Fic - The List
Title: The List
Characters: John and Dean
Rating: PG for cussing. Gen.
Word Count: 2000ish
Summary: The first time John is left with Dean.
AN: So…I asked for prompts and flinchflower wanted to know about the first time John was left with little Dean. Quite a bit of the story is taken from the personal Saberivojo archives. Tis true. *Swears.*
XXX
When Dean cried it was not a normal baby cry. John knew this because although he never had kids himself, he was best friends with Sean O’Malley growing up and Sean had two brothers and six sisters. All of his sisters were named Mary. Mary Bridget, Mary Pat, Mary Clair, Mary Margaret, Mary Ann and Mary Jane. They were very devout and very Catholic, as evidenced by their large family and the fact that all the girls were named Mary. John thought the O’Malleys had gone a little overboard in their Catholicism and even Sean had said it was a miracle he and his brothers weren’t named Mary too. Mrs. O’Malley said she liked it because when she called Mary, she was sure to get someone. But the truth of the matter was, Sean was the second oldest so John’s entire childhood and some of his teenager life too, was spent with the howling of babies. Babies cried, Lord knows all the Marys cried but not like Dean. John had never seen a baby with a set of lungs on him like his kid.
John wasn’t sure whether to be proud or to cringe.
When Dean decided to cry it was as piercing as a cat with it’s tail trapped under a rocking chair. Continuously. That was the closest approximation of sound that John could come up with.
John would have never admitted it. Not to his own Mary (she never cried, thank God) and surely not to himself, but watching Dean alone was terrifying. For many reasons - some of them directly related to the boy’s ear bleed inducing cry.
First of all, babies were supposed to sleep on their backs.
Dean preferred to sleep on his tummy; tiny butt scooted up in the air.
That was a major baby snafu. Everyone said so. What if he stopped breathing?
John peeped in on him watching as the boy breathed little snuffles that were surely an attempt not to suffocate on the comfy bear blanket he slept on. So John did what any good father would do, he carefully slid his large hand under the kid and flipped him over.
Wide green eyes startled awake and Dean promptly started crying. The blood curdling cat scream. John tried for moment to sooth him; awkwardly patting his head but to no avail.
John pulled the list from his back pocket.
Mary’s handwriting was girlish and adorable.
If he cries, check his diaper.
John eyed up the screaming child analytically. The boy was wearing a sleeper, which might not seem too bad but underneath the sleeper was something that Mary referred to as a Onesie. Those damn Onesie things were formidable. There were like t-shirts with snaps under Dean’s well-padded crotch. John figured it was supposed to keep the t-shirt from sliding up. But in John’s estimation, it was a poor solution to a not so pressing problem. Tiny snaps covered the blue sleeper too and John’s hands while quite comfortable with a screwdrivers and spark plugs, were not so good with baby snaps. He fumbled cursing softly.
The whole time Dean wailed. Piercing howls that set John’s teeth on edge.
“S’okay, Dean. I gotcha.” John murmured low.
Dean apparently didn’t get the memo because once the main sleeper thing was unsnapped John had to bend his tiny arms to get them out of the sleeper thing. Was it okay for his arms to bend like that?
Dean did not like.
John would not be deterred. He had to get the boy out of the sleeper thing. To unhook the Onesie thing to see if his diaper was wet. Or worse.
John took an experimental whiff in the general direction of Dean’s butt. He wrinkled his nose at the obvious stench.
Now not only did he have to undo all the snaps and things he definitely had to change the boy’s diaper!
Finally, the sleeper was undone and his arms were out but his legs were still firmly entrenched in the footy part.
Dear God, could this get any worse?
John bent Dean’s tiny knees and legs. They seemed far more bendy than his arms but the truth was, Dean didn’t like the treatment anymore than the arm manipulation.
He screamed once his legs were out…but the Onesie thing was now accessible. And obviously stained with poop. John tried singing CCR in an effort to block out the screams of the baby. “Down on the corner, out in the street, Willie and the poor boys are playing bring a nickel tap your feet.”
