SPN FIC - Easy
Another quiet moment for Dean -- although he's got to work a bit to get there! Two days of being knocked around by an angry spirit, a lot of hours behind the wheel ... all he's looking for is a hot bath. And a Magic Chair.
CHARACTERS: Dean and Morgan (OFC)
GENRE: Het
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1252 words
EASY
By Carol Davis
He's been out on the porch a good ten minutes when he starts to feel like he's been HAD.
Magic Chair, they keep saying. There's a Magic Chair; you ought to go sit in the Magic Chair. The Magic Chair's the best place to watch the lake. Or listen to the rain. Or read a book, or contemplate your navel.
It's on the porch, they said.
Not the big porch, the one downstairs, where everyone sits. The Magic Chair's on the little screened-in porch off the master bedroom. That's Jake and Ilsa's domain, and Dean would never dare venture in there - not when they're home, at least. But they're out of town, far enough out and involved in a complicated-enough thing that there's no chance of them showing up ahead of schedule and busting his ass for being out on their porch.
Maybe they took the friggin' Magic Chair with them.
All that's out here - seriously, ALL that's out here - is a couple of wicker chairs, a lamp, and a rocking chair built for, well, oversized people. Which is odd, because neither Jake nor Ilsa is the least bit oversized, but never mind. Three chairs is all there is, and none of them has a motor. None of them plugs into the wall. The only thing that does plug into the wall is the lamp, and a lamp is not a chair. In nobody's dictionary does a floor lamp have the slightest possibility of being called a chair.
It's not FAIR, he thinks.
All those hours behind the wheel. Two days' worth of being knocked around by the pissed-off spirit of a mechanic named Dave. He ran a bath about half a degree short of the point where it would have boiled the skin right off of him, and sat in it until the water turned slimy and cold, but when he climbed out everything that had hurt before he got in there still hurt. That left him with two possibilities to pursue.
Enough drugs to take down a wooly mammoth, or the Magic Chair.
Which is not here.
"Son of a BITCH!" he shrills.
All he wanted was a friggin' chair.
Which is SO not too much to ask.
"Are you all right?" Morgan asks from behind him. Busted, he thinks, and it's his own fault. If he'd kept his mouth shut, he could have crept back through the master bedroom into a place where he's got every right to be.
He shrugs.
She waits.
"She's laughing, isn't she?" he complains.
"Who?"
"Your sister. She's down there laughing her ass off right now."
"She's playing Chutes and Ladders with Liz. What is she supposed to be laughing her ass off about?"
"Making me look stupid."
Morgan's face moves a little bit. If she were Sam, she'd be telling him what a cakewalk that is, because he's so freaking gullible. Lily Donahue has had his number since the day he first met her, and six years of her getting older and "wiser" and him getting progressively more beat up haven't done a thing to change that situation. There's nothing that girl likes better than one-upping him - and now that he thinks about it, all the yapping about the Magic Chair came from her.
It did, right?
"I am not easy," he mutters.
Morgan's left eyebrow twitches. "I'm sorry," she says after a moment, but she's not. She's just doing her best to keep a straight face.
"Where's the chair?" he demands.
"Chair?"
"The freaking Magic Chair."
He figures she'll say "What?" That she'll either have no clue what he's going on about, or that poker face she's trying to hold onto will fall apart and she'll bust out laughing until there's tears running down her cheeks and snot dripping off her upper lip. Instead, she nods. Points at something with her head. When he looks - his own face knotted into a frown so tight it hurts - she's showing him that weird rocking chair built for double-wide people.
"That's the Magic Chair," he says.
"That's the one."
"It's a rocking chair. For…size. Challenged. People."
"Not just."
"What?"
"What were you looking for?"
"A magic chair," he insists. "Come ON. Like those ones at the mall. With…like, magic fingers. You know."
"A massage chair."
"No. No, dammit. A chair with a motor. That vibrates. That you feed quarters into."
"Out here."
"That's where she said it was."
"Lily told you there was a massage chair with a motor out here on the porch."
It would almost be better if she'd just bust out laughing, because he's starting to feel like they're playing Who's On First. "Never mind," he mutters, and tries to side-step her, back into the bedroom, so he can get out of here. Preferably way out of here. Like maybe somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. Or Rangoon.
