Happy Birthday ficlet - Salad Days
A wee ficlet tonight (finally) for three of my lovely flist who have been celebrating birthdays in the last week. yasminke is a star, always on hand to beta my SPN stuff, and always making me giggle with her incisive, witty comments. wenchpixie and angstslashhope write fantastic fic and both of them made Asylum 2006 even more awesome than I could have hoped.
They say you should write what you know...
TITLE: Salad Days
RATING: PG (gen)
CHARACTERS: Pastor Jim, John, Wee!Dean and Wee-er!Sammy
DISCLAIMER: Not my boys
NOTES: 1500 words. Set pre-series. The Winchesters attend the Church Picnic
Jim Murphy dreads the Church Picnic.
It’s a ritual, not quite as sacred as Baptism or Holy Communion, but a ritual nonetheless. A tradition since before his predecessor’s time; it might as well be a tenet of faith, handed down from Heaven along with the Commandments and written in stone.
Once a year, thou shalt host a fork supper upon consecrated ground.
It’s supposed to be a time of fellowship, of sharing, a celebration of community. And yet, somehow, every year, it ends up a viciously polite battlefield, as the ladies of his congregation skirmish over the creamiest Waldorf salad, the most succulent ham, the richest Devil’s Food cake. And for some unfathomable reason, he is continually called upon to judge their efforts, presiding unwillingly over the proceedings like some gastronomic Solomon.
This year, however, Jim is not alone in his role as picnic auditor. John Winchester arrived back late last night, determined to pick up the boys and leave before dawn. Of course Jim insisted that he couldn’t wake the boys at such an ungodly hour, best to get a decent night’s sleep, wait until morning. And when morning rolled around, and the boys got a glimpse of the sheer mountain of food intended for the picnic, well, John hadn’t a hope of escape.
Jim hears a soft sigh, turns to see Dean staring wistfully at the dessert table, which is groaning under the weight of untouched cakes and pies. He feels a pang of sympathy for the kid; remembers being seven years old and physically craving sugar. He also remembers his mother’s stern admonishments concerning the co-dependent nature of the relationship between a clean plate and dessert. More often than not there were detailed descriptions of starving orphans, and their lack of wholesome victuals. His mother had been less than impressed by Jim’s sincere offer to send them his unwanted spinach and beets.
John Winchester clearly holds similar views on food consumption. It makes sense; the life they lead, John can’t afford for the boys to be picky eaters, but surely today, just this once, he could afford to loosen up. Or not. John looks over at the boys, points his fork at their plates.
“I want to see clean plates, boys.”
Dean’s plate is almost empty; a few more forkfuls of potato salad and he’ll be in the clear. It’s Sammy who’s in trouble here, his plate is almost as full as when the picnic began. He’s spent the last half hour moving food strategically around the plate, in a valiant attempt to hide various undesirable salad and vegetable items.
He’s had limited success.
“Sammy.” John taps his fork on the table. “Quit playing with your food and eat.”
“Duntwannit.” It’s little more than a garbled mumble, but John sets his fork down and gives the child his undivided attention. Jim sees Dean tense, his own fork poised halfway between his plate and mouth, watching events unfold with growing unease.
“Eat. Your. Dinner.” John’s voice is quiet, but the command in it is unmistakable.
“No!” Sammy’s elbows come down hard on the table, and his lower lip juts so far out it’s almost a parody of a pout.
Dean’s eyes widen and he nudges Sammy in the ribs. “Aw, come on, Sammy. You’re nearly done.”
Sammy shakes his head. “Deeean,” he whines pitifully. “S’got snot in it. And boogers.” He stabs his fork into the potato salad to illustrate his point.
Dean peers at Sammy’s plate, then looks at his own, and his face pales. He’s clearly been won over by Sam’s irrefutable argument. Jim bites the inside of his cheek as he hears John struggling to swallow down several inappropriate oaths. Jim looks over at him, swears he can see the veins in John’s temple pulsing lightly.
“Boys.” The word is a low growl, rumbling from deep in John’s chest. “You stop this nonsense and clean those plates. Or there’s no dessert.”
