SPN FIC - Rescue Me (1986)
Part 1 of a gift for phebemarie, who asked for a woman and a dog, "something uplifting." She was looking for something involving adult Dean and Wendy (the dog from my Farm!Verse) being heroic, but the Muse wasn't in the mood to cooperate with exactly that, so this is the introduction -- two little boys, a ton of snow, a dog, and a woman who could sure use a break. Hope you enjoy it, phebemarie!
Inspired by this:
"Make it not done, Dean! I got more!"
CHARACTERS: Dean (age 7), Sam (age 3), OFC
GENRE: Gen
RATING: G
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1200 words
RESCUE ME (1986)
By Carol Davis
"Dean! No, Dean! I got more! I got 'nother one!"
The air was clear and cold, the world blanketed with snow. Sound carried as if it were being broadcast from a giant set of speakers - the opposite of what she'd hoped for, after a week of frantic, demanding customers, delayed deliveries, the town snowplow creating a huge snowbank at the entrance to the flower shop's tiny parking lot. This day, her first day off in weeks, she'd hoped for quiet. White, muffled quiet.
"It's done, Sammy."
"Make it not done, Dean! I got more!"
"It's supposed to be three balls, not four. See? Like this. It's all done."
"DeeeeeEEEEEEAN!"
Phebe strained at the leash, wanting to go farther, faster, and never mind that her short legs couldn't handle the snow anywhere except where the plow had run, had packed the eight inches down into a hard mass or pushed it aside. When Linda tugged back on the leash, something Phebe normally responded to, the little dog whined and tossed her an unhappy look.
"You can't give me a break either?" Linda muttered.
"You SUCK!"
This far out of town, she should have been alone. This far out of town, the day should have been silent. She'd expected a snowmobile or two. The sound of a snowblower, or a pickup fronted with a plow blade.
Not this.
A curve in the road brought her within sight of Bobby Singer's property, all of it a mass of white except for the black Impala and the battered blue Chevelle sitting in the driveway. Singer's faded-blue house, too, of course. She'd come to the property once before, some months back, because her brother had insisted it was the only sensible place to go looking for a replacement mirror for her old Malibu, and had found no one at home. The man was a drunk, they said in town. Had a collection of odd, surly people visiting him at all hours.
How people knew that, Linda had never been sure, because no one's house overlooked Singer's, and the property wasn't on a road people traveled with any frequency.
"Gonna make my OWN snowman."
"You go right ahead, you little turdface."
"I hate you."
"I hate you too."
She could see them now: two little boys, both heavily bundled up against the cold. They'd built a snowman in the yard, and it was indeed finished, with sticks for arms, a carrot for a nose, and small stones serving as eyes and lips. An old plaid scarf was draped around its neck and a battered cap perched atop its head. Beside the snowman sat another big ball of snow, unused, zealously guarded by the smaller boy.
Watching the boys bicker, she didn't see the slick spot in the road. She slipped, pinwheeling in an attempt to keep her feet, but lost the battle with gravity and sat down hard in the snow, losing her grip on the leash in the process.
Phebe, predictably, bolted toward the yard.
"Phebe!" she cried. "Come back!"
The two boys looked her way as she struggled to climb back to her feet. Phebe, who had bounded kangaroo-like across the yard, stood mired up to her belly in the snow alongside the boys' creation, thrilled in that way only dogs can conjure.
"Darn DOG," Linda mumbled.
By the time the older boy reached her, she was standing again, brushing snow off her jeans and the back of her jacket. He studied her somberly for a moment, then asked, "Are you okay? I can get my dad. And Uncle Bobby."
"No thanks," she told him. "I'll live."
"Come on, dog!" he called out. "Come on! Come back to your lady!"
Phebe, of course, wanted no part of that. She'd struggled through the snow to the smaller boy, who produced a mittened hand for her to sniff then wrapped both well-padded arms around her neck and whooped out a "Hey!" as she knocked him backward into the snow, climbed on top of him and began to lick his face.
"Sammy!" the older boy yelped.
"She's not -" Linda stammered as they ran toward the yard. "She doesn't bite. It's okay."
