SPN FIC - Baby-Proofing
Dean's been up against every possible kind of evil thing -- and gotten his ass kicked time and time again for his troubles. But he's never faced anything like this: keeping his infant son save from harm.
Sam could be sympathetic about this. He could. He could display some brotherly solidarity and act like this is a serious situation, instead of sitting there waving his holey sock feet around and channel surfing like things are just…normal.
CHARACTERS: Dean, Sam, RJ (age 8 months)
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 887 words
BABY-PROOFING
By Carol Davis
"It's normal," Sam says, and he sits there looking completely non-stressed, with his shoes off, waving around a foot that's wearing a sock with a hole in it.
"Eating cat food is normal? Since when?"
"It was on the floor. They all do it."
When Dean does nothing more than stare at him, Sam heaves a sigh and shakes his head. It's an indulgent kind of a shake, like Dean's the one who's eight months old. But Dean isn't, dammit, and this is a serious situation. He turned his kid loose for two seconds, and found him sitting alongside the cat's dish, shoveling handfuls of Fancy Feast into his mouth.
"This is -" Dean sputters.
"Dude. You are not the first person on planet Earth to have a kid. Relax."
"He ate cat food."
"Which isn't poisonous to cats, which have a smaller body mass, so it's not likely to hurt him."
Dean goes on staring.
"What?" Sam says, again with the sighing. "You want me to call the EMTs? Induce vomiting? What?"
"Do you know what's in cat food?"
"Probably nothing worse than what's in hot dogs. You gave him one of those yesterday."
Sam could be sympathetic about this. He could. He could display some brotherly solidarity and act like this is a serious situation, instead of sitting there waving his holey sock feet around and channel surfing like things are just…normal.
"Kid ate cat food," Dean mumbles.
Sam laughs at him.
At least in here, in the den, with the door safely shut and no other way out except the windows, which are all well beyond RJ's reach, the kid is safe. There's no pet food in here. No pets, for that matter; Dean made sure the cats were both somewhere else before he closed the door. It's safe and warm and quiet in here.
Unless the kid decides he's gonna gnaw on some electrical wires, like a squirrel.
"Do they do that?" he blurts.
"Do they do what?"
"Chew on wires."
"Sometimes," Sam says, and goes on channel surfing.
All the air rushes out of Dean's lungs, like he's on the bridge of the starship Enterprise and there's been a massive hull breach.
"Oh, for God's sake," Sam says.
The rug is nice and soft in here, and clean. There's nothing in here worth trying to eat except magazines, and Dean piled all of those on the desk, whose surface is also out of the baby's reach. There's no danger in here, none at all.
Except freaking ELECTRICITY.
He looks around frantically, half-stumbling as he flails up off the couch.
What he sees stops him dead in his tracks.
Oh my SHIT, he thinks, and then there's a whole chorus shrieking in his head: DANGER! DANGER!!!!, like that damn robot on Lost in Space.
Alongside the couch, on the floor, his child is fast asleep.
With his face buried in Sam's sneaker.
As Sam will tell people later on, it's for no reason other than curiosity (and because Dean's crazy-dance is suddenly a lot more interesting than anything on TV) that Sam moves over to that end of the couch and peers over the side.
He starts whooping with laughter they can probably hear on the other side of the lake.
Furious, Dean scoops up his child and buries him against his chest, balled up like a load of laundry. Jolted out of his nice sound sleep, RJ squirms around enough to free his head and peers up at Dean with an expression that's somewhere in between "Bzzuuuhhh?" and "Are you out of your frickin' mind?"
"Coulda been -" Dean sputters.
Asphyxiated, he thinks stubbornly, but it's hard to hang on to his anger in the face of Sam's continued whooping. There are tears rolling down Sam's face, and as much as Dean wants to clobber him with something, the only thing handy is RJ.
Or one of Sam's sneakers.
"Dude," Sam wheezes. "You need to calm down. Seriously. You need to calm down."
Calm down?? When there's what - electricity?? And mini-blind cords, and stairs, and bodies of water, and freaking crib death, and pneumonia and cats and snakes and cars and stoves and cancer, little kids get cancer…
"Dude," Sam says, his voice softer this time, and he's stopped laughing.
It's a good thing Sam lifts the baby out of Dean's arms right then, because hyperventilating while you're holding a kid - you can add that to the list of Shit Not To Do. Things have gone kind of gray around the edges, and Dean's swaying back and forth a little, like there's a good stiff wind blowing through the den.
"I get it," Sam says. "Been there, remember?"
No, he doesn't get it, Dean thinks. Nobody…
"You're not doing this alone," Sam says.
And Sam's…
Well.
Holding the baby the right way. A little bit casual, like he's used to it, but with a good, firm hold on him, the kind RJ can't squirm out of. The baby's a good eighty feet off the ground, but he's not gonna fall.
Not.
"You good?" Sam asks quietly.
It takes a minute, but Dean finally flips one shoulder in half a shrug. "Yeah," he mutters. "I guess. Yeah."
