SPN FIC - Bad Sad Mad Glad
Jim's got a sermon to write -- but that's easier said than done, particularly when there's a curious 3-year-old around.
CHARACTERS: Pastor Jim and Sammy
GENRE: Gen
RATING: G
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 800 words
BAD SAD MAD GLAD
By Carol Davis
Up periscope, Jim thought when tousled light-brown hair began to appear above the plane of his desktop, followed by a forehead, then a pair of mischievous, long-lashed hazel eyes. The boys had been warned - in the sternest tone he could muster - not to disturb him while he wrestled with the sermon that was due in two days, but Sam (never one to be much impressed by sternness) had apparently given both his brother and Caroline Lundquist the slip.
"Hello, Sam," Jim said dryly.
Sam broke into a broad grin and gripped the edge of the desktop in his small hands.
"Did you want something?"
Sam's eyes rolled up, then sideways, as he pondered the question. "Uh-huh," he said finally.
"And what's that?"
"Is my dad sad?"
Jim held back the sigh that the question prompted, as well as the urge to glance up at the ceiling. John was more than likely still asleep up there, in the smaller of the parsonage's two guest rooms, having come in sometime after three in the morning exhausted and smelling of greasy smoke. He'd looked beat all to hell, a condition that had become more and more common as time went on, something that unfailingly made Jim grieve the loss of the normally upbeat, optimistic teenager he'd met some fifteen years ago.
"Sad" didn't quite fill the bill.
"Is he mad?" Sam asked.
Jim was about to offer an explanation, to tell the child that no, John wasn't angry at him, or Dean, that there were grown-up things going on that John had to deal with and when they were taken care of, he would likely be in a better mood - but something in Sam's expression prompted Jim to hold his tongue, to offer no more of a response than a crooked grin.
"Is he bad?" Sam chirped.
Apparently now on tiptoe, he rested his chin on Jim's desktop.
"Could be," Jim chuckled.
"Is there more? Dean says there's more, and I'm 'posed to tell you."
Two days to finish this, Jim thought. Actually a bit less than that, now. But there was a long stretch of afternoon ahead, when Sam would likely be napping and the house would be quiet. (Which wasn't to say that a long run of silence ever accomplished anything much; when Jim's muse was silent, she was stubbornly so, and the quality of his surroundings would do little to change that.)
"Rad," Jim said.
"What's that?"
"We used to say it a long time ago. It means 'cool' or… 'awesome'."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Not so much any more, though."
Step by cautious, silent step, Sam crept around the corner of the desk, one little hand trailing along the beveled edge of the desktop. When he arrived at Jim's chair, Jim scooped him up and settled the little boy on his lap, a seat Sam relaxed into immediately, his back nestled into the curve of Jim's arm so he could peer up into Jim's face.
"Cad," Jim said.
"What's that?"
"A scoundrel. A… naughty person."
"Like Dean?"
Again, Jim laughed, imagining Sam announcing to his 7-year-old brother across the dinner table that he was a poopy dumb cad. "Not exactly. But sort of. He is a lad, though. So are you." Before Sam could object, he explained, "That's an old-fashioned name for a boy."
Sam rocked back and forth a little, gone back to pondering. "Bad," he said after a minute. "Bad sad mad cad lad."
"You forgot rad."
"What else?"
Skipping right on past "nad" seemed like a good move. "Tad means a little bit," Jim said. "And pad - you know what that is."
Sam's index finger tapped the tablet of paper on Jim's desk. "Dad is not a lad," he proposed.
"Not any more."
In the three years Jim had known this little boy, he'd seen him shift moods more swiftly than the arrival (or departure) of a summer storm. Other times, the drift would be much more gradual, something that always made Jim wonder what was going on in Sam's mind, what bits of thought he'd strung together to prompt him to jump from one state of being to another when nothing seemed to be happening around him. Dean, by comparison, was more steady-state. Watchful, subdued, wary, even when he believed he was alone, or was being watched only by Sam.
"You know what else your dad is?" Jim asked. "And your brother?"
"What?" Sam asked, rocking his head onto Jim's shoulder.
"Glad."
"Yeah?"
"Glad you're here. Glad you're Sammy."
"Are you glad too?"
Smiling, Jim ruffled the boy's hair and pressed a kiss to the top of Sam's head. "I am. I'm very glad you're Sammy."