They were halfway to the snowman when a gust of wind swept across the yard, lifting the tattered cap off the snowman's head and tumbling it toward the road. That froze the older boy in his tracks, and he was clearly torn, unsure whether to run after the cap or rescue his brother, now sunk deep into the snow, Phebe using him as a life raft to lift herself above the drifts.
The smaller boy was laughing, as only little boys can, in the company of dogs.
It was funny, Linda supposed: all of this galloping through the snow. Even Phebe was grinning when Linda finally reached her. "COME," Linda told her firmly, and when the dog stepped down off the boy, sinking deep into the snow, Linda crouched to gather her in, watching that well-padded little boy contort himself up into a sit.
"I made another one," he complained, pointing to the neglected ball of snow. "An' Dean won't put it on there."
"It's because I can't REACH," Dean - now back with the cap - informed him. He was flushed with exertion and the cold, lower lip tucked into his mouth. Her presence, Linda could see, had tipped the balance between the two boys - had provided a court of higher jurisdiction to which the smaller boy (Sammy?) could plead.
Linda looked past him to the house.
"Would it be okay with your parents if I help?" she ventured. "That is - if you want some help. I can reach a little higher than you can."
"It's just our dad," Sammy said. "An' Uncle Bobby. Our mom died."
"I see. Is it okay with your dad, then?"
"They're drinkin' coffee. Him an' Uncle Bobby."
The drunk, Linda mused. The man people in town gossiped about, and avoided. Yes, in the hot dust of summer, his house did look a little threatening, worn-out, unwelcoming. But in the clear cold, in the blue-white of all that snow, it looked like a lot of other houses in this part of South Dakota, the victim of bad times.
Hell, the man was trying to make a living selling pieces off a pile of old junk cars.
"D' you know Uncle Bobby?" Sammy asked. With him on his feet, and Linda sitting on her haunches in the snow, they were close to the same height. Dean, standing off to one side with the cap in his hands, towered over both of them.
"No," she said. "I don't."
"Do you wanna? He makes good pancakes."
Eight months in this town, she thought. A new start: that was why she'd come. It'd be a hell of a next step if she befriended the town drunk - a man whose wife (according to the gossip) had packed up and left for no particular reason.
But Singer could hardly be a lunatic if the only comment this little boy had to make about him was "He makes good pancakes."
Smiling, Linda gathered the squirming Phebe in close.
"Sure," she told the boys. "Now, what about that snowman?"
* * * * *
Inspired by this:
"Make it not done, Dean! I got more!"
CHARACTERS: Dean (age 7), Sam (age 3), OFC
GENRE: Gen
RATING: G
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1200 words
RESCUE ME (1986)
By Carol Davis
"Dean! No, Dean! I got more! I got 'nother one!"
The air was clear and cold, the world blanketed with snow. Sound carried as if it were being broadcast from a giant set of speakers - the opposite of what she'd hoped for, after a week of frantic, demanding customers, delayed deliveries, the town snowplow creating a huge snowbank at the entrance to the flower shop's tiny parking lot. This day, her first day off in weeks, she'd hoped for quiet. White, muffled quiet.
"It's done, Sammy."
"Make it not done, Dean! I got more!"
"It's supposed to be three balls, not four. See? Like this. It's all done."
"DeeeeeEEEEEEAN!"
Phebe strained at the leash, wanting to go farther, faster, and never mind that her short legs couldn't handle the snow anywhere except where the plow had run, had packed the eight inches down into a hard mass or pushed it aside. When Linda tugged back on the leash, something Phebe normally responded to, the little dog whined and tossed her an unhappy look.
"You can't give me a break either?" Linda muttered.
"You SUCK!"
This far out of town, she should have been alone. This far out of town, the day should have been silent. She'd expected a snowmobile or two. The sound of a snowblower, or a pickup fronted with a plow blade.
Not this.
A curve in the road brought her within sight of Bobby Singer's property, all of it a mass of white except for the black Impala and the battered blue Chevelle sitting in the driveway. Singer's faded-blue house, too, of course. She'd come to the property once before, some months back, because her brother had insisted it was the only sensible place to go looking for a replacement mirror for her old Malibu, and had found no one at home. The man was a drunk, they said in town. Had a collection of odd, surly people visiting him at all hours.
How people knew that, Linda had never been sure, because no one's house overlooked Singer's, and the property wasn't on a road people traveled with any frequency.