She blocks him. She's good at that; it's a quick, effortless move.
"Dean," she says.
"I am NOT easy," he insists.
Shaking her head, she takes him by the arm and steers him over to the plus-size rocking chair. "Sit down," she tells him.
"Is it magic?"
"It's a chair."
"So it's not like…a Harry Potter thing or something?"
"A Harry Potter thing?"
"Magic," he groans. "And don't look at me like that. You've got a nix living out in the woods that's had a crush on your sister for six years now, and everybody in the house swears to me that the ghost of your dad's aunt is still hanging around, giving people hugs and good night kisses. Your mother's got a collection of charms and herbs and shit that'd put Glinda the Good Witch to shame, and you're gonna roll your eyes at me because I'm asking if that chair's got some hocus-pocus attached to it?"
"It's a chair, Dean."
Even though he's got no idea what it'll accomplish if he obeys her, he sits down.
Thinks Huh.
It has nice soft cushions. He'll give it that.
She's smiling when she sits down beside him. It's a little bit of a snug fit, but he can't complain about that.
"My dad had it made when I was pregnant with Liz," she says, and nudges the chair into a gentle back-and-forth by pushing her toes against the porch floor. "Morning sickness you should be glad you didn't witness, and I couldn't get to sleep. So Dad bought me the chair, and they put it out here where you can see the lake. I'd sit out here with Mom, all wrapped up in blankets, and we'd rock until I felt better. Watching the lake. Listening to music sometimes. Then, after Liz was born, she went through a stage of not sleeping. Everything made her cry. But we'd bring her out here and rock, and she'd quiet right down."
"So basically it's just a rocking chair."
"Not just."
It's comfortable; he'll give it that. And the warmth of her feels good, pressed up against some of the places that hurt.
It's a pretty good chair.
He'll give it that.
Even after he's closed his eyes - after, somehow, the chair has lulled him into feeling way, way better - she keeps the chair moving. Back and forth. Back and forth.
After a while, his head droops, coming to rest against her shoulder.
"Still gonna argue that it's magic?" she asks him softly.
All this, and you don't even need to feed it quarters.
"Think I'm good," he mutters.
She keeps the chair rocking even after he's fallen asleep.
* * * * *
CHARACTERS: Dean and Morgan (OFC)
GENRE: Het
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1252 words
EASY
By Carol Davis
He's been out on the porch a good ten minutes when he starts to feel like he's been HAD.
Magic Chair, they keep saying. There's a Magic Chair; you ought to go sit in the Magic Chair. The Magic Chair's the best place to watch the lake. Or listen to the rain. Or read a book, or contemplate your navel.
It's on the porch, they said.
Not the big porch, the one downstairs, where everyone sits. The Magic Chair's on the little screened-in porch off the master bedroom. That's Jake and Ilsa's domain, and Dean would never dare venture in there - not when they're home, at least. But they're out of town, far enough out and involved in a complicated-enough thing that there's no chance of them showing up ahead of schedule and busting his ass for being out on their porch.
Maybe they took the friggin' Magic Chair with them.
All that's out here - seriously, ALL that's out here - is a couple of wicker chairs, a lamp, and a rocking chair built for, well, oversized people. Which is odd, because neither Jake nor Ilsa is the least bit oversized, but never mind. Three chairs is all there is, and none of them has a motor. None of them plugs into the wall. The only thing that does plug into the wall is the lamp, and a lamp is not a chair. In nobody's dictionary does a floor lamp have the slightest possibility of being called a chair.
It's not FAIR, he thinks.
All those hours behind the wheel. Two days' worth of being knocked around by the pissed-off spirit of a mechanic named Dave. He ran a bath about half a degree short of the point where it would have boiled the skin right off of him, and sat in it until the water turned slimy and cold, but when he climbed out everything that had hurt before he got in there still hurt. That left him with two possibilities to pursue.
Enough drugs to take down a wooly mammoth, or the Magic Chair.
Which is not here.
"Son of a BITCH!" he shrills.
All he wanted was a friggin' chair.
Which is SO not too much to ask.
"Are you all right?" Morgan asks from behind him. Busted, he thinks, and it's his own fault. If he'd kept his mouth shut, he could have crept back through the master bedroom into a place where he's got every right to be.
