fic: Makes Me Feel Fine
Title: Makes Me Feel Fine
Author: lies_unfurl
Rating/warnings: PG; mentions of bullying
Word Count: 1700
Pairings/genres: Gen, hurt/comfort
Summary: In which Dean has a stutter, and isn't looking forward to going back to school.
Notes: This was written for hoodie_time's awesome summer-themed comment meme. Seriously, if you're looking for inspiration, you should definitely check it out. sailoreyes67, who wrote the prompt for which this was written, wrote a fic for me (!! :D) set in the same 'verse as this: The Fall. It's adorable wee!Sam and Dean, and I highly reccommend it!
The title was taken from the song "Summer Breeze" by Seals & Crofts.
Out of all the seasons, Dean likes summer the best. When it's summer, it's just him and Sam and Dad, and maybe Bobby or Caleb. He's around people that he knows, and who know him.
It's a lot better than during the school year.
He sits at the edge of the dock. His legs dangle out over the water, not quite long enough to let his feet graze across the mostly-placid surface. The late-afternoon sun has turned the water gold; it casts a haze through the humid air that illuminates tiny speckles of dust floating absolutely everywhere. Dragonflies flit by him. Sometimes they'll come to Dean and land on his finger if he sticks it out, their tiny feet tickling his skin.
Right now, though, Dean doesn't want the dragonflies to come to him. He just wants to sit here, alone and quiet, and look at the water.
Dad finally dropped it on them today; Dean knew that he'd be bringing it up soon, but that didn't make hearing it any easier. "Fall's coming, boys. We gotta get you signed up for school. We head out on Tuesday."
Sammy had clapped his hands at that, all happy and stuff. He would be excited about going into kindergarten. Dean doesn't have the heart to break it to him, to tell him how all the kids there are just gonna ask him where his momma is, why he wears such worn-out clothes, does his daddy work in an office? And Sammy won't be able to answer those questions, 'cause he's only five. He doesn't need to know that Mom is just plain dead, not with the angels or something; that they can only afford to shop at the Salvation Armies and Goodwills that they pass, buying frayed old shirts and pants that hang loose and can be grown in to; that Dad has never and will never be a proper office worker or doctor or policeman, like other people's dads. He's something better, but Dean knows that other people don't see it like that.
He kicks down, letting his bare toes dip into the cool water. Ripples spiral out, and he catches a glimpse of a little black fish darting away. The lake is full of them, perfect for fishing.
Maybe it won't be so bad for Sammy. Dean doesn't really remember kindergarten. He knew that in Lawrence, his teacher was a young woman with big sympathetic eyes that always seemed to well up whenever she turned her gaze on him, and he had hated that. But the other kids are just a blur in his mind. Most of the classes that he's been in have been like that. Sometimes the bullies stand out (Dean remembers one from Albany who would always look right in everyone's lunchbox and take whatever he liked, until Dean kicked him in the crotch for making a girl cry. He'd gotten expelled after that, but Dad had just smiled grimly and ruffled his hair). Mostly, though, Dean just thinks of masses of people who are roughly his age, who scoot away from him in the cafeteria and who giggle at him and make fun of him behind his back (usually).
Dean wriggles his toes and sighs. The trees across the lake have just started to turn, the faintest hint of oranges, yellows and browns showing underneath the cool green that Dean has become used to seeing. It's nice out here, really. Pastor Jim gave Dad the keys to this place, this cabin. He told Dad to give him and Sam an actual vacation, and Dad had kinda done that. He had stayed home, except for that week in July, and he had taken them fishing and swimming, and he hadn't made Dean go running as often. Dean's not really sure, but he thinks that's what normal people do on their vacations.
He thought that maybe this was the summer that it would go away. Maybe being out here in all of the trees, somewhere where he could step outside and see a rabbit or a squirrel instead of a city street with trash strewn all over it would make him okay. Dean isn't stupid; he's heard people talk about "The power of nature" and all of that. He'd thought that maybe, just maybe, being away from other people would make whatever it is that causes him to be broken better.
"My name," he begins, and then his voice hitches. He takes a deep breath and licks his lips. He's been taught a thousand different tricks from a thousand different speech therapists - one at every school that he's been to that could afford to have one.
