SPN FIC - Creativity
I've been staring at artwork all day, waiting for inspiration to come -- and it finally did, when I looked at this particular piece of Steve Hanks' lovely watercolor creativity. It brought to mind summer afternoons at my former place of employment, the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, which is conveniently located alongside the fabled La Brea Tar Pits, and offers amongst its many features (or used to, at least) a Rodin Sculpture Garden. I'm not sure that "The Thinker" is actually part of the collection, but ... never mind. :)
"You're WEIRD," Dean barks.
CHARACTERS: John, wee Dean (7) and wee Sammy (3)
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 827 words
CREATIVITY
By Carol Davis
The voices rise in pitch, in a familiar song: "Is too." "Is not." "Is TOO," and for a moment he's inclined to look up from his work and put an end to the bickering before it shatters into a brawl. The last time that happened, the last time some "yes" and "no" turned into screams of "YOU SUCK!" and a round of slapping and biting, he waited too long to intervene, figuring Dean and Sam could settle things for themselves. Someday, he figures, they'll be able to do that, but that day is a long way off.
"You're WEIRD," Dean barks.
"Am NOT weird!"
They're seven and three, and logic is still somewhere down the road. Hell, he thinks, for all he knows, they'll never get to the point of being able to settle a disagreement without punching, and this isn't the best location for a Featherweight Championship of the World bout to go down: on the grounds of the county art museum, with nuns and school groups and society women wearing diamonds the size of John's knuckles walking by. It started out being a quiet afternoon, with the boys playing quietly under the trees a stone's throw from where he's sitting, reference materials and his journal spread out in front of him on a low metal table, but if he knows one thing in this life, it's that the tone of a day can shift on a dime.
"You doofus," Dean says, but more quietly.
"Am not," Sam responds, as firm in his convictions as the star of an Ivy League debate team.
Then they fall silent. That's odd, but not odd enough for John to look immediately up; a shift of his peripheral vision tells him they're still where they were a moment ago, and that they've settled back down. Small favors, he thinks, and returns to his notes.
Then there's movement close by. It's Dean, doing a masterful eyeroll. "He wants you to look," he sighs.
"At what?"
"At him. I'm sorry. He won't shut up."
Frowning, John turns to look. I need to get this done, he wants to say, but what the hell. It's a warm summer afternoon, and his boy wants him to take a look, so he shifts in his chair and obeys - and finds Sam, who's clambered up onto the granite base of Rodin's The Thinker and has struck a similar pose.
"Dad!" Sam whoops.
"I see," John smiles.
The kid's proud as punch of himself. All he's doing is mimicking the statue, but he's three.
"Come on down -" John begins.
And Sam informs him, loudly enough to be heard by everyone within a hundred-yard radius, "I'm POOPIN, Dad! Just like the man!"
For an instant, John can't think what to do. What the appropriate response should be. Then he bursts into gales of laughter, because - the presence of nuns and society women notwithstanding - that's the funniest thing he's heard in weeks. He goes on laughing, to Sam's obvious delight, until there are tears dripping down his cheeks and he has to swipe a thin line of snot away from his nose.
Then he looks down at Dean, who informs him somberly, "I told him he's weird."
Still chuckling, John ruffles the boy's hair. Dean resists the touch; he still wants badly to be right, and to have someone agree with him. John's laughter isn't what he expected, and the thought that what Dean did anticipate was someone being yelled at puts a damper on John's amusement. He sits there looking at the boy for a moment, lost for how to balance this out, then tells his elder son quietly, "Little bit."
"Yeah?" Dean says.
John rises from his chair, walks the few steps to the statue and lifts Sam down from his perch. "I was poopin, Dad," Sam announces.
"I see."
"We can get hot dogs now?"
Shift on a dime, John thinks, and chuckles again. "You buying?"
"Noooooo, Dad."
It takes him a minute to gather up his belongings and stow them in the canvas bag that serves as his filing cabinet, both boys watching him anxiously, no doubt with visions of chili dogs dancing in their heads. There's a cart over in the park, he noticed on the way in; it's close enough to the tar pits for the boys to admire the dinosaurs while they eat. He's about to guide them around the corner, to the path leading east (Eastward Ho, he thinks), when he catches a glimpse of that statue - the one he's seen in pictures any number of times, without once seeing what Sam saw.
Once more, he dissolves into laughter. This time, he doesn't stop until he's holding his gut against the pain of a stitch.