He shrugs.
She waits.
"She's laughing, isn't she?" he complains.
"Who?"
"Your sister. She's down there laughing her ass off right now."
"She's playing Chutes and Ladders with Liz. What is she supposed to be laughing her ass off about?"
"Making me look stupid."
Morgan's face moves a little bit. If she were Sam, she'd be telling him what a cakewalk that is, because he's so freaking gullible. Lily Donahue has had his number since the day he first met her, and six years of her getting older and "wiser" and him getting progressively more beat up haven't done a thing to change that situation. There's nothing that girl likes better than one-upping him - and now that he thinks about it, all the yapping about the Magic Chair came from her.
It did, right?
"I am not easy," he mutters.
Morgan's left eyebrow twitches. "I'm sorry," she says after a moment, but she's not. She's just doing her best to keep a straight face.
"Where's the chair?" he demands.
"Chair?"
"The freaking Magic Chair."
He figures she'll say "What?" That she'll either have no clue what he's going on about, or that poker face she's trying to hold onto will fall apart and she'll bust out laughing until there's tears running down her cheeks and snot dripping off her upper lip. Instead, she nods. Points at something with her head. When he looks - his own face knotted into a frown so tight it hurts - she's showing him that weird rocking chair built for double-wide people.
"That's the Magic Chair," he says.
"That's the one."
"It's a rocking chair. For…size. Challenged. People."
"Not just."
"What?"
"What were you looking for?"
"A magic chair," he insists. "Come ON. Like those ones at the mall. With…like, magic fingers. You know."
"A massage chair."
"No. No, dammit. A chair with a motor. That vibrates. That you feed quarters into."
"Out here."
"That's where she said it was."
"Lily told you there was a massage chair with a motor out here on the porch."
It would almost be better if she'd just bust out laughing, because he's starting to feel like they're playing Who's On First. "Never mind," he mutters, and tries to side-step her, back into the bedroom, so he can get out of here. Preferably way out of here. Like maybe somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. Or Rangoon.
She blocks him. She's good at that; it's a quick, effortless move.
"Dean," she says.
"I am NOT easy," he insists.
Shaking her head, she takes him by the arm and steers him over to the plus-size rocking chair. "Sit down," she tells him.
"Is it magic?"
"It's a chair."
"So it's not like…a Harry Potter thing or something?"
"A Harry Potter thing?"
"Magic," he groans. "And don't look at me like that. You've got a nix living out in the woods that's had a crush on your sister for six years now, and everybody in the house swears to me that the ghost of your dad's aunt is still hanging around, giving people hugs and good night kisses. Your mother's got a collection of charms and herbs and shit that'd put Glinda the Good Witch to shame, and you're gonna roll your eyes at me because I'm asking if that chair's got some hocus-pocus attached to it?"
"It's a chair, Dean."
Even though he's got no idea what it'll accomplish if he obeys her, he sits down.
Thinks Huh.
It has nice soft cushions. He'll give it that.
She's smiling when she sits down beside him. It's a little bit of a snug fit, but he can't complain about that.
"My dad had it made when I was pregnant with Liz," she says, and nudges the chair into a gentle back-and-forth by pushing her toes against the porch floor. "Morning sickness you should be glad you didn't witness, and I couldn't get to sleep. So Dad bought me the chair, and they put it out here where you can see the lake. I'd sit out here with Mom, all wrapped up in blankets, and we'd rock until I felt better. Watching the lake. Listening to music sometimes. Then, after Liz was born, she went through a stage of not sleeping. Everything made her cry. But we'd bring her out here and rock, and she'd quiet right down."
"So basically it's just a rocking chair."
"Not just."
It's comfortable; he'll give it that. And the warmth of her feels good, pressed up against some of the places that hurt.
It's a pretty good chair.
He'll give it that.
Even after he's closed his eyes - after, somehow, the chair has lulled him into feeling way, way better - she keeps the chair moving. Back and forth. Back and forth.
After a while, his head droops, coming to rest against her shoulder.
"Still gonna argue that it's magic?" she asks him softly.
All this, and you don't even need to feed it quarters.
"Think I'm good," he mutters.
She keeps the chair rocking even after he's fallen asleep.
* * * * *