One Stitch at a Time
Title: One Stitch as a Time
Genre: gen
Rating: PG-13 for language
Author's Note: Written for leonidaslion's fandom-free-for-all request.
Summary: Sometimes life permits John to be a father instead of a soldier.
John kissed Dean goodnight and took another peek at his youngest curled up in his bed. Sam looked half the size of kids his age, and the worried father once again questioned the need to send him to kindergarten. He did fine in school without going to a single class until first grade when his folks moved to a township that had school bus routes within walking distance of their farm.
John remembered hiking two miles to a crossroads where five other kids waited for the bus, rain or shine. Or the occasional blizzard courtesy of North Dakota.
It was me, Amy … Dawson, Mike Callahan, Susan Whitmore, that blazing redhead who got picked on all the time … what was his name? Timmy? Tommy? Yeah, Thomas Henley. And Christine Johansson. How is it I can remember their names even after all these years?
With a tired smile John closed the bedroom door and trudged to the living room where his bed waited for him. John lit a lamp and sat down, mentally going over his kids’ schedules for the rest of the year.
Hope Dean understands why I can’t let him go on field trips, John thought, feeling sorry that his oldest would be missing out on one of the more entertaining aspects of public education. He briskly rubbed his face then pulled out a battered fishing tackle box from under the bed. John dug through myriad of spools, buttons, and candy tins jingling with needles and specially made bullets for the extra tough-to-kill supernatural critters. He pulled out a small matchbox containing the needles he often used to patch up ripped clothing, and on two occasions: torn flesh.
John successfully threaded the needle at first try and felt unreasonably proud of his accomplishment. With a tiny smile, he rooted through his green duffel filled with clean laundry. He took out a flannel shirt; it was the one Dean had chosen to wear for the first day of school.
John’s smile bloomed.
The blue and green checkered horror was a miniature copy of his. When Dean first saw it in the Goodwill store, John knew he had to buy it for his son. He examined the shirt and found it to be in good order save for two missing buttons.
Thumbing through piles of orphaned buttons in the box, John found two resembling the ones that managed to survive. He matched them against the buttonholes.
They’re so damn plain, John thought as the buttons’ eyeholes winked at him under the flickering lamp. And Dean is anything but.
John looked deeper into the tackle box and found a sandwich bag containing red buttons he’d taken off from a shirt he’d lost in Kentucky.
Better.
He took off the remaining buttons from Dean’s shirt and sewed on the red ones, noting with genuine pleasure the intricate ivy design embossed on both sides.
Much better, John concluded. He looked over Dean’s jeans and saw all the belt loops were torn. How in hell did he do that? John wondered.
The diligent father managed to recreate his earlier success with threading the needle and proudly noted the blue one he'd chosen blended in perfectly with the color of the belt loops. John checked the cuffs and noted there weren’t any more fabric left to let down, which meant as soon as Dean grew out of this pair John would have to buy new ones.
Better look and see if there’s a Wal-Mart or JC Penny around here, John thought as he sliced off couple of ratty threads with his hunting knife. They should have sales coming up soon.
He knew it was a costly splurge to get new clothes for Dean, but his son deserved it. And since John actually had a job, he could afford to buy at least one new article of clothing for his child.
John checked the socks, found them acceptable, and put them aside. He rooted through his duffel once more, finding Sam’s choices for his first day in kindergarten. John winced when he saw the condition they were in.
Sam’s clothing was in worse shape due to the fact he had inherited them from his big brother. John poked a finger through a hole on the shirt pocket. A spasm of shame crippled him as he remembered how tight Sam’s coat was last winter.
He’s such a good boy. Didn’t complain once even though he must’ve been freezing his ass off. John sighed deeply as he examined Sam’s shirt. That’s bullshit. He kept quiet not because he didn’t want to worry me, but because he didn’t want Dean to worry. He wants to be a good brother more than a good son.
Well, I’ve got nobody to blame but me for that. And the kids still need their clothes right and tight for tomorrow.
Bracing himself with that thought, John looked in the tackle box for the appropriate thread. He gave a sigh of relief when he found a bundle of green threads he’d swiped during a routine hunt. John could still remember Bobby chuckling as he explained why the sewing kit was more important than the beer in the refrigerator.
The hole was neatly sewn closed and all the loose buttons were tightened. John then checked the corduroys Sam had chosen. He frowned as he examined the pants. He couldn’t remember when he could have possibly bought them.
Maybe Pastor Jim slipped it in when I wasn’t looking.
He looked at the label. Definitely Pastor Jim. Ain’t no way Bobby even knows about Oshkosh.
John carefully took down the cuffs and re-stitched them. He calculated Sam would be able to wear the corduroys for another year if he didn’t get into fights, which he seemed to with alarming regularity in spite of his age.
They are nice, John groused as he looked at the corduroys. Sam’s definitely going to look sharp tomorrow.
John stood up and winced when his back muscles cramped. It took few minutes of stretching before he could move about freely. He took another peek in the boys’ room to make sure they were still asleep and to indulge in his unending need to see them safe.
John returned to his bed but didn’t lie down. Instead, he systematically stripped everything off it then took off the mattress. He spread out the thickest towels he had over the box spring and placed the repaired clothes on top. He then lifted the mattress and placed it back where it belonged. Since John had no iron this was the only way he could think of to make sure his kids’ clothes had the least amount of wrinkles.
He took the blanket and laid it out on the floor, then fluffed up the pillow before turning off the lamp. Unable to sleep, John examined the slices of moonlight drifting through the cheap vinyl blinds and painting the ceiling.
Aren’t our sons just beautiful, Mary? I wish I could give them department-store clothes and fancy sneakers I always catch Dean looking at but never ask for.
I can’t though, sweetheart. Not yet. But soon: I promise.
