SPN FIC - This Year
You wanted holiday fic? Okay, here we go -- #1 in what I hope will be half a dozen or so. Dean and Ben, during that missing year.
"Should we skip Christmas?"
CHARACTERS: Dean and Ben
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1259 words
THIS YEAR
By Carol Davis
"Hey, Dean?"
It's Ben, then, not Lisa: standing in the garage doorway, dropping a shadow across the pickup's right front fender. He's been there for a good couple of minutes, leaning against the doorframe, maintaining a patient silence.
Has to be patience, Dean thinks. It's certainly not fear.
"Yeah," Dean murmurs without lifting his head.
Then he does. Offers the boy a nod. Not encouragement, exactly, because this isn't one of those C'mere and I'll show you how this works kind of days. It's the opposite of that, and if Ben and Lisa are good at nothing else, they do know when to give him some space.
With luck, that'll hold. The nod won't lure Ben into the garage.
It doesn't, but Ben heaves a long sigh.
"Told your mother," Dean says, his eyes again on his hands and the wrench, on the guts of the truck he bought from a lot across town a few weeks back. It came cheap, because it's got a shitload of problems, but he's fixing them one by one. None of 'em are beyond his capabilities. Some of them are a royal pain in the ass - the engine's half the size of the Impala's, and everything's twice as hard to get at, but…whatever. "I'm good with all the traditional stuff. Cook what you usually do, and I'll eat it. Don't go crazy over this."
There've been whispers around the house for weeks. Lisa to Ben, Ben to Lisa. Lisa on the phone with her sister. I don't know what he… No, he hasn't said… I'm just trying to follow his lead... It'll be better next year.
The first one is always the hardest.
Like there's a time limit on this. On how long he's allowed to remember My brother's in Hell.
He glances again at the boy, who's staring at a big, empty hook on the garage wall. One of a pair, meant to hang up a bicycle, or skis, or some damn thing. Ben's gaze shifts suddenly, meets Dean's, and shoots right back to the hook.
"She always -" Ben blurts.
"Jesus, Ben. Just cook the damn turkey."
"It's not that. It's not -"
"Then what is it?"
"Should we skip Christmas?"
That takes Dean so much by surprise that he snaps bolt upright, his right hand wrapped tight around the wrench. The sudden movement sends Ben stumbling backwards half a step, and he flails for a moment, arms pinwheeling. It'd be funny, if anything was funny.
It's been a long time since anything was funny.
"The day after Thanksgiving," Ben sighs. "We always put up the tree and all the lights and stuff the day after Thanksgiving. We always spend the whole day doing it. But Mom said if you don't want - if it would bother you -"
Nobody's said anything about Christmas. Not a peep. Not a hint, not a suggestion, not a single whisper. Not that Dean's heard, anyway.
Maybe Lisa and Ben are getting better at waiting to talk until he really can't hear them - when he's at work, or over at Pep Boys looking for parts for the truck.
Should we skip Christmas?
He thinks of pagan gods and mild weather, of a plastic bottle of motor oil wrapped in newspaper, of a drunken Santa in a wifebeater, of stolen gifts and Sam in tears; of Dad swiping a wreath made of hammered beer cans, of a plastic saucer sled and comic books and takeout turkey. Snow and dry desert wind and Charlie Brown's tree, Pastor Jim's congregation singing in high, sweet voices; of good smells and twinkling lights and a red felt stocking that said DEAN on one side in crooked white letters.
It'll be better next year.
This year, there is this kid, who is too young to have to tiptoe around the crushed and battered remains of someone who is not his father. Someone who is not his mother's boyfriend, who is honestly not much of anything to him. He is far too young to have to put up with this level of shit, particularly now, particularly at this time of year.
"It's -" Ben stammers. "I mean - it's up to you. We can do what you want."
They could, but they shouldn't have to.
There's snow falling behind Ben, making him look a little bit like a figure inside a snow globe. The stray rays of sunlight that cast his shadow a few minutes ago are gone now, and the world outside looks damp and unattractive.
Ho motherfrigging ho, Dean thinks.
He stands considering the various parts of his surroundings for a minute: the wrench in his hand, the truck, the Impala, hidden under a big canvas tarp. The boy in the doorway, wearing only a hoodie as protection against the cold.
