SPN FIC - Savior (Part 2 of ?)
We started back here.
CHARACTERS: Ellen, Bill, and Jo Harvelle; wee!Dean, OCs
GENRE: Gen (AU) (summer 1987)
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1286 (this part)
SAVIOR
By Carol Davis
To Bill's credit, all he does is raise an eyebrow when she gets out of the truck accompanied by a sweaty, disheveled kid.
Arms folded across his chest, he watches the two of them (his wife, and this small stranger) cross the yard to the back door, then - she notices as she guides the boy into the house - he circles around to the back of the truck and begins to empty it of the supplies she went to town to get.
There'll be questions later, of course.
From Jo, there are questions now. "Whozat?" she chirps. "Did you get cookies?"
The boy shies away from Jo's scrutiny, inching his way to the doorway that leads to the living room. For a moment Ellen's heart flutters, anticipating a wild chase across a mile or two of weedy Nebraska used-to-be-farmland, but he doesn't head for the front door. He simply stands near the doorway, looking around. Getting the lay of the land, she realizes. Nothing says he won't run the moment he gets the chance, but for now, he's simply observant, calculating, and silent.
"Mama?" Jo says. "Whozat?"
Prying a name out of the kid took some doing. He's not a friendly child, not at all forthcoming - which is understandable, given what's happened to him during the past few weeks. He trusts no one; is the polar opposite of Jo ( who, to Ellen's occasional dismay, is warm and open and trusts nearly everyone, at least until they give her reason not to). He's no more willing to answer questions than someone under lockdown, being grilled by the FBI. So it's only thanks to Tom Burnett's making a series of phone calls to the local caseworker and to DCFS in Lincoln that Ellen's aware of the series of events: a month ago, the boy's father deposited him and his brother in the care of a neighbor, then left town "for a couple of days." When two weeks had gone by with no sign of him, the neighbor blew the whistle.
Then, DCFS saw fit to hand the brother over to a foster family who wanted a child Jo's age, a companion for their own son.
A family that didn't want the little one's older brother.
Pretty much, no one wants the little one's older brother.
"He's not a commodity," she told Tom. "He's a child. You don't -"
"Preaching to the choir, Ellie," Tom said. "Overworked. Understaffed. They do what moves things along."
"So this makes sense to you."
"Did I say that? I don't recall saying that."
Nobody wants that boy, right now. The father's in the wind somewhere. There's no mother, that anyone knows of. The babysitting neighbor's generosity was tapped out going on three weeks ago, and the family who took the little brother has no room for another child. They're very fond of the one they did take, who's much like Jo, apparently - friendly and happy. Glad to have a bed of his own, and toys, and a willing playmate his own age.
"They're talkin' about adoption," Tom confessed when his call to the caseworker was finished.
He said it softly, thank God, so only Ellen could hear him.
"Go help Daddy," she says now to Jo, a request that Jo never refuses. When the screen door's been banged shut behind Jo's scampering little form and Ellen can see her wound-up daughter being hoisted into Bill's loving arms, she moves halfway across the kitchen, stopping alongside the table so she can lay a hand on its scuffed laminated surface and lean in a little.
It's been a long day, and it's barely past lunchtime.
"You're not certified," Tom told her when she suggested bringing the boy home with her. "I dunno how that's gonna fly over in Lincoln."
"What's your alternative?" she countered. "You send him back, he'll run again."
Tom heaved a shrug and spent a long minute considering the ceiling. "They don't want him back. They're fed up. He won't talk, won't eat. The hubby said he gets more of a response out of the garage door."
"Hubby," Ellen echoed. "Did you honestly just say 'hubby'?"
"Not the issue at hand, Ellen."
"The way I see it, your alternative's keeping him locked in that cell. Or dumping him into some state holding pen. He'll run from there too. You know that." With a glance past Tom's broad, uniform-bloused shoulder, she said, "He's not runnin' off to join the damn circus. They took his brother away from him, and unless I'm missing something, the brother's pretty much all he's got. In what way does splitting the two of 'em up seem like a good plan?"
"World's a shitty place, El."
Ellen pressed her fingertips to the space between her eyebrows. Jamming her eyes shut, closing out what was going on around her, didn't help much - didn't tamp down the headache taking shape behind her eyes, and it certainly didn't help that kid - but she gave it a try anyway. Reduced her world down to the headache and the whir of the little fan on Ginny's desk. "They looking for the father?" she asked without opening her eyes.
