FIC: before these walls were built
title: before these walls were built
author: acidquill
disclaimer: don't own em.
rating: G
wordcount: 482
characters: wee!Dean, John
postcard prompt: here, all credit for it goes to its creator.
notes: third entry for spn_secretfic. whoo! I'm halfway there. and even though I interpreted the postcard as John's pov, I wrote the fic from Dean's. did you know I could write wee!chesters? neither did I.
Dean is nine the first time he breaks his arm. He's walking Sammy across the parking lot to their motel room after school. Sam's tired and cranky from kindergarten; Dean has to pull him most of the way, promising popcicles and cartoons if Sammy will just come on. There's a blaring horn, squealing tires. Dean doesn't think. He shoves his little brother behind him. The next thing he knows he's laying on the ground. There's a woman standing over him, with big blonde hair and too much makeup.
"What the hell were you doin' kid? I coulda killed ya." She snaps her gum and talks loud and fast. The woman bends down and pokes at him with one of her long, red fingernails. "I don't wanna kill no kid," she says. "You, be still. I'm gonna call an ambulance or somethin'."
Dean hears the scuff of her shoes across the parking lot. His arm hurts. A lot. He doesn't know where his brother is. "Sam? Sammy!" he yells. He tries to get up and finds out how much he really does hurt. Dean falls back to the asphalt. He's not gonna cry. He's not. He scrubs at his face with his good arm.
"Hey buddy."
Dean opens his eyes. For a minute he thinks he's dreaming because Dad isn't supposed to be home yet. But it's his dad pushing the hair back on his forehead, and his dad asking him, "Where does it hurt Deano?"
Dad hasn't called him that in a while. He stares up at his father, "I didn't let anything happen to Sammy, Dad. But I don't know where he went - I pushed him outta the way though, maybe that lady..."
"Shhh," Dad says. "I know you took care of him, buddy, that was some quick thinking. And some quick thinking for Sammy too, he ran right to the room and got me." One corner of Dad's mouth turns up, the closest thing to a smile Dean's seen on his father since they got into town. "He's fine, Dean. Was talking a mile a minute. But I need to know where you're hurt kiddo."
Dean tries to hold up his left arm, but it burns. And there's this weird feeling underneath his skin, like something moving. It feels tens times worse than when Sam accidentally shut his hand in the car door last year.
"That the only place?" Dad asks. Dean nods.
"Think you can sit up for me?"
Dean nods again. His dad's hand is warm against his back. He doesn't want to cry, but his stupid eyes are all wet. He hopes Dad won't notice.
"Come on," Dad says. "We'll grab Sammy and go get you fixed up." He lifts Dean gently and carries him toward the motel room.
Dean buries his face in his Dad's shirt; he leaves two damp spots right above John's heart.
- end
author: acidquill
disclaimer: don't own em.
rating: G
wordcount: 482
characters: wee!Dean, John
postcard prompt: here, all credit for it goes to its creator.
notes: third entry for spn_secretfic. whoo! I'm halfway there. and even though I interpreted the postcard as John's pov, I wrote the fic from Dean's. did you know I could write wee!chesters? neither did I.
Dean is nine the first time he breaks his arm. He's walking Sammy across the parking lot to their motel room after school. Sam's tired and cranky from kindergarten; Dean has to pull him most of the way, promising popcicles and cartoons if Sammy will just come on. There's a blaring horn, squealing tires. Dean doesn't think. He shoves his little brother behind him. The next thing he knows he's laying on the ground. There's a woman standing over him, with big blonde hair and too much makeup.
"What the hell were you doin' kid? I coulda killed ya." She snaps her gum and talks loud and fast. The woman bends down and pokes at him with one of her long, red fingernails. "I don't wanna kill no kid," she says. "You, be still. I'm gonna call an ambulance or somethin'."
Dean hears the scuff of her shoes across the parking lot. His arm hurts. A lot. He doesn't know where his brother is. "Sam? Sammy!" he yells. He tries to get up and finds out how much he really does hurt. Dean falls back to the asphalt. He's not gonna cry. He's not. He scrubs at his face with his good arm.
"Hey buddy."
Dean opens his eyes. For a minute he thinks he's dreaming because Dad isn't supposed to be home yet. But it's his dad pushing the hair back on his forehead, and his dad asking him, "Where does it hurt Deano?"
Dad hasn't called him that in a while. He stares up at his father, "I didn't let anything happen to Sammy, Dad. But I don't know where he went - I pushed him outta the way though, maybe that lady..."
"Shhh," Dad says. "I know you took care of him, buddy, that was some quick thinking. And some quick thinking for Sammy too, he ran right to the room and got me." One corner of Dad's mouth turns up, the closest thing to a smile Dean's seen on his father since they got into town. "He's fine, Dean. Was talking a mile a minute. But I need to know where you're hurt kiddo."
Dean tries to hold up his left arm, but it burns. And there's this weird feeling underneath his skin, like something moving. It feels tens times worse than when Sam accidentally shut his hand in the car door last year.
"That the only place?" Dad asks. Dean nods.
"Think you can sit up for me?"
Dean nods again. His dad's hand is warm against his back. He doesn't want to cry, but his stupid eyes are all wet. He hopes Dad won't notice.
"Come on," Dad says. "We'll grab Sammy and go get you fixed up." He lifts Dean gently and carries him toward the motel room.
Dean buries his face in his Dad's shirt; he leaves two damp spots right above John's heart.
- end