"Me too," Sam chirped, and before Jim could respond to that, he'd hopped back down to the floor and was gone.
* * * * *
CHARACTERS: Pastor Jim and Sammy
GENRE: Gen
RATING: G
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 800 words
BAD SAD MAD GLAD
By Carol Davis
Up periscope, Jim thought when tousled light-brown hair began to appear above the plane of his desktop, followed by a forehead, then a pair of mischievous, long-lashed hazel eyes. The boys had been warned - in the sternest tone he could muster - not to disturb him while he wrestled with the sermon that was due in two days, but Sam (never one to be much impressed by sternness) had apparently given both his brother and Caroline Lundquist the slip.
"Hello, Sam," Jim said dryly.
Sam broke into a broad grin and gripped the edge of the desktop in his small hands.
"Did you want something?"
Sam's eyes rolled up, then sideways, as he pondered the question. "Uh-huh," he said finally.
"And what's that?"
"Is my dad sad?"
Jim held back the sigh that the question prompted, as well as the urge to glance up at the ceiling. John was more than likely still asleep up there, in the smaller of the parsonage's two guest rooms, having come in sometime after three in the morning exhausted and smelling of greasy smoke. He'd looked beat all to hell, a condition that had become more and more common as time went on, something that unfailingly made Jim grieve the loss of the normally upbeat, optimistic teenager he'd met some fifteen years ago.
"Sad" didn't quite fill the bill.
"Is he mad?" Sam asked.
Jim was about to offer an explanation, to tell the child that no, John wasn't angry at him, or Dean, that there were grown-up things going on that John had to deal with and when they were taken care of, he would likely be in a better mood - but something in Sam's expression prompted Jim to hold his tongue, to offer no more of a response than a crooked grin.
"Is he bad?" Sam chirped.
Apparently now on tiptoe, he rested his chin on Jim's desktop.
"Could be," Jim chuckled.
"Is there more? Dean says there's more, and I'm 'posed to tell you."
Two days to finish this, Jim thought. Actually a bit less than that, now. But there was a long stretch of afternoon ahead, when Sam would likely be napping and the house would be quiet. (Which wasn't to say that a long run of silence ever accomplished anything much; when Jim's muse was silent, she was stubbornly so, and the quality of his surroundings would do little to change that.)
"Rad," Jim said.
"What's that?"
"We used to say it a long time ago. It means 'cool' or… 'awesome'."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Not so much any more, though."
Step by cautious, silent step, Sam crept around the corner of the desk, one little hand trailing along the beveled edge of the desktop. When he arrived at Jim's chair, Jim scooped him up and settled the little boy on his lap, a seat Sam relaxed into immediately, his back nestled into the curve of Jim's arm so he could peer up into Jim's face.
"Cad," Jim said.
"What's that?"
"A scoundrel. A… naughty person."
"Like Dean?"
Again, Jim laughed, imagining Sam announcing to his 7-year-old brother across the dinner table that he was a poopy dumb cad. "Not exactly. But sort of. He is a lad, though. So are you." Before Sam could object, he explained, "That's an old-fashioned name for a boy."
Sam rocked back and forth a little, gone back to pondering. "Bad," he said after a minute. "Bad sad mad cad lad."
"You forgot rad."
"What else?"
Skipping right on past "nad" seemed like a good move. "Tad means a little bit," Jim said. "And pad - you know what that is."
Sam's index finger tapped the tablet of paper on Jim's desk. "Dad is not a lad," he proposed.
"Not any more."
In the three years Jim had known this little boy, he'd seen him shift moods more swiftly than the arrival (or departure) of a summer storm. Other times, the drift would be much more gradual, something that always made Jim wonder what was going on in Sam's mind, what bits of thought he'd strung together to prompt him to jump from one state of being to another when nothing seemed to be happening around him. Dean, by comparison, was more steady-state. Watchful, subdued, wary, even when he believed he was alone, or was being watched only by Sam.
"You know what else your dad is?" Jim asked. "And your brother?"
"What?" Sam asked, rocking his head onto Jim's shoulder.
"Glad."
"Yeah?"
"Glad you're here. Glad you're Sammy."
"Are you glad too?"
Smiling, Jim ruffled the boy's hair and pressed a kiss to the top of Sam's head. "I am. I'm very glad you're Sammy."
"Me too," Sam chirped, and before Jim could respond to that, he'd hopped back down to the floor and was gone.
* * * * *