SPN FIC - Generosity
For charis_kalos, who needed a little reward for sitting down at the keyboard and getting things done! Hope you enjoy this brief visit to Blue Earth, my friend.
CHARACTERS: Pastor Jim, Dean (age 8), Sam (age 4)
GENRE: Gen
RATING: G
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 865 words
GENEROSITY
By Carol Davis
Not until the three small plates were empty did the questions begin - though even then, after the last crumb had been devoured, there was a moment of reverent silence. Contemplation. Respect for the bounty of the evening.
Dean's tongue slid out, sunning lizard slow, and swept a smear of cherry glaze off his upper lip.
Then he asked, brow furrowed, "How come they bring you all this stuff? All this food? Those ladies?"
"Kindness," Jim said. "Friendship."
"But you're not sick or nothing. And it's not your birthday."
Smiling slightly, Jim looked off down the street. Half a block down, the Thompsons' little girl was chasing a tiny dog around their wide front yard, shrieking at it something that sounded like, "You can't win me! You can't!"
"Don't they think Mrs. Lundquist makes you enough food?" Dean persisted.
Arm's reach away, Sammy (slumped against the post that held up the front porch roof) announced, judge-solemn, "It's 'cause you're cuter 'n Mel Gibmans."
That got a startled "What?" out of both Jim and Dean.
Then Dean complained, "Mel GIBSON."
"No…" Sam ventured.
"Mel Gibson, doofus-head. The guy in Lethal Weapon. There's no such person as Mel Gibmans."
"You don't know."
"Yeah, I do."
Jim flashed a hand to stall the bickering, though that did nothing to send Sam's now-protruding lower lip back into its normal position. He let a moment go by, thought about issuing a reminder on the subject of respect, and recalled John's combination groan and eye-roll, accompanied by a gruff, "Spare the sermonizing."
John's substitute for parables on the topic? A barked "CAN IT."
Effective, Jim had to admit.
"How do you know that?" he asked Sam, eyebrow raised at the way Sam was banging out the tune of… something… with his fork, drumming the rim of his empty plate.
"You're gonna break that," Dean told his brother.
Sam ignored him in favor of telling Jim, "They said."
"And when was this?"
Sam shrugged, shoulders hauled up close to his ears.
Funny, the way neither of the boys would quite meet Jim's gaze. He let a moment slide by, watching the little Thompson girl run in circles with the tiny dog, all six legs pumping hard, her bleating providing counterpoint to the dog's fervent, squeaky yapping.
He remembered glancing down and catching a glimpse of a sneakered foot just before it vanished, joining the rest of its owner in the shadows beneath a pew.
"I found a dime," Sam said.
"Crawling around under the pews?"
"Nope. In the parkin' lot."
"And did you gather your intel in the parking lot, as well?"
Sam scowled at that. If he's been any other kid, Jim would have guessed he didn't understand. A four-year-old who did understand either saw way too many war- or espionage-themed movies, or belonged to John Winchester.
It was all a game to this particular boy. The military lingo. The constant moving. The subterfuge.
All of it an ongoing, wonderful game.
Jim closed his eyes briefly. Said a prayer that that would last for a while longer, for this guileless brown-haired boy. The simplicity of his beliefs. The lack of fear. He would have asked for the same for Dean, but to Dean, this life had never been a game.
"They do it out of kindness," Jim said. "Generosity."
"Oh," Sam said. "You mean, like how you let us stay here in your house?"
"Something like that."
"I like staying here with you."
Dean said nothing, even when Jim raised a brow, encouraging input; instead, he took a sudden interest in the Thompson girl and her hysterical little dog. He looked wistful for a long while. Remembering other places, maybe. Other people. Jim let him have his reverie for a time, then leaned into Dean's field of view and said quietly, "I like it too."
That, at least, earned half a nod.
"My door is always open," Jim told the older boy. "Any time. You know that. And you don't need to bring food."
Dean looked down at his plate. It was as clean as if it had been scrubbed, as clean as it had been when Jim had lifted it out of the cabinet some fifteen minutes ago.
"Yes, sir," the boy whispered.
Smiling again, though this time there was no amusement behind it, Jim reached out to ruffle Sam's shaggy hair. Sam's grin was so full, and so immediate, it made Jim's heart ache. When he reached out to Dean, he rested his hand on the boy's shoulder. Let it lie there, making its own statement, until Dean produced a wan imitation of his brother's easy joy.
"Any time," Jim told him.
"Okay," Dean said. And, as an afterthought: "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Half a block down the street, the Thompson girl collapsed onto the grass, giggling as the dog swooped in to lick her face. Shrieking, "No, Buster, NO!!!"
"Do you know how to blow stuff up?" Sam asked, tapping at Jim's left arm. "Like Mel Gibmans?"
No, Jim thought. Mostly, I try to fix it.