Dean didn’t think too much of his rendition.
John appraised the situation critically. He was a Marine, he could break down a M40 blindfolded, he was quite sure he could figure out this baby undressing thing. He had to get the Onesie thing over Dean’s head without getting poop on him. He scratched at his own head thoughtfully. It was certainly not something his CO had ever discussed.
John wasn’t a religious man but once again he found himself offering some kind of prayer, oh God, how did Mary do this?
John took a step back, surveying the crying baby, whose legs were now peddling in an effort to push himself back over on his tummy. He was going in.
“Fire in the hole, champ.” John said determinedly to his wailing son.
Carefully, John tried to roll the soiled Onesie over Dean’s butt and then his head. Bad move. A thick smear of baby poop now covered Dean’s downy hair. John held his breath and just pulled. The hellish Onesie contraption popped off Dean’s head with only a little extra screaming from Dean. John dropped the whole mess in a nearby trashcan. It was worth the buck fifty for a new damn Onsie. Now all there was to deal with was the diaper.
Damn Mary and her instance on using real diapers! He had to take the plastic panties things off that supposedly protected the boy’s freaking Onsie. Fat chance. But the reality was, panties were panties and he could pull them down easy enough. He grinned to himself thinking of Mary. Her panties were pretty, pink and not plastic but he had no problem with them either! Plastic panties pulled off he quickly surveyed the diaper itself. He grabbed at the pins, little yellow duckies covering the safety part of the pins. They mocked him. Perky little yellow fucking ducks. But he felt he could outwit a ducky safety pin; he was a damn master mechanic! Carefully, he unhooked them without too much problem, making sure the sharp end got no where near Dean’s wriggling parts.
He rolled the boy over to another set of piercing wails and pulled the wipes at the same time.
They looked completely inadequate for the task at hand. There was more poop up the boys back and in chubby little folds that should never have poop in them.
Nope, no way. Dean needed a bath.
If he needs a bath, check the water with your elbow…that’s safest.
John picked Dean up gingerly holding him under the arms with his poopy hair and poopy body as far away from himself as he could safely manage and carried him to the kitchen sink.
Smaller than a bathtub. It would work. Besides, she didn’t say what water needed testing.
He pulled the sprayer out and after holding his elbow under the spray (while holding Dean up with the other hand) he started washing him. Like the Impala he thought, a little soap and water and the boy would be fine. No, you don’t wax a baby, John thought to himself with a small grin.
It was then he noticed there was no baby soap or baby shampoo.
Fuck.
He grabbed the dishwashing liquid. Lemon scented, that would work. It had managed to clean last night’s spaghetti with no problem. Just not near his face…he doubted dishwashing liquid would be tearless like the baby soap.
Dean screamed as the dishwashing liquid and warm water hit his body.
Everything was so tiny! Toes, fingers even the boy’s bottom. Everything except the poopy mess that was clinging stubbornly to his butt. He squeezed the dishwashing liquid down Dean’s back, liberally hosing him with the sprayer. Dean stopped crying for a moment and sneezed as lemon scented bubbles wafted up over the kitchen sink.
John grabbed at the dishtowel and carefully sponged over Dean’s neck and body, allowing the poop to thankfully whisk down the drain. Then he sprayed the warm water over his poopy head.
Apparently, the boy had never been washed like this because he started howling again as soon as the warm spray touched his head.
“S’fine, buddy. Just a little water, kiddo.” John soothed. It was then John spotted the sample bottle of baby shampoo near the sink.
Thank God. Apparently, he was becoming religious. Jim would be impressed.
He poured it on Dean’s head, scrubbing the remaining poop off with callused fingers. Now there was baby-scented bubbles mixed with lemony dish detergent. It smelled kind of nice, John thought. Dean kicked hard then and arched his body in a baby temper tantrum. Damn he was slippery! He slid out of John’s hands and headed toward the drain. John grabbed his baby shampooed head before it actually touched the stainless steel of the kitchen sink but Dean’s body, covered in dish detergent and baby shampoo slid around the sink like a fish flopping around on the bank.
