SPN FIC - Unanswerable
A hot August afternoon. A dad who's exhausted and battered by the hunt. And a little boy with a simple question: "How far is the sky?"
CHARACTERS: John, wee!Sam (4), wee!Dean (8)
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 812 words
UNANSWERABLE
By Carol Davis
"Dad."
Something plucks at his sleeve, then at the hem of his shirt. The bed on that side makes a momentary dip.
"Daddy."
He can't bring himself to open his eyes. The daylight's too bright, even in here, on the sheltered side of sagging curtains the color of smoke. With an arm laid across his face, he pulls in a slow breath, curls his lip at the miasma of smells carried by the warm, muggy air, and exhales.
"What, Sam," he says.
"How far is the sky?"
The boy's sitting cross-legged near John's left hip, knees jabbing into John's flesh. That's his preferred position, be it on the bed, or the couch, or the floor; has been since he figured out how to do it, since his legs became long enough to accommodate the twist. The heat of him radiates through the thick denim of John's jeans.
"If I go way up, can I touch it?"
A snort issues from the other bed. Dean, sage and critical at eight.
"Can I, Dad? If I go way up?"
No, John thinks, because there is no sky. There's nothing there. Just space. There's nothing to touch, no matter how far you go.
"Hmm," he murmurs.
"Did you touch it, Dad? Did you ever go way up, and touch it?"
He knows without looking that Dean is watching him from the other bed: observing him in silence, in that inscrutable manner he adopted the day after the fire. Nothing in his eyes but limitless depths, a bottomless green sea. No criticism, no encouragement. That version of Dean comes and goes unpredictably, though it's become almost common to see him after each hunt has ended. When something's died; when John's clothes are stained with blood and ichor.
"Dad?"
"What, Sam."
"Is it cold, or hot? Is it very soft?"
There is no sky, he thinks with a surge of grief. There's only a ball of rock hurtling through space, fragile and vulnerable.
He thinks he would willingly give his left arm for a functioning hot tub, on this middle-of-August afternoon, in spite of the relentless, clinging heat of the day. There was one at the motel some three or four stops ago, one whose pulsing water brought him almost to tears with gratitude. It smelled of bleach, and the tiles laid along the narrow bench were chipped and slimy, but all the same, sitting armpit-deep in the water was a comfort.
The pulse, the pressure - it was good, being pummeled that way.
"I was in the tub," Sam says, as if he's privy to his father's thoughts. "It's a little tub, but I'm not big. I got down in the water, Dad. I was a subberdeen."
"Were you."
"I'm clean now."
He smells of little-boy sweat and cheap laundry detergent. When he leans closer to John's face, he smells of something sweet. Kool-Aid, maybe, or Jell-O.
"I could go way up," he says. "If I flied like a bird. Then I could touch it."
For a moment, John envies his wife ferociously: that she could carry these children inside her and keep them safe. He remembers her making a comma of her body in bed, under the covers, arms and legs brought close to her belly.
When he opens his eyes, they're both looking at him, silent and wondering.
"Sammy," he says.
Sam's small face breaks into a smile.
"Bring me a drink, will you? Bring me a soda."
The boy tumbles puppy-like off the bed and scrambles to the kitchenette. He returns quickly, sweating red-and-silver can in hand. Dean would open it and proffer it that way, but Sam has trouble with the pull-tabs. Breaks them off more often than not, then sulks in frustration. When John doesn't accept the can immediately, Sam clambers back up onto the bed and waits for John to hitch himself up into a sit.
On the other bed, Dean's gaze is tipped down toward the comic book in his lap. He's said nothing all day that isn't monosyllabic.
He saw the blood.
He always sees the blood.
Oblivious to the room's almost living heat, Sam nudges up close to his father and watches with a frown as John bends back the pull-tab on the soda can, releasing the pressure inside with that characteristic pop and hiss.
"I burp when I drink that," he announces. "It hurts in my nose."
John holds his eyes at half-mast, screening the relentless light of a summer afternoon. His nose is about the only part of him that doesn't hurt, but he doesn't bother saying that to the boy. There's no point in bringing Sam's attention to something he can't fix.
"Did you touch the sky, Dad?" Sam asks. "Did you ever do it?"