And he is, right up until RJ adds his vote with a loud and noxious fart.
* * * * *
Sam could be sympathetic about this. He could. He could display some brotherly solidarity and act like this is a serious situation, instead of sitting there waving his holey sock feet around and channel surfing like things are just…normal.
CHARACTERS: Dean, Sam, RJ (age 8 months)
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 887 words
BABY-PROOFING
By Carol Davis
"It's normal," Sam says, and he sits there looking completely non-stressed, with his shoes off, waving around a foot that's wearing a sock with a hole in it.
"Eating cat food is normal? Since when?"
"It was on the floor. They all do it."
When Dean does nothing more than stare at him, Sam heaves a sigh and shakes his head. It's an indulgent kind of a shake, like Dean's the one who's eight months old. But Dean isn't, dammit, and this is a serious situation. He turned his kid loose for two seconds, and found him sitting alongside the cat's dish, shoveling handfuls of Fancy Feast into his mouth.
"This is -" Dean sputters.
"Dude. You are not the first person on planet Earth to have a kid. Relax."
"He ate cat food."
"Which isn't poisonous to cats, which have a smaller body mass, so it's not likely to hurt him."
Dean goes on staring.
"What?" Sam says, again with the sighing. "You want me to call the EMTs? Induce vomiting? What?"
"Do you know what's in cat food?"
"Probably nothing worse than what's in hot dogs. You gave him one of those yesterday."
Sam could be sympathetic about this. He could. He could display some brotherly solidarity and act like this is a serious situation, instead of sitting there waving his holey sock feet around and channel surfing like things are just…normal.
"Kid ate cat food," Dean mumbles.
Sam laughs at him.
At least in here, in the den, with the door safely shut and no other way out except the windows, which are all well beyond RJ's reach, the kid is safe. There's no pet food in here. No pets, for that matter; Dean made sure the cats were both somewhere else before he closed the door. It's safe and warm and quiet in here.
Unless the kid decides he's gonna gnaw on some electrical wires, like a squirrel.
"Do they do that?" he blurts.
"Do they do what?"
"Chew on wires."
"Sometimes," Sam says, and goes on channel surfing.
All the air rushes out of Dean's lungs, like he's on the bridge of the starship Enterprise and there's been a massive hull breach.
"Oh, for God's sake," Sam says.
The rug is nice and soft in here, and clean. There's nothing in here worth trying to eat except magazines, and Dean piled all of those on the desk, whose surface is also out of the baby's reach. There's no danger in here, none at all.
Except freaking ELECTRICITY.
He looks around frantically, half-stumbling as he flails up off the couch.
What he sees stops him dead in his tracks.
Oh my SHIT, he thinks, and then there's a whole chorus shrieking in his head: DANGER! DANGER!!!!, like that damn robot on Lost in Space.
Alongside the couch, on the floor, his child is fast asleep.
With his face buried in Sam's sneaker.
As Sam will tell people later on, it's for no reason other than curiosity (and because Dean's crazy-dance is suddenly a lot more interesting than anything on TV) that Sam moves over to that end of the couch and peers over the side.
He starts whooping with laughter they can probably hear on the other side of the lake.
Furious, Dean scoops up his child and buries him against his chest, balled up like a load of laundry. Jolted out of his nice sound sleep, RJ squirms around enough to free his head and peers up at Dean with an expression that's somewhere in between "Bzzuuuhhh?" and "Are you out of your frickin' mind?"
"Coulda been -" Dean sputters.
Asphyxiated, he thinks stubbornly, but it's hard to hang on to his anger in the face of Sam's continued whooping. There are tears rolling down Sam's face, and as much as Dean wants to clobber him with something, the only thing handy is RJ.
Or one of Sam's sneakers.
"Dude," Sam wheezes. "You need to calm down. Seriously. You need to calm down."
Calm down?? When there's what - electricity?? And mini-blind cords, and stairs, and bodies of water, and freaking crib death, and pneumonia and cats and snakes and cars and stoves and cancer, little kids get cancer…
"Dude," Sam says, his voice softer this time, and he's stopped laughing.
It's a good thing Sam lifts the baby out of Dean's arms right then, because hyperventilating while you're holding a kid - you can add that to the list of Shit Not To Do. Things have gone kind of gray around the edges, and Dean's swaying back and forth a little, like there's a good stiff wind blowing through the den.
"I get it," Sam says. "Been there, remember?"
No, he doesn't get it, Dean thinks. Nobody…
"You're not doing this alone," Sam says.
And Sam's…
Well.
Holding the baby the right way. A little bit casual, like he's used to it, but with a good, firm hold on him, the kind RJ can't squirm out of. The baby's a good eighty feet off the ground, but he's not gonna fall.
Not.
"You good?" Sam asks quietly.
It takes a minute, but Dean finally flips one shoulder in half a shrug. "Yeah," he mutters. "I guess. Yeah."
And he is, right up until RJ adds his vote with a loud and noxious fart.
* * * * *