"Gonna make my OWN snowman."
"You go right ahead, you little turdface."
"I hate you."
"I hate you too."
She could see them now: two little boys, both heavily bundled up against the cold. They'd built a snowman in the yard, and it was indeed finished, with sticks for arms, a carrot for a nose, and small stones serving as eyes and lips. An old plaid scarf was draped around its neck and a battered cap perched atop its head. Beside the snowman sat another big ball of snow, unused, zealously guarded by the smaller boy.
Watching the boys bicker, she didn't see the slick spot in the road. She slipped, pinwheeling in an attempt to keep her feet, but lost the battle with gravity and sat down hard in the snow, losing her grip on the leash in the process.
Phebe, predictably, bolted toward the yard.
"Phebe!" she cried. "Come back!"
The two boys looked her way as she struggled to climb back to her feet. Phebe, who had bounded kangaroo-like across the yard, stood mired up to her belly in the snow alongside the boys' creation, thrilled in that way only dogs can conjure.
"Darn DOG," Linda mumbled.
By the time the older boy reached her, she was standing again, brushing snow off her jeans and the back of her jacket. He studied her somberly for a moment, then asked, "Are you okay? I can get my dad. And Uncle Bobby."
"No thanks," she told him. "I'll live."
"Come on, dog!" he called out. "Come on! Come back to your lady!"
Phebe, of course, wanted no part of that. She'd struggled through the snow to the smaller boy, who produced a mittened hand for her to sniff then wrapped both well-padded arms around her neck and whooped out a "Hey!" as she knocked him backward into the snow, climbed on top of him and began to lick his face.
"Sammy!" the older boy yelped.
"She's not -" Linda stammered as they ran toward the yard. "She doesn't bite. It's okay."
They were halfway to the snowman when a gust of wind swept across the yard, lifting the tattered cap off the snowman's head and tumbling it toward the road. That froze the older boy in his tracks, and he was clearly torn, unsure whether to run after the cap or rescue his brother, now sunk deep into the snow, Phebe using him as a life raft to lift herself above the drifts.
The smaller boy was laughing, as only little boys can, in the company of dogs.
It was funny, Linda supposed: all of this galloping through the snow. Even Phebe was grinning when Linda finally reached her. "COME," Linda told her firmly, and when the dog stepped down off the boy, sinking deep into the snow, Linda crouched to gather her in, watching that well-padded little boy contort himself up into a sit.
"I made another one," he complained, pointing to the neglected ball of snow. "An' Dean won't put it on there."
"It's because I can't REACH," Dean - now back with the cap - informed him. He was flushed with exertion and the cold, lower lip tucked into his mouth. Her presence, Linda could see, had tipped the balance between the two boys - had provided a court of higher jurisdiction to which the smaller boy (Sammy?) could plead.
Linda looked past him to the house.
"Would it be okay with your parents if I help?" she ventured. "That is - if you want some help. I can reach a little higher than you can."
"It's just our dad," Sammy said. "An' Uncle Bobby. Our mom died."
"I see. Is it okay with your dad, then?"
"They're drinkin' coffee. Him an' Uncle Bobby."
The drunk, Linda mused. The man people in town gossiped about, and avoided. Yes, in the hot dust of summer, his house did look a little threatening, worn-out, unwelcoming. But in the clear cold, in the blue-white of all that snow, it looked like a lot of other houses in this part of South Dakota, the victim of bad times.
Hell, the man was trying to make a living selling pieces off a pile of old junk cars.
"D' you know Uncle Bobby?" Sammy asked. With him on his feet, and Linda sitting on her haunches in the snow, they were close to the same height. Dean, standing off to one side with the cap in his hands, towered over both of them.
"No," she said. "I don't."
"Do you wanna? He makes good pancakes."
Eight months in this town, she thought. A new start: that was why she'd come. It'd be a hell of a next step if she befriended the town drunk - a man whose wife (according to the gossip) had packed up and left for no particular reason.
But Singer could hardly be a lunatic if the only comment this little boy had to make about him was "He makes good pancakes."
Smiling, Linda gathered the squirming Phebe in close.
"Sure," she told the boys. "Now, what about that snowman?"
* * * * *