The crying reached a level probably unheard of in most countries.
“Please, Dean. Please, Shhhhh.” John was not begging. He wasn’t. He took a deep breath and hosed some more until he was fairly satisfied that the poop was gone and so was the detergent. Dean face was ruddy with yelling but his body and head were poop free.
John picked him up, now confident there would be no poop on his own shirt, he carried him back to the nursery, not worrying about his dripping wet shirt, using it to dry the baby off until he could grab a clean baby blanket to wrap him in was just fine in his book.
Finally he laid him down in the crib, swaddled in a blanket. Dean stopped yelling once the warm blanket settled around him; face scrunched and red from crying he shoved his fist in his mouth, sucking madly.
If he starts sucking his hand, he’s probably hungry.
Hungry? Mary breastfed Dean but there was some bottles and formula around for emergencies. John figured this was an emergency. He carefully raised the crib railing up and left Dean for a moment, trotting to the kitchen again to get the formula and make him a bottle.
It was much easier than the changing. There was directions and everything. John carefully tested the formula on his wrist and trotted back into the nursery where Dean was once again crying.
John scooped him up, cradling him in his arm and plopped the bottle in his mouth as fast as he could. Apparently, Dean didn’t care how milk was provided to him; he started sucking down formula like he was starving.
Blissful quiet.
John held him then and settled himself in the rocking chair that was in the nursery.
It was kind of nice, rocking slow and gentle, cradling the tiny bundle of baby.
Him and his boy.
John wondered amazed at soft downy hair and chubby cheeks that worked furiously at the bottle, noting the tiny slurping sounds as the baby swallowed mouthful after mouthful of formula.
The bottle was done in five minutes.
John glanced at the now crumpled note, liberally covered in water and with a suspicious brown stain that he refused to acknowledge. Thank goodness the ink didn’t run much. He could still read Mary’s loopy handwriting.
Make sure you burp him half way through.
Fuck!
He turned the boy over his shoulder patted once and there was a satisfying burp followed by a swoosh of warm milk as Dean promptly spit up down his back.
Don’t forget to use burping towel!
Fuck!
John picked the now contented baby up and used the tail end of his sopping flannel shirt to wipe milk off Dean’s face. He ignored the warm trail of formula that seeped through his shirt over his shoulder. He noticed though that somehow the boy had managed to spew baby puke, not only down his shirt but uncannily on the wall across the room. So that was projectile vomiting! It sounded kind of Marine-like, John thought proudly. Of course his boy could puke projectiles!
No problem. Shirts could be washed. Walls too, he figured.
He carried Dean back up to the nursery and then laid him in the crib. Dean cooed baby talk and John kind of melted. Dean’s toothless grin was funny as shit! This baby stuff wasn’t so hard after all!
It was then he realized he never put another diaper on the boy!
He grabbed a clean diaper, folded it in a triangle like he’d seen Mary do and opened up the swaddled boy.
Damn Dean was cute! Pudgy legs and tubby belly full of milk.
He leaned over to kiss his little clean head, and then blew belly farts onto Dean’s rounded belly. Dean snorted, eyes startled but smiled in a way that was definitely not gas.
Dean laughed then - really laughed and promptly peed in John’s face.
John stood there a moment. Baby urine dripping off his scruffy face. What? It was the weekend, he hadn’t shaved since Friday! He regarded the traitorous penis that showered him with golden baby pee. There should be some kind of deference to peeing on your father. You couldn’t punish a baby could you? Besides what would you do? Take away his rattle? Dean smiled, obviously rather proud of his most recent accomplishment and John couldn’t help but smile back, pee dripping off his beard back onto the fresh diaper waiting to be duckie safety pinned.
He looked at Mary’s list.
Oh, by the way, keep it covered! The boy is an exhibitionist and loves to pee when he’s free of the diaper!
John sighed. Maybe he should have read the whole list before he started watching Dean!