"Not yet," John replies, and reaches out to thread the fingers of his free hand through his son's soft hair.
* * * * *
CHARACTERS: John, wee!Sam (4), wee!Dean (8)
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 812 words
UNANSWERABLE
By Carol Davis
"Dad."
Something plucks at his sleeve, then at the hem of his shirt. The bed on that side makes a momentary dip.
"Daddy."
He can't bring himself to open his eyes. The daylight's too bright, even in here, on the sheltered side of sagging curtains the color of smoke. With an arm laid across his face, he pulls in a slow breath, curls his lip at the miasma of smells carried by the warm, muggy air, and exhales.
"What, Sam," he says.
"How far is the sky?"
The boy's sitting cross-legged near John's left hip, knees jabbing into John's flesh. That's his preferred position, be it on the bed, or the couch, or the floor; has been since he figured out how to do it, since his legs became long enough to accommodate the twist. The heat of him radiates through the thick denim of John's jeans.
"If I go way up, can I touch it?"
A snort issues from the other bed. Dean, sage and critical at eight.
"Can I, Dad? If I go way up?"
No, John thinks, because there is no sky. There's nothing there. Just space. There's nothing to touch, no matter how far you go.
"Hmm," he murmurs.
"Did you touch it, Dad? Did you ever go way up, and touch it?"
He knows without looking that Dean is watching him from the other bed: observing him in silence, in that inscrutable manner he adopted the day after the fire. Nothing in his eyes but limitless depths, a bottomless green sea. No criticism, no encouragement. That version of Dean comes and goes unpredictably, though it's become almost common to see him after each hunt has ended. When something's died; when John's clothes are stained with blood and ichor.
"Dad?"
"What, Sam."
"Is it cold, or hot? Is it very soft?"
There is no sky, he thinks with a surge of grief. There's only a ball of rock hurtling through space, fragile and vulnerable.
He thinks he would willingly give his left arm for a functioning hot tub, on this middle-of-August afternoon, in spite of the relentless, clinging heat of the day. There was one at the motel some three or four stops ago, one whose pulsing water brought him almost to tears with gratitude. It smelled of bleach, and the tiles laid along the narrow bench were chipped and slimy, but all the same, sitting armpit-deep in the water was a comfort.
The pulse, the pressure - it was good, being pummeled that way.
"I was in the tub," Sam says, as if he's privy to his father's thoughts. "It's a little tub, but I'm not big. I got down in the water, Dad. I was a subberdeen."
"Were you."
"I'm clean now."
He smells of little-boy sweat and cheap laundry detergent. When he leans closer to John's face, he smells of something sweet. Kool-Aid, maybe, or Jell-O.
"I could go way up," he says. "If I flied like a bird. Then I could touch it."
For a moment, John envies his wife ferociously: that she could carry these children inside her and keep them safe. He remembers her making a comma of her body in bed, under the covers, arms and legs brought close to her belly.
When he opens his eyes, they're both looking at him, silent and wondering.
"Sammy," he says.
Sam's small face breaks into a smile.
"Bring me a drink, will you? Bring me a soda."
The boy tumbles puppy-like off the bed and scrambles to the kitchenette. He returns quickly, sweating red-and-silver can in hand. Dean would open it and proffer it that way, but Sam has trouble with the pull-tabs. Breaks them off more often than not, then sulks in frustration. When John doesn't accept the can immediately, Sam clambers back up onto the bed and waits for John to hitch himself up into a sit.
On the other bed, Dean's gaze is tipped down toward the comic book in his lap. He's said nothing all day that isn't monosyllabic.
He saw the blood.
He always sees the blood.
Oblivious to the room's almost living heat, Sam nudges up close to his father and watches with a frown as John bends back the pull-tab on the soda can, releasing the pressure inside with that characteristic pop and hiss.
"I burp when I drink that," he announces. "It hurts in my nose."
John holds his eyes at half-mast, screening the relentless light of a summer afternoon. His nose is about the only part of him that doesn't hurt, but he doesn't bother saying that to the boy. There's no point in bringing Sam's attention to something he can't fix.
"Did you touch the sky, Dad?" Sam asks. "Did you ever do it?"
"Not yet," John replies, and reaches out to thread the fingers of his free hand through his son's soft hair.
* * * * *