SPN Gen fic - Tools of the Trade - John and wee Dean PG13
The holidays are slipping away quicker than I hoped. I've been spending time with the girlies, and doing some spring-cleaning in the bedrooms. I've been working on my Asylum fic, and a shorter piece for 50scenes.
It's mostly me trying to get into John's headspace early in his hunting life, prompted by Dean's revelation in 'No Exit' that John took him shooting for the first time when he was six or seven. This is set a little before that.
TITLE: Tools of the Trade
RATING: PG13
CHARACTERS: John and wee!Dean
DISCLAIMER: Not my boys
NOTES: 1000 words. Written for the 50scenes prompt Nocturnal. Dean can't sleep.
“Dad?”
His initial reaction is to snap at Dean. He put the boys in bed hours ago, and Dean knows not to leave the baby alone. Unless…
John half-rises from his chair, tightening his grip on the rifle. “Sammy okay, son?”
Dean shrinks back a little, presses his thin body to the doorjamb. He ducks his head, peers out at John from under his too-long bangs. “Yes, sir.” It’s barely even a whisper.
Kid’s scared, that much is clear. Most likely figures he’s in trouble for being out of bed. For leaving Sammy alone.
John breathes out, long and slow, then sets the gun down on the table carefully. Dean stands his ground in the doorway, but his body betrays the internal battle between fight or flight. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, fingers curling and uncurling at his sides. John is suddenly filled with a horrified sense of shame. This is his doing; his anger that Dean fears.
“Dean.” Voice low, easy. He pushes the chair back from the table, and leans forward, resting his elbows lightly on his knees. “You okay, son?”
Dean’s head comes up, surprise evident in his widened eyes. He swallows, licks his lips nervously. “Yes, s - I mean, Dad - ” He fumbles it badly, clearly unsure how to respond to the concern in John’s tone.
John swallows down a wave of self-disgust. “You sick, Dean?” he asks, as gently as he can.
Wrong thing to say. Dean shakes his head, and looks even more terrified.
Christ. He has no clue what to say to Dean, how to put him at ease. He used to know; before. And then it hits him, and he remembers.
Dean spent the first year of his existence awake. He must have slept sometimes, but if he did, it was never while John was around. Dean came screaming and kicking into the world at ten to three one freezing winter’s morning, two full weeks before he was scheduled to make an appearance. Wide awake and squalling loud enough to be wake half the morgue, according to the midwife.
John figured it was something like jetlag, only for babies. Dean’s body clock was set to a different time zone - Australia, most likely. Kid was wide awake at night. When he was real small, all he did was cry, mostly because there wasn’t much else he could do in the middle of the night. But as he got older the crying finally stopped, and they even managed to get Dean into his own room, into the big crib. That was fine until one night they found a mound of soft toys piled in the corner of the crib, and fifteen-month-old Dean asleep at the top of the stairs, and realized that older unfortunately meant smarter.
John wasn’t sure which was worse, waking at three a.m. to take his turn at feeding, or spending the night on guard duty in the backbreaking fold-out bed in Dean’s room.
It got better. Around age three, they figured out that if they tired Dean out physically, he’d sleep most of the night, maybe be up only once before dawn. John’s job, that had been, when he got home from the garage, or at weekends. Softball, touch football, taking Dean to the park on his bike. Letting him swing from the monkey bars, belly-crawling with him though the back yard jungle. The payoff was worth the effort - five or six hours of uninterrupted sleep. Or whatever.
By the time Mary was pregnant, Dean was pretty much sleeping through the night. But he was still an extremely light sleeper, would wake at the slightest sound.
John still doesn’t know how much Dean saw that night. He has no idea how to ask. He knows it was enough to steal Dean’s voice, enough to change him from a restless bundle of energy to a still, silent shadow of his little boy.
“Can’t sleep?” he asks, and this time Dean nods, his body sagging against the door frame in palpable relief.
John nods in return, letting Dean know it’s okay. He crooks a finger, beckoning Dean closer and the boy obeys, shuffling forward until he’s standing next to the John, chest level with the table.
“Bad dream?” John’s almost terrified to ask. He isn’t sure how to comfort Dean, now that his worst nightmares are become stark reality.
Dean shakes his head, though, shrugs his shoulders lightly, collar bone in sharp relief through his worn t-shirt. “Just can’t sleep.”
John can’t remember the last time he tossed a football around with Dean. He’s thrown himself into this new life, into training, making sure he’s ready to protect his boys. This is not how he planned on raising them, but his daydreams of Little League and softball belong to another time, to a fantasy world he no longer believes in.
John draws another chair closer, and motions for Dean to sit. When he’s settled in the chair, John picks up the rifle that he’s just cleaned, and uncaps the gun oil. Then he looks over at Dean. He’s resting his elbows on the table, watching John intently. His eyes are huge and wide, and there’s a little smile pulling at the edge of his lips that John hasn’t seen since - he can’t remember when.
Before; late summer nights when Dean was still wide awake, John would take him out to the yard; let Dean watch while he worked on the Impala. Dean would hunker down next to the car, studying every move John made. Eyes wide, taking everything in. He’s just learning the tools of the trade, he’d tell Mary, as she shook her head in amused exasperation.
“You want to learn how to do this?” he asks, lifting a clean patch.