End.
Characters: John and Dean
Rating: PG for cussing. Gen.
Word Count: 2000ish
Summary: The first time John is left with Dean.
AN: So…I asked for prompts and flinchflower wanted to know about the first time John was left with little Dean. Quite a bit of the story is taken from the personal Saberivojo archives. Tis true. *Swears.*
XXX
When Dean cried it was not a normal baby cry. John knew this because although he never had kids himself, he was best friends with Sean O’Malley growing up and Sean had two brothers and six sisters. All of his sisters were named Mary. Mary Bridget, Mary Pat, Mary Clair, Mary Margaret, Mary Ann and Mary Jane. They were very devout and very Catholic, as evidenced by their large family and the fact that all the girls were named Mary. John thought the O’Malleys had gone a little overboard in their Catholicism and even Sean had said it was a miracle he and his brothers weren’t named Mary too. Mrs. O’Malley said she liked it because when she called Mary, she was sure to get someone. But the truth of the matter was, Sean was the second oldest so John’s entire childhood and some of his teenager life too, was spent with the howling of babies. Babies cried, Lord knows all the Marys cried but not like Dean. John had never seen a baby with a set of lungs on him like his kid.
John wasn’t sure whether to be proud or to cringe.
When Dean decided to cry it was as piercing as a cat with it’s tail trapped under a rocking chair. Continuously. That was the closest approximation of sound that John could come up with.
John would have never admitted it. Not to his own Mary (she never cried, thank God) and surely not to himself, but watching Dean alone was terrifying. For many reasons - some of them directly related to the boy’s ear bleed inducing cry.
First of all, babies were supposed to sleep on their backs.
Dean preferred to sleep on his tummy; tiny butt scooted up in the air.
That was a major baby snafu. Everyone said so. What if he stopped breathing?
John peeped in on him watching as the boy breathed little snuffles that were surely an attempt not to suffocate on the comfy bear blanket he slept on. So John did what any good father would do, he carefully slid his large hand under the kid and flipped him over.
Wide green eyes startled awake and Dean promptly started crying. The blood curdling cat scream. John tried for moment to sooth him; awkwardly patting his head but to no avail.
John pulled the list from his back pocket.
Mary’s handwriting was girlish and adorable.
If he cries, check his diaper.
John eyed up the screaming child analytically. The boy was wearing a sleeper, which might not seem too bad but underneath the sleeper was something that Mary referred to as a Onesie. Those damn Onesie things were formidable. There were like t-shirts with snaps under Dean’s well-padded crotch. John figured it was supposed to keep the t-shirt from sliding up. But in John’s estimation, it was a poor solution to a not so pressing problem. Tiny snaps covered the blue sleeper too and John’s hands while quite comfortable with a screwdrivers and spark plugs, were not so good with baby snaps. He fumbled cursing softly.
The whole time Dean wailed. Piercing howls that set John’s teeth on edge.
“S’okay, Dean. I gotcha.” John murmured low.
Dean apparently didn’t get the memo because once the main sleeper thing was unsnapped John had to bend his tiny arms to get them out of the sleeper thing. Was it okay for his arms to bend like that?
Dean did not like.
John would not be deterred. He had to get the boy out of the sleeper thing. To unhook the Onesie thing to see if his diaper was wet. Or worse.
John took an experimental whiff in the general direction of Dean’s butt. He wrinkled his nose at the obvious stench.
Now not only did he have to undo all the snaps and things he definitely had to change the boy’s diaper!
Finally, the sleeper was undone and his arms were out but his legs were still firmly entrenched in the footy part.
Dear God, could this get any worse?
John bent Dean’s tiny knees and legs. They seemed far more bendy than his arms but the truth was, Dean didn’t like the treatment anymore than the arm manipulation.
He screamed once his legs were out…but the Onesie thing was now accessible. And obviously stained with poop. John tried singing CCR in an effort to block out the screams of the baby. “Down on the corner, out in the street, Willie and the poor boys are playing bring a nickel tap your feet.”