"My name is Dean W-Win-"
He catches on the --ch, like he usually does, his lips gaping helplessly like one of the fish in the lake. He closes his mouth so hard that he can practically hear his teeth rattling, disgusted with himself.
Dad and Sam, they don't mind it if he doesn't talk too much. He always shows his respect, even when his clumsy tongue catches on the "Sirs." And that's what Dad is looking for, mostly. Dean doesn't kid himself by thinking that he's perfect in Dad's eyes; he knows that Dad would much rather have a son who could read a paragraph out loud without having to repeat a word two, three times before he can say it fully. But at the same time, Dad knows that it's either this or not talking at all - and Dean's been there, done that.
Sammy, Sammy probably thinks that it's normal. Dean thinks that it's a good thing that he can talk okay, that he hasn't tried to imitate his big brother's messed-up way of speaking.
Soon enough, though, Sammy is going to learn the truth. He'll be in kindergarten and Dean will be in fourth grade. The kids in kindergarten won't be very smart 'cause, well, they're kindergarteners, but they'll know how to talk. Soon when Sam asks him why he talks like that, his, "'Cause I'm awesome, squirt," won't be enough.
And the other fourth graders, no matter where they go, will just be the same. They'll assume he's stupid and imitate him when he's not supposed to hear them. He'll be the last kid picked in gym class (even though he could run the mile faster than anyone else in Amherst, and he was the quickest one up the ropes that time in Baltimore). He won't have friends, or even someone to pair up with at lunch.
Dean kicks at the water with sudden ferocity. He's just then very aware of the sweat clinging to the back of his neck, and all of his mosquito bites start itching at once. His legs are sticking to the scratchy wood of the dock, and the lake seems clouded with algae under the hazy sun. "My name is D-Dean Win-ch-chester!"
There's a soft laugh from behind him, and he almost jumps a mile even as he recognizes his dad's voice. "I think we all know that out here, kiddo."
His father walks forward, his steps somehow silent even against the creaky old beams that extend out over the water. He crouches down next to Dean, and Dean turns his head away, embarrassed.
Dad doesn't look at him, though. Instead he looks out onto the water, like Dean was doing before. In a quiet voice he asks, "Not looking forward to school?"
Dean shakes his head, staring down at his knees. They're tanned from being out so much, scabbed because he's not very careful when he's chasing after his brother in a forest filled with roots and rocks. "You sh-should be with S-Sam."
"He's sleeping. You know how he gets in afternoons on days like this. Kid's dead to the world."
Dean nods, and then he waits. He knows how deeply Sammy sleeps on days when the air itself seems to add an extra layer to your skin, and even a dip in the water doesn't make it better. But he also knows that Dad doesn't like leaving Sam alone, because he's only five, and they're right next to a lake.
After a few moments Dad says, "You're better than the other kids there. No matter what school you end up in. I'd like to see them try to go through half the crap life's thrown at you and come out standing."
There's a gentleness to the words that Dean almost never hears from his father, and it makes a small part of him light up. Praise is rarely passed from John Winchester's lips, and Dean knows to treasure each and every word. But he also knows that Dad isn't done, so he stays quiet, watching the dragonflies dart out and skim the surface of the water.
Finally, Dad goes on. "It's not your fault, Dean. That you talk like that." Dad rubs at his eyes and sighs. Dean figures that it's just the late-summer pollen; it's getting to him, too, making his eyeballs feel all withered up in their sockets. "And it doesn't matter. You're a hunter; hunters need to run fast, and think quickly, and be able to keep their hands steady when they shoot. They don't need to talk."
He ruffles Dean's hair, and then drops his arm over his shoulders. It's as close to a hug as their Dad ever gives, and Dean leans into it unreservedly. A breeze stirs up the air, and the trees across the lake give soft sighs, some of their leaves slowly drifting to the ground. Summer is ending, and soon Dean will be in a new school with a new set of classmates who will just look at him funny and cup their hands over their mouths as they whisper about him, just like the last group did - but he doesn't stutter as he says, "Yes, sir," and Dad is right next to him, and it's all quiet out here save for the distant chirping of a bird and the sound of the wind in the trees, and Dean thinks that as bad as the autumn will be, at least he got to experience this first. It's just going to be a memory soon, and his inability to speak without stammering will still be a reality, but maybe, just maybe, it counts for something.