"What do you want?" Dean asks him quietly.
Ben shuffles his feet. Shrugs one shoulder.
"Dude," Dean prods.
The boy looks around. It takes a while for him to zero in on Dean, and even then he looks a little bit like a blind man, gazing at something nobody else can see. "I saved up money," he says, and chews on his lower lip. "I mean - I know - but me and Mom, if you would want -"
He is too young for this shit, Dean thinks.
To deal with something like this.
"We kind of want it to be a nice Christmas," Ben says. "For. You know. All of us. But if it would make you crazy, then we won't."
For a moment, Dean would like nothing more than to sit down on the garage floor. To let his legs go limp (because they want to; they really frigging want to) and slump down into a heap, into an abandoned pile of laundry with the last scrap of a soul smothered inside.
Standing up takes too damn much effort. So does breathing.
It's all too damn hard.
Consider the alternative, somebody told him once.
There's a warm house only a few steps away. The place he was told to come to; the place where he was welcomed, even though the people whose lives he interrupted had no good reason to let him in.
No good reason other than, he loves them.
In more ways than he can count, he owes them.
The hood of the truck creaks when Dean lowers it down; yet another thing to add to the "fix this" list.
As he sets the wrench aside, he remembers two words: Promise me.
"You want to do it up right," he says to the boy in the doorway.
"Yeah. I - yeah."
Ben looks nothing like Sam. Acts nothing like Sam; he has no interest in emo rock or salads in a cup, in Ivy League schools or filling Dean's boots with peanut butter. He won't ever be six-foot-five, and if Dean has anything to do with it - anything at all - he won't die before he hits thirty.
He will not lose his mother to demon fire.
His life will be good.
If Dean has anything to do with it.
He knows how to make this happen - how to make things good for someone else.
Knows how to try, at least.
He thinks of a stolen Barbie doll and a fairy wand, of Boston Market turkey and gravy, of hurtling down a hill on a plastic saucer sled with his arms wrapped tight around his brother, and for a minute he remembers how to smile.
"Okay," he tells the earnest, shivering kid in the doorway. "Then we'll do it up right."
* * * * *
"Should we skip Christmas?"
CHARACTERS: Dean and Ben
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1259 words
THIS YEAR
By Carol Davis
"Hey, Dean?"
It's Ben, then, not Lisa: standing in the garage doorway, dropping a shadow across the pickup's right front fender. He's been there for a good couple of minutes, leaning against the doorframe, maintaining a patient silence.
Has to be patience, Dean thinks. It's certainly not fear.
"Yeah," Dean murmurs without lifting his head.
Then he does. Offers the boy a nod. Not encouragement, exactly, because this isn't one of those C'mere and I'll show you how this works kind of days. It's the opposite of that, and if Ben and Lisa are good at nothing else, they do know when to give him some space.
With luck, that'll hold. The nod won't lure Ben into the garage.
It doesn't, but Ben heaves a long sigh.
"Told your mother," Dean says, his eyes again on his hands and the wrench, on the guts of the truck he bought from a lot across town a few weeks back. It came cheap, because it's got a shitload of problems, but he's fixing them one by one. None of 'em are beyond his capabilities. Some of them are a royal pain in the ass - the engine's half the size of the Impala's, and everything's twice as hard to get at, but…whatever. "I'm good with all the traditional stuff. Cook what you usually do, and I'll eat it. Don't go crazy over this."
There've been whispers around the house for weeks. Lisa to Ben, Ben to Lisa. Lisa on the phone with her sister. I don't know what he… No, he hasn't said… I'm just trying to follow his lead... It'll be better next year.
The first one is always the hardest.
Like there's a time limit on this. On how long he's allowed to remember My brother's in Hell.
He glances again at the boy, who's staring at a big, empty hook on the garage wall. One of a pair, meant to hang up a bicycle, or skis, or some damn thing. Ben's gaze shifts suddenly, meets Dean's, and shoots right back to the hook.
"She always -" Ben blurts.
"Jesus, Ben. Just cook the damn turkey."
"It's not that. It's not -"
"Then what is it?"
"Should we skip Christmas?"