Dean didn’t think too much of his rendition.
John appraised the situation critically. He was a Marine, he could break down a M40 blindfolded, he was quite sure he could figure out this baby undressing thing. He had to get the Onesie thing over Dean’s head without getting poop on him. He scratched at his own head thoughtfully. It was certainly not something his CO had ever discussed.
John wasn’t a religious man but once again he found himself offering some kind of prayer, oh God, how did Mary do this?
John took a step back, surveying the crying baby, whose legs were now peddling in an effort to push himself back over on his tummy. He was going in.
“Fire in the hole, champ.” John said determinedly to his wailing son.
Carefully, John tried to roll the soiled Onesie over Dean’s butt and then his head. Bad move. A thick smear of baby poop now covered Dean’s downy hair. John held his breath and just pulled. The hellish Onesie contraption popped off Dean’s head with only a little extra screaming from Dean. John dropped the whole mess in a nearby trashcan. It was worth the buck fifty for a new damn Onsie. Now all there was to deal with was the diaper.
Damn Mary and her instance on using real diapers! He had to take the plastic panties things off that supposedly protected the boy’s freaking Onsie. Fat chance. But the reality was, panties were panties and he could pull them down easy enough. He grinned to himself thinking of Mary. Her panties were pretty, pink and not plastic but he had no problem with them either! Plastic panties pulled off he quickly surveyed the diaper itself. He grabbed at the pins, little yellow duckies covering the safety part of the pins. They mocked him. Perky little yellow fucking ducks. But he felt he could outwit a ducky safety pin; he was a damn master mechanic! Carefully, he unhooked them without too much problem, making sure the sharp end got no where near Dean’s wriggling parts.
He rolled the boy over to another set of piercing wails and pulled the wipes at the same time.
They looked completely inadequate for the task at hand. There was more poop up the boys back and in chubby little folds that should never have poop in them.
Nope, no way. Dean needed a bath.
If he needs a bath, check the water with your elbow…that’s safest.
John picked Dean up gingerly holding him under the arms with his poopy hair and poopy body as far away from himself as he could safely manage and carried him to the kitchen sink.
Smaller than a bathtub. It would work. Besides, she didn’t say what water needed testing.
He pulled the sprayer out and after holding his elbow under the spray (while holding Dean up with the other hand) he started washing him. Like the Impala he thought, a little soap and water and the boy would be fine. No, you don’t wax a baby, John thought to himself with a small grin.
It was then he noticed there was no baby soap or baby shampoo.
Fuck.
He grabbed the dishwashing liquid. Lemon scented, that would work. It had managed to clean last night’s spaghetti with no problem. Just not near his face…he doubted dishwashing liquid would be tearless like the baby soap.
Dean screamed as the dishwashing liquid and warm water hit his body.
Everything was so tiny! Toes, fingers even the boy’s bottom. Everything except the poopy mess that was clinging stubbornly to his butt. He squeezed the dishwashing liquid down Dean’s back, liberally hosing him with the sprayer. Dean stopped crying for a moment and sneezed as lemon scented bubbles wafted up over the kitchen sink.
John grabbed at the dishtowel and carefully sponged over Dean’s neck and body, allowing the poop to thankfully whisk down the drain. Then he sprayed the warm water over his poopy head.
Apparently, the boy had never been washed like this because he started howling again as soon as the warm spray touched his head.
“S’fine, buddy. Just a little water, kiddo.” John soothed. It was then John spotted the sample bottle of baby shampoo near the sink.
Thank God. Apparently, he was becoming religious. Jim would be impressed.
He poured it on Dean’s head, scrubbing the remaining poop off with callused fingers. Now there was baby-scented bubbles mixed with lemony dish detergent. It smelled kind of nice, John thought. Dean kicked hard then and arched his body in a baby temper tantrum. Damn he was slippery! He slid out of John’s hands and headed toward the drain. John grabbed his baby shampooed head before it actually touched the stainless steel of the kitchen sink but Dean’s body, covered in dish detergent and baby shampoo slid around the sink like a fish flopping around on the bank.