Genre: gen
Rating: PG-13 for language
Author's Note: Written for leonidaslion's fandom-free-for-all request.
Summary: Sometimes life permits John to be a father instead of a soldier.
John kissed Dean goodnight and took another peek at his youngest curled up in his bed. Sam looked half the size of kids his age, and the worried father once again questioned the need to send him to kindergarten. He did fine in school without going to a single class until first grade when his folks moved to a township that had school bus routes within walking distance of their farm.
John remembered hiking two miles to a crossroads where five other kids waited for the bus, rain or shine. Or the occasional blizzard courtesy of North Dakota.
It was me, Amy … Dawson, Mike Callahan, Susan Whitmore, that blazing redhead who got picked on all the time … what was his name? Timmy? Tommy? Yeah, Thomas Henley. And Christine Johansson. How is it I can remember their names even after all these years?
With a tired smile John closed the bedroom door and trudged to the living room where his bed waited for him. John lit a lamp and sat down, mentally going over his kids’ schedules for the rest of the year.
Hope Dean understands why I can’t let him go on field trips, John thought, feeling sorry that his oldest would be missing out on one of the more entertaining aspects of public education. He briskly rubbed his face then pulled out a battered fishing tackle box from under the bed. John dug through myriad of spools, buttons, and candy tins jingling with needles and specially made bullets for the extra tough-to-kill supernatural critters. He pulled out a small matchbox containing the needles he often used to patch up ripped clothing, and on two occasions: torn flesh.
John successfully threaded the needle at first try and felt unreasonably proud of his accomplishment. With a tiny smile, he rooted through his green duffel filled with clean laundry. He took out a flannel shirt; it was the one Dean had chosen to wear for the first day of school.
John’s smile bloomed.
The blue and green checkered horror was a miniature copy of his. When Dean first saw it in the Goodwill store, John knew he had to buy it for his son. He examined the shirt and found it to be in good order save for two missing buttons.
Thumbing through piles of orphaned buttons in the box, John found two resembling the ones that managed to survive. He matched them against the buttonholes.
They’re so damn plain, John thought as the buttons’ eyeholes winked at him under the flickering lamp. And Dean is anything but.
John looked deeper into the tackle box and found a sandwich bag containing red buttons he’d taken off from a shirt he’d lost in Kentucky.
Better.
He took off the remaining buttons from Dean’s shirt and sewed on the red ones, noting with genuine pleasure the intricate ivy design embossed on both sides.
Much better, John concluded. He looked over Dean’s jeans and saw all the belt loops were torn. How in hell did he do that? John wondered.
The diligent father managed to recreate his earlier success with threading the needle and proudly noted the blue one he'd chosen blended in perfectly with the color of the belt loops. John checked the cuffs and noted there weren’t any more fabric left to let down, which meant as soon as Dean grew out of this pair John would have to buy new ones.
Better look and see if there’s a Wal-Mart or JC Penny around here, John thought as he sliced off couple of ratty threads with his hunting knife. They should have sales coming up soon.
He knew it was a costly splurge to get new clothes for Dean, but his son deserved it. And since John actually had a job, he could afford to buy at least one new article of clothing for his child.
John checked the socks, found them acceptable, and put them aside. He rooted through his duffel once more, finding Sam’s choices for his first day in kindergarten. John winced when he saw the condition they were in.
Sam’s clothing was in worse shape due to the fact he had inherited them from his big brother. John poked a finger through a hole on the shirt pocket. A spasm of shame crippled him as he remembered how tight Sam’s coat was last winter.
He’s such a good boy. Didn’t complain once even though he must’ve been freezing his ass off. John sighed deeply as he examined Sam’s shirt. That’s bullshit. He kept quiet not because he didn’t want to worry me, but because he didn’t want Dean to worry. He wants to be a good brother more than a good son.
Well, I’ve got nobody to blame but me for that. And the kids still need their clothes right and tight for tomorrow.
Bracing himself with that thought, John looked in the tackle box for the appropriate thread. He gave a sigh of relief when he found a bundle of green threads he’d swiped during a routine hunt. John could still remember Bobby chuckling as he explained why the sewing kit was more important than the beer in the refrigerator.
The hole was neatly sewn closed and all the loose buttons were tightened. John then checked the corduroys Sam had chosen. He frowned as he examined the pants. He couldn’t remember when he could have possibly bought them.
Maybe Pastor Jim slipped it in when I wasn’t looking.
He looked at the label. Definitely Pastor Jim. Ain’t no way Bobby even knows about Oshkosh.
John carefully took down the cuffs and re-stitched them. He calculated Sam would be able to wear the corduroys for another year if he didn’t get into fights, which he seemed to with alarming regularity in spite of his age.
They are nice, John groused as he looked at the corduroys. Sam’s definitely going to look sharp tomorrow.
John stood up and winced when his back muscles cramped. It took few minutes of stretching before he could move about freely. He took another peek in the boys’ room to make sure they were still asleep and to indulge in his unending need to see them safe.
John returned to his bed but didn’t lie down. Instead, he systematically stripped everything off it then took off the mattress. He spread out the thickest towels he had over the box spring and placed the repaired clothes on top. He then lifted the mattress and placed it back where it belonged. Since John had no iron this was the only way he could think of to make sure his kids’ clothes had the least amount of wrinkles.
He took the blanket and laid it out on the floor, then fluffed up the pillow before turning off the lamp. Unable to sleep, John examined the slices of moonlight drifting through the cheap vinyl blinds and painting the ceiling.
Aren’t our sons just beautiful, Mary? I wish I could give them department-store clothes and fancy sneakers I always catch Dean looking at but never ask for.
I can’t though, sweetheart. Not yet. But soon: I promise.