SPN fic: "Zanahorias" (Dean, gen, PG. Yes, gen.)
OMG, I actually did end up finishing my spn_dailylife fic on time (five hours before the deadline! Wow! Heh.) Ummm, so yeah. Here. (In case you are wondering about my mood icon, it's because there's a giant fucking FLY buzzing around the room right now. It's making me want to KILL SOMETHING.)
Title: Zanahorias
Pairing/Characters: Dean, Sam, OCs
Rating: PG
Summary: Everybody knew the white kid's name, and it was kind of okay, even if he could tell they were joking about him in rapid-fire Spanish sometimes. Miguel snuck the two of them some beer and some barbecue, wrapped an arm around Dean's shoulders, and just like that, he was part of the family, welcome at every birthday party they ever had.
Word Count: 797
Spoilers: None.
Prompt: #12, Forget-Me-Not: True Love, Memories.
Notes/Warnings: Only lightly betaed (thank you emmademarais!) Pre-series (technically memories of pre-series, but... to-may-to, to-mah-to.) And, um, probably the most important note--I'm very much white, so I'm not exactly an expert here. However, I did try to base some of this fic off of my own experiences growing up/living in a neighborhood largely made up of Latinos. I may have inadvertently mixed Salvadoran, Mexican and Puerto Rican cultures/traditions. My apologies if I have. :-) Oh, also, in an earlier draft, emmademarais thought Dean was making burritos; I tried to make it clearer, but in case I've still failed, what he's actually making are pupusas, a kind of stuffed tortilla from El Salvador.
Disclaimer: I own only the OCs. Sam, Dean and John Winchester are not mine; I'm just borrowing them for a little fun.
The neighborhood they're driving through smells like 1993 in New Mexico, beans and rice and meat cooking, the scents drifting out of windows to settle over the length of the street, and he can almost hear Mrs. Rodriguez, the sound of her call--mijos!--to come inside for dinner. You're welcome to stay, Dean, honey, of course, she'd say, always wanting to feed him, but he usually said no, thank you, ma'am, uncomfortable accepting because he knew she didn't have much money. Sometimes Dad was waiting at home for them, anyway. The walk back to the little house they were renting, two blocks away, made his stomach growl.
His best friend that year was a boy named Miguel, fourteen years old like him and the eldest kid in his family, too. Sammy tagged along most of the time, because Miguel had a little brother who was nine and kind of a geek, and Mrs. Rodriguez didn't seem to mind, like it was the more kids the better. Mostly they played outside, and as long as none of them started crying, she pretty much left them alone. If she had free time or just some mending to do, she'd sit on the porch steps and keep an eye on the little kids, and if Dean and Miguel wanted to race their bikes or skateboards, she'd even man the stopwatch for them, crowing with teasing laughter at her own son when Dean beat him.
They were good times. Miguel had all these cousins, dozens of girls in strappy little tank tops showing off more cleavage than they--or Dean--knew what to do with, except some of the older ones, who'd been around, Miguel said, all wide eyes and scandalized tone. It was Dean's first experience with extended family, and he was half-glad he didn't have any, if they all gossiped about each other so much. He was the only boy in the house who wasn't related, the only one without brown skin, and everybody stared sometimes but the girls always seemed more appreciative. They dragged him along to their parties when Dad was home to watch Sammy and in a good enough mood to let Dean go. Everybody knew the white kid's name, and it was kind of okay, even if he could tell they were joking about him in rapid-fire Spanish sometimes. Miguel snuck the two of them some beer and some barbecue, wrapped an arm around Dean's shoulders, and just like that, he was part of the family, welcome at every birthday party they ever had.
His dad had put Dean in charge of the grocery shopping ever since he was eleven, and in New Mexico they settled down long enough that he made a routine of it, going to the store every Friday afternoon after carefully tucking into his wallet the money Dad had laid out. He always double-checked the knife in his pocket, because if the money disappeared they were screwed for the week. Sammy was only ten, still almost a foot shorter than Dean. Kid needed his milk; now Dean thinks maybe he should have fed him more coffee. The main Spanish vocabulary he knows that isn't used for flirting or interviewing witnesses was gleaned from the store shelves, every sign written in English and Spanish so that after awhile he couldn't not remember that carrots were called zanahorias and bread was pan.
Miguel's mom showed him how to make tortillas at home after he discovered that it was cheaper than buying the packaged kind. It went fast if he got Sam to help, though Dean had to roll the dough into balls because Sammy's hands were too small back then. Smushing he could handle, and he was always a bit of a perfectionist, shaping the dough into perfect circles even as Dean insisted that the pan was losing its heat. Sometimes when he got up early enough, he stuffed the balls of dough with beans and cheese before he flattened and cooked them, and then took them to school wrapped in tinfoil so that they were still almost warm when lunchtime rolled around. Mrs. Rodriguez had a word for them, but Dean can't remember anymore what it was.
