SPN FIC - In the Eyes of the World
In response to the first-lines drabble challenge from innie_darling (thanks for the great inspiration!!) and as a "happy birthday" to furry1, have some fic, y'all. Ten little drabbles looking at Dean through a variety of eyes. Hope you like.
Characters: Dean, Sam, Bobby, John, Mary, and a handful of others
Pairings: none
Rating: G
Length: 1000 words
Spoilers: none
Disclaimer: It's my birthday, so I can play allllll day long. But I still don't own any of this.
The title's from a Partridge Family song.
In the Eyes of the World
By Carol Davis
“I made a rabbit today.”
He looks at her earnestly, green eyes bright, expecting her approval, her delight. He slips his small hand into hers, ready to be her guardian on the walk home from church. His brow scrunches a little when anyone comes too close: not thinking the other parishioners are a threat, but wanting her attention, all of it, every last bit.
Mary nods a goodbye to the Guenthers, who are headed in the other direction, and takes a step toward home. A small step, allowing for Dean’s much shorter legs.
“Tell me about your rabbit,” she says.
* * * * *
The older boy slides in next to the little one, pulls a box of crayons from his bag, and hands it over. They’re like one child, she thinks as she lays a menu in front of their father, who’s slumped with exhaustion, eyes closed, head propped on one hand. The boys are sitting hip to hip, murmuring words only the two of them can hear.
They should be too young to understand what their father needs. Yet they do. The older boy glances at him and gnaws at his lower lip.
Then he offers her a smile. “Thanks,” he says.
* * * * *
He has a face like a fallen angel and a drifter’s possessive gait, walking tall like he owns and spurns everything the eye can see. He’s fourteen, trying for twenty…and it doesn’t quite work. She’s seen all of this before: every year there’s at least one like him. I don’t need you, they say without saying it. I don’t need any of this. Some of them last out the year and some don’t. Suspension, expulsion. Some disappear and she doesn’t know why.
This one won’t last the year. But for now, something in his eyes says I do need you.
* * * * *
Good is a trap for a girl.
It’s just plain not fair: that he gets to do what he wants and everybody will think he’s a guy. If she does what she wants - what he wants her to want - they’ll think she’s trash.
If she says no, he’ll take her home.
She wants what he wants. She wants his hands on her.
He’ll listen to what she decides. When she said “Wait,” he slid back into the driver’s seat and waited.
He’ll wait, but not for long.
“Dean?” she whispers in a way that makes his face brighten a little.
* * * * *
This place reeks.
He wonders how far out of it he was when he nodded at the landlord and muttered, “We’ll take it.” Not that there’s anything to be done about it now; the money’s been spent, and there’s nothing much better in this neighborhood.
“Dad?” Dean says to him, and he opens his eyes to look. The boy’s dug in already, set up shop, made some supper. He’s smiling, as if all of this is okay with him.
And of course, it is okay with Dean, because they’re here, the three of them.
John smiles back at him, sadly.
* * * * *
“So this is a temperate climate, huh?”
Cassie pushes the door shut against the blowing rain, puzzled at how he’s come up with that remark. Then she sees the TV and realizes what he’s been watching. “Weather Channel?” she says.
His thumb jabs the Off button and the TV twinks into silence.
“Actually, ’temperate’ would be -“ she begins.
The look in his eyes says he doesn’t much care about climate, or the TV, or how her classes went. If she tells him her feet are dying, he might be interested enough to rub them for her.
So she does.
* * * * *
She’s full, pleasantly sated, and the moonlight is sharp. It lets her pick out almost every detail of him as he crouches in the brush, waiting for the right time to continue tracking.
Tracking her.
Tracking them.
She doesn’t have much use for hunters; she learned very young that they taste bad. Sour, somehow. Maybe it’s the anger in them, the hatred for all of her kind.
This one, she’s almost sure, would taste just fine. Sweet on the tongue.
She should have waited for him.
The wind shifts a little. A moment later, his head turns.
He sees her.
* * * * *
Sometimes he almost forgets Dean is a pretty decent human being.
The boy’s got a mouth on him - and the lack of sense to go along with it, a matched set, like salt-and-pepper shakers - that makes you want to smack him upside the head. Doesn’t have the manners God gave asparagus, sometimes.
Then he’ll say, “Hold on a minute, Bobby,” and go running back to make sure everything’s okay. That that woman and her kids that they did the salt-and-burn for have stopped crying.
He’s a good kid, John’s oldest.
And how that’s true is always gonna be a mystery.
* * * * *
“No,” she says. “Absolutely not.”
“Aw, baby,” he purrs. “You know you wanna do it. Just for me. Come on.”
She hates it when he croons like that.
Because she’s tired. She’s been through a lot. He should have a little respect for the fact that she’s not as young as she used to be. Even gentle hands can’t work miracles.
“Nooooo,” she whimpers.
“C’mon, baby,” he coaxes. “For me? Please. C’mon.”
She can never refuse him. Never. Because he loves her.
When his fingers turn the key, give it one more try, she surrenders. Gives him what he wants.
* * * * *
“Ta-da,” Dean rasps, and Sam opens his eyes to see a big rectangular cake with a candle stuck in the middle put in front of him.
At least it’s trying to be a cake. It looks…soggy. And the frosting has a greenish tinge to it. Trying for a smile, Sam wonders if Dean intends for him to actually eat some of it.
“Maybe I should cook it some more,” Dean offers.
“I don’t think that’s gonna help.”
Dean’s face falls a little.
“No, man,” Sam tells him, smiling. “It’s all good. Really. Thank you.”
“Yeah?” Dean ventures.
“Yeah,” Sam says.