"No luck yet."
"They looking, or are they looking?"
"He ain't Jeffrey Dahmer, or Son of Sam, El. He's really kinda low on the priority list."
"Which boils down to, nobody gives much of a shit."
Tom didn't reply. When she finally surrendered to opening her eyes, to finding out if he was still standing there in front of her, he looked very much like the weary, mostly resigned fat kid she'd befriended in the sixth grade. "You want me to go look?" he said. "That's what you're shootin' for, ain't it? I got some time off coming. You want me to go out and scour the country for some guy in an old black Impala."
"Feel like I'd settle for you showing up back here with that boy's little brother."
"Not gonna happen, El. Not unless we find -"
"Then go do it," she told him.
It boils down to, nobody objected very much to her loading the kid into the truck. The kid might have - really, it came as somewhat of a surprise to her that he didn't - but all she got out of him was a long, solemn stare.
"They're gonna be asking about paperwork," Tom said as she climbed into the driver's seat.
"Then send 'em some," she replied.
And now she's got a strange little kid looming in the doorway to her living room. "You can go on in," she tells him. "Sit down. Turn on the TV if you want to. I'm gonna tidy up a little, and then start puttin' together some supper. You got any objection to shepherd's pie?"
There's a time delay, it seems like - as if she's talking to somebody on Apollo 13, and she's got to wait for the sound waves to make their way to the moon, then bounce back to earth. He stands there blinking at her as if she hasn't said anything at all, as if she's a store mannequin, or maybe something he's cooked up in his imagination.
"No," he murmurs finally, dipping his head.
"We'll fix this," she tells him, for the second time in less than an hour. "All right? You promise me you'll hang tight, no more running. 'Cause if you'll notice, there's nowhere much to go out there, without a car, and if you try hitchhiking, I swear to you, you will bring down the full force of my wrath on your little blond head. That's the deal. You sit tight. And we'll fix this."
Again, there's a long, long silence.
Then he says softly, "Yes, ma'am."
* * * * *
CHARACTERS: Ellen, Bill, and Jo Harvelle; wee!Dean, OCs
GENRE: Gen (AU) (summer 1987)
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1286 (this part)
SAVIOR
By Carol Davis
To Bill's credit, all he does is raise an eyebrow when she gets out of the truck accompanied by a sweaty, disheveled kid.
Arms folded across his chest, he watches the two of them (his wife, and this small stranger) cross the yard to the back door, then - she notices as she guides the boy into the house - he circles around to the back of the truck and begins to empty it of the supplies she went to town to get.
There'll be questions later, of course.
From Jo, there are questions now. "Whozat?" she chirps. "Did you get cookies?"
The boy shies away from Jo's scrutiny, inching his way to the doorway that leads to the living room. For a moment Ellen's heart flutters, anticipating a wild chase across a mile or two of weedy Nebraska used-to-be-farmland, but he doesn't head for the front door. He simply stands near the doorway, looking around. Getting the lay of the land, she realizes. Nothing says he won't run the moment he gets the chance, but for now, he's simply observant, calculating, and silent.
"Mama?" Jo says. "Whozat?"
Prying a name out of the kid took some doing. He's not a friendly child, not at all forthcoming - which is understandable, given what's happened to him during the past few weeks. He trusts no one; is the polar opposite of Jo ( who, to Ellen's occasional dismay, is warm and open and trusts nearly everyone, at least until they give her reason not to). He's no more willing to answer questions than someone under lockdown, being grilled by the FBI. So it's only thanks to Tom Burnett's making a series of phone calls to the local caseworker and to DCFS in Lincoln that Ellen's aware of the series of events: a month ago, the boy's father deposited him and his brother in the care of a neighbor, then left town "for a couple of days." When two weeks had gone by with no sign of him, the neighbor blew the whistle.
Then, DCFS saw fit to hand the brother over to a foster family who wanted a child Jo's age, a companion for their own son.
A family that didn't want the little one's older brother.
Pretty much, no one wants the little one's older brother.
"He's not a commodity," she told Tom. "He's a child. You don't -"
"Preaching to the choir, Ellie," Tom said. "Overworked. Understaffed. They do what moves things along."