The evidence of his internal struggle is written all over Dean’s face. He stares dejectedly at his salad, then casts another longing look at the dessert table. In the end, though, there’s no contest, and Dean heaves a sigh and picks up his fork.
Sam’s not going to be so easily intimidated. He doesn’t defy his father outright this time, but there’s a stubborn set to his chin as he lifts his fork. Jim recognizes that dogged tenacity; has seen it in John Winchester’s eyes when Jim tries to dissuade him from pursuing a dangerous hunt.
John doesn’t seem to notice Sam’s mood, just turns back to own plate, clearly confident that the threat of ‘no dessert’ will be enough to quell any further rebellion. Jim feels a tiny pang of sympathy for the man, for the misguided belief that he’s won the argument. It’s clear that he’s witnessing the beginning of a battle that will make the Hundred Years War look like a minor conflict.
The picnic progresses into that strange extra course that exists between the cold meats and salads and the arrival of the dessert. The vague twilight zone of unsolicited second helpings. No one ever actually requests them, but huge bowls of coleslaw and wobbling masses of jell-O salad continue to make the rounds, and few picnickers are brave enough to refuse a second helping. Not with the members of the Ladies Auxiliary doing the offering.
This year Mary-Anne Astor is taking on all comers in the potato salad and apple pie arenas, although thankfully not simultaneously. Jim watches her warily as she ladles out her home-made potato salad with the same cheerful aggressiveness that has guaranteed her the Presidency of the Ladies Auxiliary for six years running.
She approaches their table resolutely, brandishing her serving spoon with undisguised glee. Jim slides back into his chair, only slightly ashamed of using John’s broader form as a shield.
“Pastor Jim!” she gushes, shoving past the elder of the Miss Norris sisters without a second glance. She comes to rest behind Dean and Sammy. “And who are these two little angels?”
Jim glances at John, then goes with the non-committal “Family friends.” John gives a quick nod of approval.
“Well, aren’t they just the most adorable boys ever!” She leans in, ruffling the boys’ hair until Dean is practically squirming in his seat. Sammy ducks out from under her hand and glowers at her.
Then she reaches down and pinches Sammy’s cheek between her ample fingers, hard enough to bruise. An affronted squeak erupts from the three-year-old, but Mary-Anne is too busy cooing and simpering to notice.
Dean, meanwhile, is forcing down his last few forkfuls of potato salad with grim determination. He swallows the final mouthful and pushes the plate away, gazing at the dessert table in unconcealed adoration. He redirects his gaze to his father, who has just turned to the table behind him, to hand over a requested sauce bottle.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Mary-Anne gushes. “You must have been starving!” She slops a huge dollop of potato salad onto his plate, then moves on to the next table, oblivious to the unfolding scene of misery she leaves in her wake.
“Dean!” John barks, turning back to the boys. “You’ve hardly taken a bite. You’re supposed to set a good example for your brother.”
“Now, John…” Jim begins, but John puts his hand up, shakes his head.
“Jim, he’s got to learn.” John points at the splat of green-flecked gloop. “I said a clean plate, son.”
Dean stares at his plate in dismay at the injustice of the situation. His mouth falls open, but no sound escapes. Sheer horror has no voice.
Jim’s trying to work out how to scoop the extra salad off Dean’s plate and onto his without John noticing, but Sammy beats him to it.
Mary-Anne is over at the next table, her back to the boys, leaning over to force-feed some other poor unfortunate. Sammy moves, quick as lightning, tiny fists a blur. He scoops up the offending sludge from Dean’s plate and aims it with surprising accuracy.
Mary-Anne utters a highly undignified squawk as the potato salad lands on the intended target, then topples forward over the table, her ample rear now liberally smeared with potato and onion. She somehow manages to face-plant into the salad bowl as she falls, and Jim closes his eyes, offers up a silent prayer of thanks for divine retribution.
When he opens them again, John’s jaw has unhinged, and is flapping loosely, possibly in time with the throbbing vein in his temple. Dean is staring at his little brother in a mixture of awe, horror and barely-contained gratitude.
Sammy reaches over and lifts Dean’s paper napkin, wipes his hands very carefully. Then he looks up at John and smiles triumphantly.
“All clean, Daddy,” he says sweetly, pointing at Dean’s plate. “See?”