That takes Dean so much by surprise that he snaps bolt upright, his right hand wrapped tight around the wrench. The sudden movement sends Ben stumbling backwards half a step, and he flails for a moment, arms pinwheeling. It'd be funny, if anything was funny.
It's been a long time since anything was funny.
"The day after Thanksgiving," Ben sighs. "We always put up the tree and all the lights and stuff the day after Thanksgiving. We always spend the whole day doing it. But Mom said if you don't want - if it would bother you -"
Nobody's said anything about Christmas. Not a peep. Not a hint, not a suggestion, not a single whisper. Not that Dean's heard, anyway.
Maybe Lisa and Ben are getting better at waiting to talk until he really can't hear them - when he's at work, or over at Pep Boys looking for parts for the truck.
Should we skip Christmas?
He thinks of pagan gods and mild weather, of a plastic bottle of motor oil wrapped in newspaper, of a drunken Santa in a wifebeater, of stolen gifts and Sam in tears; of Dad swiping a wreath made of hammered beer cans, of a plastic saucer sled and comic books and takeout turkey. Snow and dry desert wind and Charlie Brown's tree, Pastor Jim's congregation singing in high, sweet voices; of good smells and twinkling lights and a red felt stocking that said DEAN on one side in crooked white letters.
It'll be better next year.
This year, there is this kid, who is too young to have to tiptoe around the crushed and battered remains of someone who is not his father. Someone who is not his mother's boyfriend, who is honestly not much of anything to him. He is far too young to have to put up with this level of shit, particularly now, particularly at this time of year.
"It's -" Ben stammers. "I mean - it's up to you. We can do what you want."
They could, but they shouldn't have to.
There's snow falling behind Ben, making him look a little bit like a figure inside a snow globe. The stray rays of sunlight that cast his shadow a few minutes ago are gone now, and the world outside looks damp and unattractive.
Ho motherfrigging ho, Dean thinks.
He stands considering the various parts of his surroundings for a minute: the wrench in his hand, the truck, the Impala, hidden under a big canvas tarp. The boy in the doorway, wearing only a hoodie as protection against the cold.
"What do you want?" Dean asks him quietly.
Ben shuffles his feet. Shrugs one shoulder.
"Dude," Dean prods.
The boy looks around. It takes a while for him to zero in on Dean, and even then he looks a little bit like a blind man, gazing at something nobody else can see. "I saved up money," he says, and chews on his lower lip. "I mean - I know - but me and Mom, if you would want -"
He is too young for this shit, Dean thinks.
To deal with something like this.
"We kind of want it to be a nice Christmas," Ben says. "For. You know. All of us. But if it would make you crazy, then we won't."
For a moment, Dean would like nothing more than to sit down on the garage floor. To let his legs go limp (because they want to; they really frigging want to) and slump down into a heap, into an abandoned pile of laundry with the last scrap of a soul smothered inside.
Standing up takes too damn much effort. So does breathing.
It's all too damn hard.
Consider the alternative, somebody told him once.
There's a warm house only a few steps away. The place he was told to come to; the place where he was welcomed, even though the people whose lives he interrupted had no good reason to let him in.
No good reason other than, he loves them.
In more ways than he can count, he owes them.
The hood of the truck creaks when Dean lowers it down; yet another thing to add to the "fix this" list.
As he sets the wrench aside, he remembers two words: Promise me.
"You want to do it up right," he says to the boy in the doorway.
"Yeah. I - yeah."
Ben looks nothing like Sam. Acts nothing like Sam; he has no interest in emo rock or salads in a cup, in Ivy League schools or filling Dean's boots with peanut butter. He won't ever be six-foot-five, and if Dean has anything to do with it - anything at all - he won't die before he hits thirty.
He will not lose his mother to demon fire.
His life will be good.
If Dean has anything to do with it.
He knows how to make this happen - how to make things good for someone else.
Knows how to try, at least.
He thinks of a stolen Barbie doll and a fairy wand, of Boston Market turkey and gravy, of hurtling down a hill on a plastic saucer sled with his arms wrapped tight around his brother, and for a minute he remembers how to smile.
"Okay," he tells the earnest, shivering kid in the doorway. "Then we'll do it up right."
* * * * *