The crying reached a level probably unheard of in most countries.
“Please, Dean. Please, Shhhhh.” John was not begging. He wasn’t. He took a deep breath and hosed some more until he was fairly satisfied that the poop was gone and so was the detergent. Dean face was ruddy with yelling but his body and head were poop free.
John picked him up, now confident there would be no poop on his own shirt, he carried him back to the nursery, not worrying about his dripping wet shirt, using it to dry the baby off until he could grab a clean baby blanket to wrap him in was just fine in his book.
Finally he laid him down in the crib, swaddled in a blanket. Dean stopped yelling once the warm blanket settled around him; face scrunched and red from crying he shoved his fist in his mouth, sucking madly.
If he starts sucking his hand, he’s probably hungry.
Hungry? Mary breastfed Dean but there was some bottles and formula around for emergencies. John figured this was an emergency. He carefully raised the crib railing up and left Dean for a moment, trotting to the kitchen again to get the formula and make him a bottle.
It was much easier than the changing. There was directions and everything. John carefully tested the formula on his wrist and trotted back into the nursery where Dean was once again crying.
John scooped him up, cradling him in his arm and plopped the bottle in his mouth as fast as he could. Apparently, Dean didn’t care how milk was provided to him; he started sucking down formula like he was starving.
Blissful quiet.
John held him then and settled himself in the rocking chair that was in the nursery.
It was kind of nice, rocking slow and gentle, cradling the tiny bundle of baby.
Him and his boy.
John wondered amazed at soft downy hair and chubby cheeks that worked furiously at the bottle, noting the tiny slurping sounds as the baby swallowed mouthful after mouthful of formula.
The bottle was done in five minutes.
John glanced at the now crumpled note, liberally covered in water and with a suspicious brown stain that he refused to acknowledge. Thank goodness the ink didn’t run much. He could still read Mary’s loopy handwriting.
Make sure you burp him half way through.
Fuck!
He turned the boy over his shoulder patted once and there was a satisfying burp followed by a swoosh of warm milk as Dean promptly spit up down his back.
Don’t forget to use burping towel!
Fuck!
John picked the now contented baby up and used the tail end of his sopping flannel shirt to wipe milk off Dean’s face. He ignored the warm trail of formula that seeped through his shirt over his shoulder. He noticed though that somehow the boy had managed to spew baby puke, not only down his shirt but uncannily on the wall across the room. So that was projectile vomiting! It sounded kind of Marine-like, John thought proudly. Of course his boy could puke projectiles!
No problem. Shirts could be washed. Walls too, he figured.
He carried Dean back up to the nursery and then laid him in the crib. Dean cooed baby talk and John kind of melted. Dean’s toothless grin was funny as shit! This baby stuff wasn’t so hard after all!
It was then he realized he never put another diaper on the boy!
He grabbed a clean diaper, folded it in a triangle like he’d seen Mary do and opened up the swaddled boy.
Damn Dean was cute! Pudgy legs and tubby belly full of milk.
He leaned over to kiss his little clean head, and then blew belly farts onto Dean’s rounded belly. Dean snorted, eyes startled but smiled in a way that was definitely not gas.
Dean laughed then - really laughed and promptly peed in John’s face.
John stood there a moment. Baby urine dripping off his scruffy face. What? It was the weekend, he hadn’t shaved since Friday! He regarded the traitorous penis that showered him with golden baby pee. There should be some kind of deference to peeing on your father. You couldn’t punish a baby could you? Besides what would you do? Take away his rattle? Dean smiled, obviously rather proud of his most recent accomplishment and John couldn’t help but smile back, pee dripping off his beard back onto the fresh diaper waiting to be duckie safety pinned.
He looked at Mary’s list.
Oh, by the way, keep it covered! The boy is an exhibitionist and loves to pee when he’s free of the diaper!
John sighed. Maybe he should have read the whole list before he started watching Dean!
End.