Author: lies_unfurl
Rating/warnings: PG; mentions of bullying
Word Count: 1700
Pairings/genres: Gen, hurt/comfort
Summary: In which Dean has a stutter, and isn't looking forward to going back to school.
Notes: This was written for hoodie_time's awesome summer-themed comment meme. Seriously, if you're looking for inspiration, you should definitely check it out. sailoreyes67, who wrote the prompt for which this was written, wrote a fic for me (!! :D) set in the same 'verse as this: The Fall. It's adorable wee!Sam and Dean, and I highly reccommend it!
The title was taken from the song "Summer Breeze" by Seals & Crofts.
Out of all the seasons, Dean likes summer the best. When it's summer, it's just him and Sam and Dad, and maybe Bobby or Caleb. He's around people that he knows, and who know him.
It's a lot better than during the school year.
He sits at the edge of the dock. His legs dangle out over the water, not quite long enough to let his feet graze across the mostly-placid surface. The late-afternoon sun has turned the water gold; it casts a haze through the humid air that illuminates tiny speckles of dust floating absolutely everywhere. Dragonflies flit by him. Sometimes they'll come to Dean and land on his finger if he sticks it out, their tiny feet tickling his skin.
Right now, though, Dean doesn't want the dragonflies to come to him. He just wants to sit here, alone and quiet, and look at the water.
Dad finally dropped it on them today; Dean knew that he'd be bringing it up soon, but that didn't make hearing it any easier. "Fall's coming, boys. We gotta get you signed up for school. We head out on Tuesday."
Sammy had clapped his hands at that, all happy and stuff. He would be excited about going into kindergarten. Dean doesn't have the heart to break it to him, to tell him how all the kids there are just gonna ask him where his momma is, why he wears such worn-out clothes, does his daddy work in an office? And Sammy won't be able to answer those questions, 'cause he's only five. He doesn't need to know that Mom is just plain dead, not with the angels or something; that they can only afford to shop at the Salvation Armies and Goodwills that they pass, buying frayed old shirts and pants that hang loose and can be grown in to; that Dad has never and will never be a proper office worker or doctor or policeman, like other people's dads. He's something better, but Dean knows that other people don't see it like that.
He kicks down, letting his bare toes dip into the cool water. Ripples spiral out, and he catches a glimpse of a little black fish darting away. The lake is full of them, perfect for fishing.
Maybe it won't be so bad for Sammy. Dean doesn't really remember kindergarten. He knew that in Lawrence, his teacher was a young woman with big sympathetic eyes that always seemed to well up whenever she turned her gaze on him, and he had hated that. But the other kids are just a blur in his mind. Most of the classes that he's been in have been like that. Sometimes the bullies stand out (Dean remembers one from Albany who would always look right in everyone's lunchbox and take whatever he liked, until Dean kicked him in the crotch for making a girl cry. He'd gotten expelled after that, but Dad had just smiled grimly and ruffled his hair). Mostly, though, Dean just thinks of masses of people who are roughly his age, who scoot away from him in the cafeteria and who giggle at him and make fun of him behind his back (usually).
Dean wriggles his toes and sighs. The trees across the lake have just started to turn, the faintest hint of oranges, yellows and browns showing underneath the cool green that Dean has become used to seeing. It's nice out here, really. Pastor Jim gave Dad the keys to this place, this cabin. He told Dad to give him and Sam an actual vacation, and Dad had kinda done that. He had stayed home, except for that week in July, and he had taken them fishing and swimming, and he hadn't made Dean go running as often. Dean's not really sure, but he thinks that's what normal people do on their vacations.
He thought that maybe this was the summer that it would go away. Maybe being out here in all of the trees, somewhere where he could step outside and see a rabbit or a squirrel instead of a city street with trash strewn all over it would make him okay. Dean isn't stupid; he's heard people talk about "The power of nature" and all of that. He'd thought that maybe, just maybe, being away from other people would make whatever it is that causes him to be broken better.
"My name," he begins, and then his voice hitches. He takes a deep breath and licks his lips. He's been taught a thousand different tricks from a thousand different speech therapists - one at every school that he's been to that could afford to have one.