"So this makes sense to you."
"Did I say that? I don't recall saying that."
Nobody wants that boy, right now. The father's in the wind somewhere. There's no mother, that anyone knows of. The babysitting neighbor's generosity was tapped out going on three weeks ago, and the family who took the little brother has no room for another child. They're very fond of the one they did take, who's much like Jo, apparently - friendly and happy. Glad to have a bed of his own, and toys, and a willing playmate his own age.
"They're talkin' about adoption," Tom confessed when his call to the caseworker was finished.
He said it softly, thank God, so only Ellen could hear him.
"Go help Daddy," she says now to Jo, a request that Jo never refuses. When the screen door's been banged shut behind Jo's scampering little form and Ellen can see her wound-up daughter being hoisted into Bill's loving arms, she moves halfway across the kitchen, stopping alongside the table so she can lay a hand on its scuffed laminated surface and lean in a little.
It's been a long day, and it's barely past lunchtime.
"You're not certified," Tom told her when she suggested bringing the boy home with her. "I dunno how that's gonna fly over in Lincoln."
"What's your alternative?" she countered. "You send him back, he'll run again."
Tom heaved a shrug and spent a long minute considering the ceiling. "They don't want him back. They're fed up. He won't talk, won't eat. The hubby said he gets more of a response out of the garage door."
"Hubby," Ellen echoed. "Did you honestly just say 'hubby'?"
"Not the issue at hand, Ellen."
"The way I see it, your alternative's keeping him locked in that cell. Or dumping him into some state holding pen. He'll run from there too. You know that." With a glance past Tom's broad, uniform-bloused shoulder, she said, "He's not runnin' off to join the damn circus. They took his brother away from him, and unless I'm missing something, the brother's pretty much all he's got. In what way does splitting the two of 'em up seem like a good plan?"
"World's a shitty place, El."
Ellen pressed her fingertips to the space between her eyebrows. Jamming her eyes shut, closing out what was going on around her, didn't help much - didn't tamp down the headache taking shape behind her eyes, and it certainly didn't help that kid - but she gave it a try anyway. Reduced her world down to the headache and the whir of the little fan on Ginny's desk. "They looking for the father?" she asked without opening her eyes.
"No luck yet."
"They looking, or are they looking?"
"He ain't Jeffrey Dahmer, or Son of Sam, El. He's really kinda low on the priority list."
"Which boils down to, nobody gives much of a shit."
Tom didn't reply. When she finally surrendered to opening her eyes, to finding out if he was still standing there in front of her, he looked very much like the weary, mostly resigned fat kid she'd befriended in the sixth grade. "You want me to go look?" he said. "That's what you're shootin' for, ain't it? I got some time off coming. You want me to go out and scour the country for some guy in an old black Impala."
"Feel like I'd settle for you showing up back here with that boy's little brother."
"Not gonna happen, El. Not unless we find -"
"Then go do it," she told him.
It boils down to, nobody objected very much to her loading the kid into the truck. The kid might have - really, it came as somewhat of a surprise to her that he didn't - but all she got out of him was a long, solemn stare.
"They're gonna be asking about paperwork," Tom said as she climbed into the driver's seat.
"Then send 'em some," she replied.
And now she's got a strange little kid looming in the doorway to her living room. "You can go on in," she tells him. "Sit down. Turn on the TV if you want to. I'm gonna tidy up a little, and then start puttin' together some supper. You got any objection to shepherd's pie?"
There's a time delay, it seems like - as if she's talking to somebody on Apollo 13, and she's got to wait for the sound waves to make their way to the moon, then bounce back to earth. He stands there blinking at her as if she hasn't said anything at all, as if she's a store mannequin, or maybe something he's cooked up in his imagination.
"No," he murmurs finally, dipping his head.
"We'll fix this," she tells him, for the second time in less than an hour. "All right? You promise me you'll hang tight, no more running. 'Cause if you'll notice, there's nowhere much to go out there, without a car, and if you try hitchhiking, I swear to you, you will bring down the full force of my wrath on your little blond head. That's the deal. You sit tight. And we'll fix this."
Again, there's a long, long silence.
Then he says softly, "Yes, ma'am."
* * * * *