“Sammy’s right,” Jim points out helpfully, as John makes a quiet choking sound, his shoulders sagging in defeat. “You did say a clean plate. Gotta watch those semantics, John.”
They say you should write what you know...
TITLE: Salad Days
RATING: PG (gen)
CHARACTERS: Pastor Jim, John, Wee!Dean and Wee-er!Sammy
DISCLAIMER: Not my boys
NOTES: 1500 words. Set pre-series. The Winchesters attend the Church Picnic
Jim Murphy dreads the Church Picnic.
It’s a ritual, not quite as sacred as Baptism or Holy Communion, but a ritual nonetheless. A tradition since before his predecessor’s time; it might as well be a tenet of faith, handed down from Heaven along with the Commandments and written in stone.
Once a year, thou shalt host a fork supper upon consecrated ground.
It’s supposed to be a time of fellowship, of sharing, a celebration of community. And yet, somehow, every year, it ends up a viciously polite battlefield, as the ladies of his congregation skirmish over the creamiest Waldorf salad, the most succulent ham, the richest Devil’s Food cake. And for some unfathomable reason, he is continually called upon to judge their efforts, presiding unwillingly over the proceedings like some gastronomic Solomon.
This year, however, Jim is not alone in his role as picnic auditor. John Winchester arrived back late last night, determined to pick up the boys and leave before dawn. Of course Jim insisted that he couldn’t wake the boys at such an ungodly hour, best to get a decent night’s sleep, wait until morning. And when morning rolled around, and the boys got a glimpse of the sheer mountain of food intended for the picnic, well, John hadn’t a hope of escape.
Jim hears a soft sigh, turns to see Dean staring wistfully at the dessert table, which is groaning under the weight of untouched cakes and pies. He feels a pang of sympathy for the kid; remembers being seven years old and physically craving sugar. He also remembers his mother’s stern admonishments concerning the co-dependent nature of the relationship between a clean plate and dessert. More often than not there were detailed descriptions of starving orphans, and their lack of wholesome victuals. His mother had been less than impressed by Jim’s sincere offer to send them his unwanted spinach and beets.
John Winchester clearly holds similar views on food consumption. It makes sense; the life they lead, John can’t afford for the boys to be picky eaters, but surely today, just this once, he could afford to loosen up. Or not. John looks over at the boys, points his fork at their plates.
“I want to see clean plates, boys.”
Dean’s plate is almost empty; a few more forkfuls of potato salad and he’ll be in the clear. It’s Sammy who’s in trouble here, his plate is almost as full as when the picnic began. He’s spent the last half hour moving food strategically around the plate, in a valiant attempt to hide various undesirable salad and vegetable items.
He’s had limited success.
“Sammy.” John taps his fork on the table. “Quit playing with your food and eat.”
“Duntwannit.” It’s little more than a garbled mumble, but John sets his fork down and gives the child his undivided attention. Jim sees Dean tense, his own fork poised halfway between his plate and mouth, watching events unfold with growing unease.
“Eat. Your. Dinner.” John’s voice is quiet, but the command in it is unmistakable.
“No!” Sammy’s elbows come down hard on the table, and his lower lip juts so far out it’s almost a parody of a pout.
Dean’s eyes widen and he nudges Sammy in the ribs. “Aw, come on, Sammy. You’re nearly done.”
Sammy shakes his head. “Deeean,” he whines pitifully. “S’got snot in it. And boogers.” He stabs his fork into the potato salad to illustrate his point.
Dean peers at Sammy’s plate, then looks at his own, and his face pales. He’s clearly been won over by Sam’s irrefutable argument. Jim bites the inside of his cheek as he hears John struggling to swallow down several inappropriate oaths. Jim looks over at him, swears he can see the veins in John’s temple pulsing lightly.
“Boys.” The word is a low growl, rumbling from deep in John’s chest. “You stop this nonsense and clean those plates. Or there’s no dessert.”
The evidence of his internal struggle is written all over Dean’s face. He stares dejectedly at his salad, then casts another longing look at the dessert table. In the end, though, there’s no contest, and Dean heaves a sigh and picks up his fork.
