SPN gen ficlet - Silent Protest - PG John, wee Dean and Baby Sammy
I started writing this piece last week, exploring the idea of obstinate!wee!Sammy a little more, but had to stop as both girlies and myself fell ill with the dreaded stomach bug lurgy. The little one is finally coming around now, but man, three sick people in one house is not fun.
Anyway, I managed to finish this one today.
TITLE: Silent Protest
RATING: PG (gen)
CHARACTERS: John, Wee Dean and Baby Sammy
DISCLAIMER: Not my boys
NOTES: 900 words. Suppertime with the Winchesters
"Here ya go, Sammy." John keeps his voice light, faking cheerfulness.
Sammy’s not fooled. He eyes the spoon uncertainly, his tiny eyebrows angling down into a suspicious frown. John remembers the first time Sammy did that, how cute the kid had looked, with his bottom lip jutting out in that perfect little pout.
It’s kind of lost its charm, though, now that it’s basically Sammy’s default mealtime expression. The pout has been modified; Sammy’s lips are now permanently pressed tightly together in a thin, unbreakable line. John’s attempts to prise them open have failed miserably.
It was never like this with Dean. Never this silent protest. John remembers epic tantrums, complete with screaming and kicking and the occasional smashing of fists into food. Mary and him dodging the flailing feet and fists; inserting spoonfuls of creamed spinach or strained carrots or some other similarly mangled vegetable into Dean’s mouth every time he opened it wide enough to let out a forlorn wail. In the end, Dean had given in and swallowed down the food, too exhausted to maintain any lasting resistance.
Sammy’s quiet obstinacy has John stumped. It’s not like he can force the kid to open his mouth. But he’s not going to back down either; can’t afford to let Sammy think he’s won. He’s already pretty spoiled, and that’s no one’s fault but John’s. Sammy only has to flash a hint of a pout, and him and Dean; they’re both jumping to see to his every whim.
Dean especially. He can’t bear to see his baby brother unhappy.
John sighs, scoops up another spoonful of green goop; strained peas with rice, according to the jar. Then nods to Dean, his right hand man.
“Come on, Sammy,” Dean coaxes obediently. “S’yummy.”
Dean’s enthusiasm sounds even more forced than John’s. Kid probably remembers what the stuff actually tastes like. Which makes John feel even worse for what he’s about to do.
“Yeah, sure is tasty; right, Dean?”
“Yeah.” Dean nods uncertainly, a guarded expression on his face. The five-year-old is eyeing him apprehensively, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
John flashes Dean an apologetic look and holds the spoon out to him. “See, Sammy. Dean likes it.”
Now Dean’s eyes widen and his mouth falls open a little, just enough for John to slip the spoon between his lips without Dean’s permission.
Dean’s so shocked at such treachery that he actually swallows the mouthful whole, then reaches over and grabs his milk, chugs down half the glass.
After a few moments, he’s recovered enough to speak. “Mmm,” he lies to his little brother. “S’good.”
And John wants to hug him for that, even though Dean’s approval would be a damn sight more convincing if he wasn’t gagging quite so loudly.
“Real tasty, right, Dad?” Dean leans forward, rests his elbows on the table and stares John down, his eyebrow cocked in challenge.
Manipulative little brat, John thinks, and he’s kind of proud of the kid right then.
“Yeah.” What’s sauce for the goose, right? He scoops up another spoonful of Gerber’s best, plasters a big old cheery smile across his face, and shovels the stuff into his mouth.
It’s not the worst thing he’s ever eaten. Not like the creamed spinach last week, which had tasted like it had been marinated in a drain for several years and then carefully mixed with a secret blend of herbs, spices and rancid milk.
Still, it’s pretty bland, with the consistency of soggy blotting paper. But if Dean can swallow it, so can he. He chokes it down, and even manages to lick his lips. Sammy watches him, wide-eyed and solemn, completely unconvinced by the whole charade.
John thinks back to Dean as a toddler, and the guaranteed method of getting vegetables into the kid. It’s worth a shot. He pulls the spoon back, waves it around airily.
“Hey, Sammy. Here comes the Impala, driving into the garage.”
John nods to Dean, who lifts his eyebrow sceptically, but obliges with appropriate engine revs. Dean’s throttle work is surprisingly realistic, and Sammy watches his brother, fascinated by the rumble and burble of Dean’s voice. He presses his lips together and blows through them in an attempt to imitate his brother, producing a pretty passable second gear rumble.
Sammy is delighted with his efforts and he smiles, a broad baby-toothed grin that’s just slack enough to allow John to shove the spoon into Sammy’s mouth. There’s a moment, then, when Sammy’s mouth snaps shut and he swallows involuntarily, that John thinks he’s won.
His triumph is short-lived.
Dean moves his chair back, sensing Sammy’s next move, and John’s kind of embarrassed that his five-year-old can read the situation better than him. He gets hit full force in the face by the regurgitated green goo; and it’s suddenly abundantly clear that the strained peas have not been improved by their return journey through Sammy’s oesophagus.
John grabs a napkin, and wipes the projectile vomit from his face, waiting for a 360 degree head spin from the angel-faced demon in the high-chair.
“Yuck.” Sammy grabs the bowl in both hands and tips the offensive contents onto the floor with an exaggerated flourish.
Beside him, Dean hunches quietly over the table, manfully fighting to suppress his Sammy-induced giggle fit.