He guesses that he'd still find her there, if they drove off course and headed Southwest, in that same house with only one or two kids left, probably, the toddlers they'd left behind now teenagers. There could be grandkids, Miguel could be doing anything right now, married probably, and his mama still in that house cooking and laughing and yelling at her kids in Spanish, feeding the stragglers that travel through her house.
Title: Zanahorias
Pairing/Characters: Dean, Sam, OCs
Rating: PG
Summary: Everybody knew the white kid's name, and it was kind of okay, even if he could tell they were joking about him in rapid-fire Spanish sometimes. Miguel snuck the two of them some beer and some barbecue, wrapped an arm around Dean's shoulders, and just like that, he was part of the family, welcome at every birthday party they ever had.
Word Count: 797
Spoilers: None.
Prompt: #12, Forget-Me-Not: True Love, Memories.
Notes/Warnings: Only lightly betaed (thank you emmademarais!) Pre-series (technically memories of pre-series, but... to-may-to, to-mah-to.) And, um, probably the most important note--I'm very much white, so I'm not exactly an expert here. However, I did try to base some of this fic off of my own experiences growing up/living in a neighborhood largely made up of Latinos. I may have inadvertently mixed Salvadoran, Mexican and Puerto Rican cultures/traditions. My apologies if I have. :-) Oh, also, in an earlier draft, emmademarais thought Dean was making burritos; I tried to make it clearer, but in case I've still failed, what he's actually making are pupusas, a kind of stuffed tortilla from El Salvador.
Disclaimer: I own only the OCs. Sam, Dean and John Winchester are not mine; I'm just borrowing them for a little fun.
The neighborhood they're driving through smells like 1993 in New Mexico, beans and rice and meat cooking, the scents drifting out of windows to settle over the length of the street, and he can almost hear Mrs. Rodriguez, the sound of her call--mijos!--to come inside for dinner. You're welcome to stay, Dean, honey, of course, she'd say, always wanting to feed him, but he usually said no, thank you, ma'am, uncomfortable accepting because he knew she didn't have much money. Sometimes Dad was waiting at home for them, anyway. The walk back to the little house they were renting, two blocks away, made his stomach growl.
His best friend that year was a boy named Miguel, fourteen years old like him and the eldest kid in his family, too. Sammy tagged along most of the time, because Miguel had a little brother who was nine and kind of a geek, and Mrs. Rodriguez didn't seem to mind, like it was the more kids the better. Mostly they played outside, and as long as none of them started crying, she pretty much left them alone. If she had free time or just some mending to do, she'd sit on the porch steps and keep an eye on the little kids, and if Dean and Miguel wanted to race their bikes or skateboards, she'd even man the stopwatch for them, crowing with teasing laughter at her own son when Dean beat him.
They were good times. Miguel had all these cousins, dozens of girls in strappy little tank tops showing off more cleavage than they--or Dean--knew what to do with, except some of the older ones, who'd been around, Miguel said, all wide eyes and scandalized tone. It was Dean's first experience with extended family, and he was half-glad he didn't have any, if they all gossiped about each other so much. He was the only boy in the house who wasn't related, the only one without brown skin, and everybody stared sometimes but the girls always seemed more appreciative. They dragged him along to their parties when Dad was home to watch Sammy and in a good enough mood to let Dean go. Everybody knew the white kid's name, and it was kind of okay, even if he could tell they were joking about him in rapid-fire Spanish sometimes. Miguel snuck the two of them some beer and some barbecue, wrapped an arm around Dean's shoulders, and just like that, he was part of the family, welcome at every birthday party they ever had.
His dad had put Dean in charge of the grocery shopping ever since he was eleven, and in New Mexico they settled down long enough that he made a routine of it, going to the store every Friday afternoon after carefully tucking into his wallet the money Dad had laid out. He always double-checked the knife in his pocket, because if the money disappeared they were screwed for the week. Sammy was only ten, still almost a foot shorter than Dean. Kid needed his milk; now Dean thinks maybe he should have fed him more coffee. The main Spanish vocabulary he knows that isn't used for flirting or interviewing witnesses was gleaned from the store shelves, every sign written in English and Spanish so that after awhile he couldn't not remember that carrots were called zanahorias and bread was pan.
Miguel's mom showed him how to make tortillas at home after he discovered that it was cheaper than buying the packaged kind. It went fast if he got Sam to help, though Dean had to roll the dough into balls because Sammy's hands were too small back then. Smushing he could handle, and he was always a bit of a perfectionist, shaping the dough into perfect circles even as Dean insisted that the pan was losing its heat. Sometimes when he got up early enough, he stuffed the balls of dough with beans and cheese before he flattened and cooked them, and then took them to school wrapped in tinfoil so that they were still almost warm when lunchtime rolled around. Mrs. Rodriguez had a word for them, but Dean can't remember anymore what it was.
He guesses that he'd still find her there, if they drove off course and headed Southwest, in that same house with only one or two kids left, probably, the toddlers they'd left behind now teenagers. There could be grandkids, Miguel could be doing anything right now, married probably, and his mama still in that house cooking and laughing and yelling at her kids in Spanish, feeding the stragglers that travel through her house.