Dean nods vigorously. “Yes, sir,” he says, and it’s not fear that makes him whisper this time.
Mary would hate this.
John sighs, and sets about teaching Dean the tools of the trade.
It's mostly me trying to get into John's headspace early in his hunting life, prompted by Dean's revelation in 'No Exit' that John took him shooting for the first time when he was six or seven. This is set a little before that.
TITLE: Tools of the Trade
RATING: PG13
CHARACTERS: John and wee!Dean
DISCLAIMER: Not my boys
NOTES: 1000 words. Written for the 50scenes prompt Nocturnal. Dean can't sleep.
“Dad?”
His initial reaction is to snap at Dean. He put the boys in bed hours ago, and Dean knows not to leave the baby alone. Unless…
John half-rises from his chair, tightening his grip on the rifle. “Sammy okay, son?”
Dean shrinks back a little, presses his thin body to the doorjamb. He ducks his head, peers out at John from under his too-long bangs. “Yes, sir.” It’s barely even a whisper.
Kid’s scared, that much is clear. Most likely figures he’s in trouble for being out of bed. For leaving Sammy alone.
John breathes out, long and slow, then sets the gun down on the table carefully. Dean stands his ground in the doorway, but his body betrays the internal battle between fight or flight. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, fingers curling and uncurling at his sides. John is suddenly filled with a horrified sense of shame. This is his doing; his anger that Dean fears.
“Dean.” Voice low, easy. He pushes the chair back from the table, and leans forward, resting his elbows lightly on his knees. “You okay, son?”
Dean’s head comes up, surprise evident in his widened eyes. He swallows, licks his lips nervously. “Yes, s - I mean, Dad - ” He fumbles it badly, clearly unsure how to respond to the concern in John’s tone.
John swallows down a wave of self-disgust. “You sick, Dean?” he asks, as gently as he can.
Wrong thing to say. Dean shakes his head, and looks even more terrified.
Christ. He has no clue what to say to Dean, how to put him at ease. He used to know; before. And then it hits him, and he remembers.
Dean spent the first year of his existence awake. He must have slept sometimes, but if he did, it was never while John was around. Dean came screaming and kicking into the world at ten to three one freezing winter’s morning, two full weeks before he was scheduled to make an appearance. Wide awake and squalling loud enough to be wake half the morgue, according to the midwife.
John figured it was something like jetlag, only for babies. Dean’s body clock was set to a different time zone - Australia, most likely. Kid was wide awake at night. When he was real small, all he did was cry, mostly because there wasn’t much else he could do in the middle of the night. But as he got older the crying finally stopped, and they even managed to get Dean into his own room, into the big crib. That was fine until one night they found a mound of soft toys piled in the corner of the crib, and fifteen-month-old Dean asleep at the top of the stairs, and realized that older unfortunately meant smarter.
John wasn’t sure which was worse, waking at three a.m. to take his turn at feeding, or spending the night on guard duty in the backbreaking fold-out bed in Dean’s room.
It got better. Around age three, they figured out that if they tired Dean out physically, he’d sleep most of the night, maybe be up only once before dawn. John’s job, that had been, when he got home from the garage, or at weekends. Softball, touch football, taking Dean to the park on his bike. Letting him swing from the monkey bars, belly-crawling with him though the back yard jungle. The payoff was worth the effort - five or six hours of uninterrupted sleep. Or whatever.
By the time Mary was pregnant, Dean was pretty much sleeping through the night. But he was still an extremely light sleeper, would wake at the slightest sound.
John still doesn’t know how much Dean saw that night. He has no idea how to ask. He knows it was enough to steal Dean’s voice, enough to change him from a restless bundle of energy to a still, silent shadow of his little boy.
“Can’t sleep?” he asks, and this time Dean nods, his body sagging against the door frame in palpable relief.
John nods in return, letting Dean know it’s okay. He crooks a finger, beckoning Dean closer and the boy obeys, shuffling forward until he’s standing next to the John, chest level with the table.
“Bad dream?” John’s almost terrified to ask. He isn’t sure how to comfort Dean, now that his worst nightmares are become stark reality.
Dean shakes his head, though, shrugs his shoulders lightly, collar bone in sharp relief through his worn t-shirt. “Just can’t sleep.”
John can’t remember the last time he tossed a football around with Dean. He’s thrown himself into this new life, into training, making sure he’s ready to protect his boys. This is not how he planned on raising them, but his daydreams of Little League and softball belong to another time, to a fantasy world he no longer believes in.
John draws another chair closer, and motions for Dean to sit. When he’s settled in the chair, John picks up the rifle that he’s just cleaned, and uncaps the gun oil. Then he looks over at Dean. He’s resting his elbows on the table, watching John intently. His eyes are huge and wide, and there’s a little smile pulling at the edge of his lips that John hasn’t seen since - he can’t remember when.
Before; late summer nights when Dean was still wide awake, John would take him out to the yard; let Dean watch while he worked on the Impala. Dean would hunker down next to the car, studying every move John made. Eyes wide, taking everything in. He’s just learning the tools of the trade, he’d tell Mary, as she shook her head in amused exasperation.
“You want to learn how to do this?” he asks, lifting a clean patch.
Dean nods vigorously. “Yes, sir,” he says, and it’s not fear that makes him whisper this time.
Mary would hate this.
John sighs, and sets about teaching Dean the tools of the trade.