"Come on," he said as he rose from the steps, empty plate in hand. "Let's get some more of that pie."
* * * * *
CHARACTERS: Pastor Jim, Dean (age 8), Sam (age 4)
GENRE: Gen
RATING: G
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 865 words
GENEROSITY
By Carol Davis
Not until the three small plates were empty did the questions begin - though even then, after the last crumb had been devoured, there was a moment of reverent silence. Contemplation. Respect for the bounty of the evening.
Dean's tongue slid out, sunning lizard slow, and swept a smear of cherry glaze off his upper lip.
Then he asked, brow furrowed, "How come they bring you all this stuff? All this food? Those ladies?"
"Kindness," Jim said. "Friendship."
"But you're not sick or nothing. And it's not your birthday."
Smiling slightly, Jim looked off down the street. Half a block down, the Thompsons' little girl was chasing a tiny dog around their wide front yard, shrieking at it something that sounded like, "You can't win me! You can't!"
"Don't they think Mrs. Lundquist makes you enough food?" Dean persisted.
Arm's reach away, Sammy (slumped against the post that held up the front porch roof) announced, judge-solemn, "It's 'cause you're cuter 'n Mel Gibmans."
That got a startled "What?" out of both Jim and Dean.
Then Dean complained, "Mel GIBSON."
"No…" Sam ventured.
"Mel Gibson, doofus-head. The guy in Lethal Weapon. There's no such person as Mel Gibmans."
"You don't know."
"Yeah, I do."
Jim flashed a hand to stall the bickering, though that did nothing to send Sam's now-protruding lower lip back into its normal position. He let a moment go by, thought about issuing a reminder on the subject of respect, and recalled John's combination groan and eye-roll, accompanied by a gruff, "Spare the sermonizing."
John's substitute for parables on the topic? A barked "CAN IT."
Effective, Jim had to admit.
"How do you know that?" he asked Sam, eyebrow raised at the way Sam was banging out the tune of… something… with his fork, drumming the rim of his empty plate.
"You're gonna break that," Dean told his brother.
Sam ignored him in favor of telling Jim, "They said."
"And when was this?"
Sam shrugged, shoulders hauled up close to his ears.
Funny, the way neither of the boys would quite meet Jim's gaze. He let a moment slide by, watching the little Thompson girl run in circles with the tiny dog, all six legs pumping hard, her bleating providing counterpoint to the dog's fervent, squeaky yapping.
He remembered glancing down and catching a glimpse of a sneakered foot just before it vanished, joining the rest of its owner in the shadows beneath a pew.
"I found a dime," Sam said.
"Crawling around under the pews?"
"Nope. In the parkin' lot."
"And did you gather your intel in the parking lot, as well?"
Sam scowled at that. If he's been any other kid, Jim would have guessed he didn't understand. A four-year-old who did understand either saw way too many war- or espionage-themed movies, or belonged to John Winchester.
It was all a game to this particular boy. The military lingo. The constant moving. The subterfuge.
All of it an ongoing, wonderful game.
Jim closed his eyes briefly. Said a prayer that that would last for a while longer, for this guileless brown-haired boy. The simplicity of his beliefs. The lack of fear. He would have asked for the same for Dean, but to Dean, this life had never been a game.
"They do it out of kindness," Jim said. "Generosity."
"Oh," Sam said. "You mean, like how you let us stay here in your house?"
"Something like that."
"I like staying here with you."
Dean said nothing, even when Jim raised a brow, encouraging input; instead, he took a sudden interest in the Thompson girl and her hysterical little dog. He looked wistful for a long while. Remembering other places, maybe. Other people. Jim let him have his reverie for a time, then leaned into Dean's field of view and said quietly, "I like it too."
That, at least, earned half a nod.
"My door is always open," Jim told the older boy. "Any time. You know that. And you don't need to bring food."
Dean looked down at his plate. It was as clean as if it had been scrubbed, as clean as it had been when Jim had lifted it out of the cabinet some fifteen minutes ago.
"Yes, sir," the boy whispered.
Smiling again, though this time there was no amusement behind it, Jim reached out to ruffle Sam's shaggy hair. Sam's grin was so full, and so immediate, it made Jim's heart ache. When he reached out to Dean, he rested his hand on the boy's shoulder. Let it lie there, making its own statement, until Dean produced a wan imitation of his brother's easy joy.
"Any time," Jim told him.
"Okay," Dean said. And, as an afterthought: "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Half a block down the street, the Thompson girl collapsed onto the grass, giggling as the dog swooped in to lick her face. Shrieking, "No, Buster, NO!!!"
"Do you know how to blow stuff up?" Sam asked, tapping at Jim's left arm. "Like Mel Gibmans?"
No, Jim thought. Mostly, I try to fix it.
"Come on," he said as he rose from the steps, empty plate in hand. "Let's get some more of that pie."
* * * * *