Ficlet - Gorgeous
After the two weeks from hell ('dead week', my ass), I suddenly had the urge to write John-granddaughter fluff. You know, something sweet. Something to cheer myself up and get myself in the mood for my bigbang_fic.
It looks like I took a wrong turn somewhere.
Title: Gorgeous
Pairing: Gen
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its franchises belong to their respective owners. I am not making any money with this and mean no harm
Warnings: AUish. Angst.
Word Count: 750
~
Gorgeous
“She’s adorable,” John murmured, giving his granddaughter a light shake. She gurgled and cooed and he settled her against his chest, long forgotten movements slowly coming back to him.
“Isn’t she?” John could hear the smile in Sam’s voice. “I know everyone says that about their child…”
“No, no, she’s gorgeous,” John assured him. He could see Sam’s long legs out of the corner of his eyes, over by the couch that his son was leaning against. Sam did that; hovering just out of sight, like he wanted to see everything but wanted no one to see him, no one to really look at him.
The baby girl in his arms blinked her enormous eyes at him and he grinned, offering her his finger to abuse.
“She has Jessica’s eyes,” he said, slightly over his shoulder but not quite looking at the boy. Sometimes he couldn’t help feeling that things used to be different. Like there had been a time when Sam didn’t hover just outside of his vision, always there and never fully there. Like there had been a time when Sam had been in John’s face, demanding, screaming. John didn’t quite believe it, not with his son always slinking around the way he did, so keen, so eager to please.
Most days weren’t like that. Most days John got up and worked on his cars and his house and made love to his beautiful wife, and spoke to his daughter-in-law on the phone when Sam was busy with lawyer things. Sometimes days, weeks passed when John thought that his life couldn’t possibly be real because it was so much like heaven. He thanked God for it every day.
And sometimes it seemed like the picture became disjointed, like a reflection in a window pane that distorted reality until John saw things that couldn’t possibly be. Sometimes he woke up dreaming of fire. Sometimes he sat up in the middle of the night and had to grasp Mary’s shoulder and shake her awake to make sure she was still there. She always grumbled a little when he did that, but she never got impatient with him, never cross. She was everything he had ever wished for in a wife.
The little girl he was holding gave out a sharp cry and John rocked her gently, stroking her reddening cheek with his fingers. He wasn’t sure why he sometimes expected them to be rough and covered in scars.
Sam shifted, and John could see him frown.
“Should babies cry that much?” he asked, flattening his mouth into a tight line. “Maybe babies shouldn’t cry that much.”
He moved like he wanted to get up. John quickly turned away from him, shielding the girl with his body, even though a second later he wasn’t sure why he had done it.
“Babies cry,” he said, his tone soft and soothing. “That’s normal. That’s good.”
Sam relaxed, twisting his mouth upward. John looked down at the little girl again.
"She really does look like her mother," he said.
"She does," Sam said, proudly, like that was somehow his doing. "Very alike, aren’t they?"
John nodded. He walked over to the window and pushed aside the lacey curtains to look out into the quiet street. It looked wrong today. Off. Like it was hidden underneath a layer of grime, of memories, thick and impenetrable like a veil. On days like this, John remembered tears and pain but he didn’t know where he would have shed them. He could almost remember then that the infant in his arms shouldn’t really be there. He could almost remember Dean, not the real Dean he had raised but one that was older, an adult but not as old as his eyes made him seem. A Dean filled with scars and pain and hellfire, so different from the teenaged son who had stormed out of the house one night after a fight. From the son they had dragged out of his car in the ditch a week later, very drunk and very much not breathing.
John chanced a look over his shoulder to where Sam was still sitting on the arm of the couch, running his hand over the wooden surface of the side table. He looked a little like he was admiring his own handiwork, and a lot like he couldn’t believe it was real. John held his granddaughter a little more tightly against his chest.
He almost remembered a time when his son hadn’t had yellow eyes.
~
Thoughts?
It looks like I took a wrong turn somewhere.
Title: Gorgeous
Pairing: Gen
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its franchises belong to their respective owners. I am not making any money with this and mean no harm
Warnings: AUish. Angst.
Word Count: 750
~
Gorgeous
“She’s adorable,” John murmured, giving his granddaughter a light shake. She gurgled and cooed and he settled her against his chest, long forgotten movements slowly coming back to him.
“Isn’t she?” John could hear the smile in Sam’s voice. “I know everyone says that about their child…”
“No, no, she’s gorgeous,” John assured him. He could see Sam’s long legs out of the corner of his eyes, over by the couch that his son was leaning against. Sam did that; hovering just out of sight, like he wanted to see everything but wanted no one to see him, no one to really look at him.
The baby girl in his arms blinked her enormous eyes at him and he grinned, offering her his finger to abuse.
“She has Jessica’s eyes,” he said, slightly over his shoulder but not quite looking at the boy. Sometimes he couldn’t help feeling that things used to be different. Like there had been a time when Sam didn’t hover just outside of his vision, always there and never fully there. Like there had been a time when Sam had been in John’s face, demanding, screaming. John didn’t quite believe it, not with his son always slinking around the way he did, so keen, so eager to please.
Most days weren’t like that. Most days John got up and worked on his cars and his house and made love to his beautiful wife, and spoke to his daughter-in-law on the phone when Sam was busy with lawyer things. Sometimes days, weeks passed when John thought that his life couldn’t possibly be real because it was so much like heaven. He thanked God for it every day.
And sometimes it seemed like the picture became disjointed, like a reflection in a window pane that distorted reality until John saw things that couldn’t possibly be. Sometimes he woke up dreaming of fire. Sometimes he sat up in the middle of the night and had to grasp Mary’s shoulder and shake her awake to make sure she was still there. She always grumbled a little when he did that, but she never got impatient with him, never cross. She was everything he had ever wished for in a wife.
The little girl he was holding gave out a sharp cry and John rocked her gently, stroking her reddening cheek with his fingers. He wasn’t sure why he sometimes expected them to be rough and covered in scars.
Sam shifted, and John could see him frown.
“Should babies cry that much?” he asked, flattening his mouth into a tight line. “Maybe babies shouldn’t cry that much.”
He moved like he wanted to get up. John quickly turned away from him, shielding the girl with his body, even though a second later he wasn’t sure why he had done it.
“Babies cry,” he said, his tone soft and soothing. “That’s normal. That’s good.”
Sam relaxed, twisting his mouth upward. John looked down at the little girl again.
"She really does look like her mother," he said.
"She does," Sam said, proudly, like that was somehow his doing. "Very alike, aren’t they?"
John nodded. He walked over to the window and pushed aside the lacey curtains to look out into the quiet street. It looked wrong today. Off. Like it was hidden underneath a layer of grime, of memories, thick and impenetrable like a veil. On days like this, John remembered tears and pain but he didn’t know where he would have shed them. He could almost remember then that the infant in his arms shouldn’t really be there. He could almost remember Dean, not the real Dean he had raised but one that was older, an adult but not as old as his eyes made him seem. A Dean filled with scars and pain and hellfire, so different from the teenaged son who had stormed out of the house one night after a fight. From the son they had dragged out of his car in the ditch a week later, very drunk and very much not breathing.
John chanced a look over his shoulder to where Sam was still sitting on the arm of the couch, running his hand over the wooden surface of the side table. He looked a little like he was admiring his own handiwork, and a lot like he couldn’t believe it was real. John held his granddaughter a little more tightly against his chest.
He almost remembered a time when his son hadn’t had yellow eyes.
~
Thoughts?