Sam’s not going to be so easily intimidated. He doesn’t defy his father outright this time, but there’s a stubborn set to his chin as he lifts his fork. Jim recognizes that dogged tenacity; has seen it in John Winchester’s eyes when Jim tries to dissuade him from pursuing a dangerous hunt.
John doesn’t seem to notice Sam’s mood, just turns back to own plate, clearly confident that the threat of ‘no dessert’ will be enough to quell any further rebellion. Jim feels a tiny pang of sympathy for the man, for the misguided belief that he’s won the argument. It’s clear that he’s witnessing the beginning of a battle that will make the Hundred Years War look like a minor conflict.
The picnic progresses into that strange extra course that exists between the cold meats and salads and the arrival of the dessert. The vague twilight zone of unsolicited second helpings. No one ever actually requests them, but huge bowls of coleslaw and wobbling masses of jell-O salad continue to make the rounds, and few picnickers are brave enough to refuse a second helping. Not with the members of the Ladies Auxiliary doing the offering.
This year Mary-Anne Astor is taking on all comers in the potato salad and apple pie arenas, although thankfully not simultaneously. Jim watches her warily as she ladles out her home-made potato salad with the same cheerful aggressiveness that has guaranteed her the Presidency of the Ladies Auxiliary for six years running.
She approaches their table resolutely, brandishing her serving spoon with undisguised glee. Jim slides back into his chair, only slightly ashamed of using John’s broader form as a shield.
“Pastor Jim!” she gushes, shoving past the elder of the Miss Norris sisters without a second glance. She comes to rest behind Dean and Sammy. “And who are these two little angels?”
Jim glances at John, then goes with the non-committal “Family friends.” John gives a quick nod of approval.
“Well, aren’t they just the most adorable boys ever!” She leans in, ruffling the boys’ hair until Dean is practically squirming in his seat. Sammy ducks out from under her hand and glowers at her.
Then she reaches down and pinches Sammy’s cheek between her ample fingers, hard enough to bruise. An affronted squeak erupts from the three-year-old, but Mary-Anne is too busy cooing and simpering to notice.
Dean, meanwhile, is forcing down his last few forkfuls of potato salad with grim determination. He swallows the final mouthful and pushes the plate away, gazing at the dessert table in unconcealed adoration. He redirects his gaze to his father, who has just turned to the table behind him, to hand over a requested sauce bottle.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Mary-Anne gushes. “You must have been starving!” She slops a huge dollop of potato salad onto his plate, then moves on to the next table, oblivious to the unfolding scene of misery she leaves in her wake.
“Dean!” John barks, turning back to the boys. “You’ve hardly taken a bite. You’re supposed to set a good example for your brother.”
“Now, John…” Jim begins, but John puts his hand up, shakes his head.
“Jim, he’s got to learn.” John points at the splat of green-flecked gloop. “I said a clean plate, son.”
Dean stares at his plate in dismay at the injustice of the situation. His mouth falls open, but no sound escapes. Sheer horror has no voice.
Jim’s trying to work out how to scoop the extra salad off Dean’s plate and onto his without John noticing, but Sammy beats him to it.
Mary-Anne is over at the next table, her back to the boys, leaning over to force-feed some other poor unfortunate. Sammy moves, quick as lightning, tiny fists a blur. He scoops up the offending sludge from Dean’s plate and aims it with surprising accuracy.
Mary-Anne utters a highly undignified squawk as the potato salad lands on the intended target, then topples forward over the table, her ample rear now liberally smeared with potato and onion. She somehow manages to face-plant into the salad bowl as she falls, and Jim closes his eyes, offers up a silent prayer of thanks for divine retribution.
When he opens them again, John’s jaw has unhinged, and is flapping loosely, possibly in time with the throbbing vein in his temple. Dean is staring at his little brother in a mixture of awe, horror and barely-contained gratitude.
Sammy reaches over and lifts Dean’s paper napkin, wipes his hands very carefully. Then he looks up at John and smiles triumphantly.
“All clean, Daddy,” he says sweetly, pointing at Dean’s plate. “See?”
“Sammy’s right,” Jim points out helpfully, as John makes a quiet choking sound, his shoulders sagging in defeat. “You did say a clean plate. Gotta watch those semantics, John.”