“All gone,” Sammy pronounces sweetly, and turns to John, sending him an adorable, angelic and almost wholly innocent smile.
Anyway, I managed to finish this one today.
TITLE: Silent Protest
RATING: PG (gen)
CHARACTERS: John, Wee Dean and Baby Sammy
DISCLAIMER: Not my boys
NOTES: 900 words. Suppertime with the Winchesters
"Here ya go, Sammy." John keeps his voice light, faking cheerfulness.
Sammy’s not fooled. He eyes the spoon uncertainly, his tiny eyebrows angling down into a suspicious frown. John remembers the first time Sammy did that, how cute the kid had looked, with his bottom lip jutting out in that perfect little pout.
It’s kind of lost its charm, though, now that it’s basically Sammy’s default mealtime expression. The pout has been modified; Sammy’s lips are now permanently pressed tightly together in a thin, unbreakable line. John’s attempts to prise them open have failed miserably.
It was never like this with Dean. Never this silent protest. John remembers epic tantrums, complete with screaming and kicking and the occasional smashing of fists into food. Mary and him dodging the flailing feet and fists; inserting spoonfuls of creamed spinach or strained carrots or some other similarly mangled vegetable into Dean’s mouth every time he opened it wide enough to let out a forlorn wail. In the end, Dean had given in and swallowed down the food, too exhausted to maintain any lasting resistance.
Sammy’s quiet obstinacy has John stumped. It’s not like he can force the kid to open his mouth. But he’s not going to back down either; can’t afford to let Sammy think he’s won. He’s already pretty spoiled, and that’s no one’s fault but John’s. Sammy only has to flash a hint of a pout, and him and Dean; they’re both jumping to see to his every whim.
Dean especially. He can’t bear to see his baby brother unhappy.
John sighs, scoops up another spoonful of green goop; strained peas with rice, according to the jar. Then nods to Dean, his right hand man.
“Come on, Sammy,” Dean coaxes obediently. “S’yummy.”
Dean’s enthusiasm sounds even more forced than John’s. Kid probably remembers what the stuff actually tastes like. Which makes John feel even worse for what he’s about to do.
“Yeah, sure is tasty; right, Dean?”
“Yeah.” Dean nods uncertainly, a guarded expression on his face. The five-year-old is eyeing him apprehensively, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
John flashes Dean an apologetic look and holds the spoon out to him. “See, Sammy. Dean likes it.”
Now Dean’s eyes widen and his mouth falls open a little, just enough for John to slip the spoon between his lips without Dean’s permission.
Dean’s so shocked at such treachery that he actually swallows the mouthful whole, then reaches over and grabs his milk, chugs down half the glass.
After a few moments, he’s recovered enough to speak. “Mmm,” he lies to his little brother. “S’good.”
And John wants to hug him for that, even though Dean’s approval would be a damn sight more convincing if he wasn’t gagging quite so loudly.
“Real tasty, right, Dad?” Dean leans forward, rests his elbows on the table and stares John down, his eyebrow cocked in challenge.
Manipulative little brat, John thinks, and he’s kind of proud of the kid right then.
“Yeah.” What’s sauce for the goose, right? He scoops up another spoonful of Gerber’s best, plasters a big old cheery smile across his face, and shovels the stuff into his mouth.
It’s not the worst thing he’s ever eaten. Not like the creamed spinach last week, which had tasted like it had been marinated in a drain for several years and then carefully mixed with a secret blend of herbs, spices and rancid milk.
Still, it’s pretty bland, with the consistency of soggy blotting paper. But if Dean can swallow it, so can he. He chokes it down, and even manages to lick his lips. Sammy watches him, wide-eyed and solemn, completely unconvinced by the whole charade.
John thinks back to Dean as a toddler, and the guaranteed method of getting vegetables into the kid. It’s worth a shot. He pulls the spoon back, waves it around airily.
“Hey, Sammy. Here comes the Impala, driving into the garage.”
John nods to Dean, who lifts his eyebrow sceptically, but obliges with appropriate engine revs. Dean’s throttle work is surprisingly realistic, and Sammy watches his brother, fascinated by the rumble and burble of Dean’s voice. He presses his lips together and blows through them in an attempt to imitate his brother, producing a pretty passable second gear rumble.
Sammy is delighted with his efforts and he smiles, a broad baby-toothed grin that’s just slack enough to allow John to shove the spoon into Sammy’s mouth. There’s a moment, then, when Sammy’s mouth snaps shut and he swallows involuntarily, that John thinks he’s won.
His triumph is short-lived.
Dean moves his chair back, sensing Sammy’s next move, and John’s kind of embarrassed that his five-year-old can read the situation better than him. He gets hit full force in the face by the regurgitated green goo; and it’s suddenly abundantly clear that the strained peas have not been improved by their return journey through Sammy’s oesophagus.
John grabs a napkin, and wipes the projectile vomit from his face, waiting for a 360 degree head spin from the angel-faced demon in the high-chair.
“Yuck.” Sammy grabs the bowl in both hands and tips the offensive contents onto the floor with an exaggerated flourish.
Beside him, Dean hunches quietly over the table, manfully fighting to suppress his Sammy-induced giggle fit.
“All gone,” Sammy pronounces sweetly, and turns to John, sending him an adorable, angelic and almost wholly innocent smile.