"You know what?" Dean tells him when he finally falls almost silent. "I think you're kinda weird too."
"I won't argue it," John says, and he's grinning as he guides his boys toward the park.
* * * * *
"You're WEIRD," Dean barks.
CHARACTERS: John, wee Dean (7) and wee Sammy (3)
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 827 words
CREATIVITY
By Carol Davis
The voices rise in pitch, in a familiar song: "Is too." "Is not." "Is TOO," and for a moment he's inclined to look up from his work and put an end to the bickering before it shatters into a brawl. The last time that happened, the last time some "yes" and "no" turned into screams of "YOU SUCK!" and a round of slapping and biting, he waited too long to intervene, figuring Dean and Sam could settle things for themselves. Someday, he figures, they'll be able to do that, but that day is a long way off.
"You're WEIRD," Dean barks.
"Am NOT weird!"
They're seven and three, and logic is still somewhere down the road. Hell, he thinks, for all he knows, they'll never get to the point of being able to settle a disagreement without punching, and this isn't the best location for a Featherweight Championship of the World bout to go down: on the grounds of the county art museum, with nuns and school groups and society women wearing diamonds the size of John's knuckles walking by. It started out being a quiet afternoon, with the boys playing quietly under the trees a stone's throw from where he's sitting, reference materials and his journal spread out in front of him on a low metal table, but if he knows one thing in this life, it's that the tone of a day can shift on a dime.
"You doofus," Dean says, but more quietly.
"Am not," Sam responds, as firm in his convictions as the star of an Ivy League debate team.
Then they fall silent. That's odd, but not odd enough for John to look immediately up; a shift of his peripheral vision tells him they're still where they were a moment ago, and that they've settled back down. Small favors, he thinks, and returns to his notes.
Then there's movement close by. It's Dean, doing a masterful eyeroll. "He wants you to look," he sighs.
"At what?"
"At him. I'm sorry. He won't shut up."
Frowning, John turns to look. I need to get this done, he wants to say, but what the hell. It's a warm summer afternoon, and his boy wants him to take a look, so he shifts in his chair and obeys - and finds Sam, who's clambered up onto the granite base of Rodin's The Thinker and has struck a similar pose.
"Dad!" Sam whoops.
"I see," John smiles.
The kid's proud as punch of himself. All he's doing is mimicking the statue, but he's three.
"Come on down -" John begins.
And Sam informs him, loudly enough to be heard by everyone within a hundred-yard radius, "I'm POOPIN, Dad! Just like the man!"
For an instant, John can't think what to do. What the appropriate response should be. Then he bursts into gales of laughter, because - the presence of nuns and society women notwithstanding - that's the funniest thing he's heard in weeks. He goes on laughing, to Sam's obvious delight, until there are tears dripping down his cheeks and he has to swipe a thin line of snot away from his nose.
Then he looks down at Dean, who informs him somberly, "I told him he's weird."
Still chuckling, John ruffles the boy's hair. Dean resists the touch; he still wants badly to be right, and to have someone agree with him. John's laughter isn't what he expected, and the thought that what Dean did anticipate was someone being yelled at puts a damper on John's amusement. He sits there looking at the boy for a moment, lost for how to balance this out, then tells his elder son quietly, "Little bit."
"Yeah?" Dean says.
John rises from his chair, walks the few steps to the statue and lifts Sam down from his perch. "I was poopin, Dad," Sam announces.
"I see."
"We can get hot dogs now?"
Shift on a dime, John thinks, and chuckles again. "You buying?"
"Noooooo, Dad."
It takes him a minute to gather up his belongings and stow them in the canvas bag that serves as his filing cabinet, both boys watching him anxiously, no doubt with visions of chili dogs dancing in their heads. There's a cart over in the park, he noticed on the way in; it's close enough to the tar pits for the boys to admire the dinosaurs while they eat. He's about to guide them around the corner, to the path leading east (Eastward Ho, he thinks), when he catches a glimpse of that statue - the one he's seen in pictures any number of times, without once seeing what Sam saw.
Once more, he dissolves into laughter. This time, he doesn't stop until he's holding his gut against the pain of a stitch.
"You know what?" Dean tells him when he finally falls almost silent. "I think you're kinda weird too."
"I won't argue it," John says, and he's grinning as he guides his boys toward the park.
* * * * *