"My name is Dean W-Win-"
He catches on the --ch, like he usually does, his lips gaping helplessly like one of the fish in the lake. He closes his mouth so hard that he can practically hear his teeth rattling, disgusted with himself.
Dad and Sam, they don't mind it if he doesn't talk too much. He always shows his respect, even when his clumsy tongue catches on the "Sirs." And that's what Dad is looking for, mostly. Dean doesn't kid himself by thinking that he's perfect in Dad's eyes; he knows that Dad would much rather have a son who could read a paragraph out loud without having to repeat a word two, three times before he can say it fully. But at the same time, Dad knows that it's either this or not talking at all - and Dean's been there, done that.
Sammy, Sammy probably thinks that it's normal. Dean thinks that it's a good thing that he can talk okay, that he hasn't tried to imitate his big brother's messed-up way of speaking.
Soon enough, though, Sammy is going to learn the truth. He'll be in kindergarten and Dean will be in fourth grade. The kids in kindergarten won't be very smart 'cause, well, they're kindergarteners, but they'll know how to talk. Soon when Sam asks him why he talks like that, his, "'Cause I'm awesome, squirt," won't be enough.
And the other fourth graders, no matter where they go, will just be the same. They'll assume he's stupid and imitate him when he's not supposed to hear them. He'll be the last kid picked in gym class (even though he could run the mile faster than anyone else in Amherst, and he was the quickest one up the ropes that time in Baltimore). He won't have friends, or even someone to pair up with at lunch.
Dean kicks at the water with sudden ferocity. He's just then very aware of the sweat clinging to the back of his neck, and all of his mosquito bites start itching at once. His legs are sticking to the scratchy wood of the dock, and the lake seems clouded with algae under the hazy sun. "My name is D-Dean Win-ch-chester!"
There's a soft laugh from behind him, and he almost jumps a mile even as he recognizes his dad's voice. "I think we all know that out here, kiddo."
His father walks forward, his steps somehow silent even against the creaky old beams that extend out over the water. He crouches down next to Dean, and Dean turns his head away, embarrassed.
Dad doesn't look at him, though. Instead he looks out onto the water, like Dean was doing before. In a quiet voice he asks, "Not looking forward to school?"
Dean shakes his head, staring down at his knees. They're tanned from being out so much, scabbed because he's not very careful when he's chasing after his brother in a forest filled with roots and rocks. "You sh-should be with S-Sam."
"He's sleeping. You know how he gets in afternoons on days like this. Kid's dead to the world."
Dean nods, and then he waits. He knows how deeply Sammy sleeps on days when the air itself seems to add an extra layer to your skin, and even a dip in the water doesn't make it better. But he also knows that Dad doesn't like leaving Sam alone, because he's only five, and they're right next to a lake.
After a few moments Dad says, "You're better than the other kids there. No matter what school you end up in. I'd like to see them try to go through half the crap life's thrown at you and come out standing."
There's a gentleness to the words that Dean almost never hears from his father, and it makes a small part of him light up. Praise is rarely passed from John Winchester's lips, and Dean knows to treasure each and every word. But he also knows that Dad isn't done, so he stays quiet, watching the dragonflies dart out and skim the surface of the water.
Finally, Dad goes on. "It's not your fault, Dean. That you talk like that." Dad rubs at his eyes and sighs. Dean figures that it's just the late-summer pollen; it's getting to him, too, making his eyeballs feel all withered up in their sockets. "And it doesn't matter. You're a hunter; hunters need to run fast, and think quickly, and be able to keep their hands steady when they shoot. They don't need to talk."
He ruffles Dean's hair, and then drops his arm over his shoulders. It's as close to a hug as their Dad ever gives, and Dean leans into it unreservedly. A breeze stirs up the air, and the trees across the lake give soft sighs, some of their leaves slowly drifting to the ground. Summer is ending, and soon Dean will be in a new school with a new set of classmates who will just look at him funny and cup their hands over their mouths as they whisper about him, just like the last group did - but he doesn't stutter as he says, "Yes, sir," and Dad is right next to him, and it's all quiet out here save for the distant chirping of a bird and the sound of the wind in the trees, and Dean thinks that as bad as the autumn will be, at least he got to experience this first. It's just going to be a memory soon, and his inability to speak without stammering will still be a reality, but maybe, just maybe, it counts for something.