeds away, leaving her feeling rubbery and exhausted.
When she finally lowers her hands, the first thing she sees is her son, hovering nearby, half hidden by John's recliner. He's rubbing his lips with the knuckle of his right thumb. They've taught him not to suck his thumb, told him that big boys don't do that, but he's still tempted, now and then.
Seriously? She's more than a little tempted to do it herself.
"What is it?" she asks softly.
Dean shakes his head.
"It's all right, sweetheart. Mommy's sorry. I'm just very tired, okay?"
Luckily, he's an easy sell, particularly when there might be hugs involved. He hesitates for a moment, then nods. Disappears for a minute and comes back lugging the big Montgomery Ward Christmas catalog. That's a puzzle, since Christmas was months ago (and Dean has a pretty firm handle on concepts like "three months ago" and "next summer"; has for some time now), but he seems determined to show the book to her.
He settles himself on the couch beside her and lays the book open on his lap, then turns the pages carefully to one he's marked by turning down the corner.
It's the Infants and Toddlers section.
"This one," Dean says, and points.
"We have a crib, sweetheart," Mary tells him. "Remember? The baby is going to use your crib."
"No," he insists. "This."
"I - what?"
He's pointing to a baby, a grinning, blond, apple-cheeked little boy in a fluffy blue sleeper. "I want this one," he says. "This brother."
And he beams at her, like he's got this all figured out.
"Oh, honey," she says. "That's not how it works."
"It's not?"
"No, sweetheart."
"But… you pick all the things from this book."
He's right, she realizes. Curtains, jeans, their Christmas tree, the runner for the upstairs hallway, the new set of frying pans. They let Dean put together his letter to Santa using this catalog. The Wish Book, they call it. Everyone calls it that; that's been true as far back as she can remember. The Monkey Wards Wish Book.
"You said if I wish," he insists. "You said Santa would know."
Yes. She did say that. But she was talking about Matchbox cars and a Superman bedspread.
"Honey," she says, and for a minute she's lost for what to tell him.
Then she takes his small hand and rests it on her belly. "See," she says softly, "Daddy and I already wished."
"You did?"
"Uh-huh. And we picked this brother for you. Is that okay? Do you think you could like this one, the one that we picked, instead of that other one?"
Dean ponders that for a good long while. Clearly, it's a question of great cosmic importance.
Of course it is, Mary thinks.
There's not a whole lot that could be any more important.
Finally, Dean nods with all the solemnity of an elderly Supreme Court justice, leans over and rests his cheek against her belly. It's really nothing more than a response to the sudden warmth, the pressure, but inside her, the baby shifts around and nudges Dean as if to say, "Hey, there."
"What do you think?" she asks. "Is it okay to keep this one?"
Dean wraps an arm around that giant disco ball. Gives it his best attempt at a one-armed hug.
"Yeah," he allows, and when he looks up at her, he's smiling. "That's okay."
"I'm glad."
And she thinks, Yes, looking down at that small, earnest face.
I want two.
* * * * *