SPN FIC - Lilies
Dean's at school, leaving Daddy and Sammy on their own -- and as always, Sam's got an unending stream of questions.
"What's him, Day? What's him?"
CHARACTERS: John and wee!Sammy (age 2 1/2)
GENRE: Gen
RATING: G
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1200 words
LILIES
By Carol Davis
"What's him, Day? What's him?"
It's a trill John's grown used to hearing, these past few weeks: Sammy's demand to know more about every living thing he encounters. If Dean is closer at hand (which is normally the case), the song is, "What's him, Dee?" For John, it's "What's him, Day?" because his youngest tends to simplify multi-syllable words; doesn't bother with Daddy.
What's him?
Pigeons.
The tiny fish in the tanks in the pet aisle at Walmart.
Ants and crickets, grasshoppers and beetles. Squirrels. Mice. Silverfish.
Cats.
Dogs.
Jack Jacoby's pet ferret.
On one thrilling occasion, a three-foot rat snake taking a nap underneath the car. On another, the skunk that was sniffing around the garbage cans. On yet another, a neighbor's badly disgruntled Chihuahua.
Yes, he should be grateful that Sam is so curious, so eager to learn. But John has realized these past few weeks just how many living things there are on this earth, all of which seem to be easily accessible - or at least visible - to a two-year-old boy. The question's been asked so many times, he's beginning to hear it in his sleep.
This time, Dean's not available to run interference; he's at school. Might as well be on the moon, John observes ruefully.
"Where, son?" he asks, crouching down alongside Sam, whose small hands are pressed to the glass of the storm door.
"Him, Day."
There, at the edge of the woods that run along behind the trailer park: a wary doe and two fawns, picking at the fallen apples from the cluster of ratty, mostly-forgotten trees. She doesn't startle, but she's aware they're being watched; her sense of alert is plain.
"That's a she," John murmurs. "That's a momma, and her babies."
Sam goes on watching for a minute, hands and nose pressed to the glass. Then he withdraws a little and turns to look at John. "'Em's a she?"
"Yep."
"'Em's nice. I wanna see."
"You need to see from right here, son. So she won't be scared."
"Not gonna hurt 'em."
To Sam, the world is one big petting zoo. That an animal is bigger than he is, or possesses an impressive set of teeth, matters to him not at all. In that sense he's just like his brother, who began to jam into his mouth everything he could reach from the moment he emerged from his mother's womb. Even at six, Dean is still gleefully fond of tasting, touching, sniffing, as if the world were one big All You Can Eat buffet.
"Day?" Sam inquires, peering at John from beneath his too-long bangs.
"Yes, son."
"Want one of 'em. Them lilies. Him can sleep in my bed."
"Lilies" is Sam's version of "little ones." Where that originated, John has never been sure. Baby talk, he imagines, possibly something Dean prompted - or maybe it's more than that. Sometimes, everything Sam says, or thinks, or does, seems to be more than that.
To John's unending gratitude, the doe and her offspring slip off into the woods, invisible from the trailer's kitchen door. For a moment he's sure Sam will pitch a fit over the loss of his chosen playmate; instead, Sam stands pondering the abandoned trees and the scattering of half-rotten fruit.
After a minute he announces, "I see Dee now."
"Soon," John tells him.
"Two lilies. One for Dee and one for Sam. You go bring 'em."
"Can't," John says. "That would make their momma very upset."
"Her would cry?"
Sam's gaze, steady and patient, remains on John's face. He's only a little boy (a lily), John reminds himself, but there are times when an entire universe seems to exist behind those soft baby cheeks, behind those earnest child's eyes. Times when Sam seems like something colossal. It's damned overwhelming, particularly when John is alone with him, when it's just the two of them, and there are questions to be answered - like this one, when the simple words Her would cry fill John's mind with thoughts of Mary. Long-ago quarrels between the two of them. The loss of her parents. Exhaustion and frustration.
Yes, her cried.
For a moment, he imagines her crying now, over the loss of her lilies.
To Sam's brief dismay, John gathers his son into his arms and moves to his feet, taking comfort in the weight and substance of his child. He steps away from the storm door and closes the more solid inner door against it, blocking their view of the yard, then rocks Sam a bit, as he did during those first few months after the fire, when Sam fit neatly into the circle of his father's arms.
"You have that big one, Day," Sam says to John's chest, his voice muffled by the rumpled front of John's flannel shirt. "Her's nice. That's right? One for you an' one for Dee and one for Sam."
If only it were that simple.
If only the answers to any of this were that neat, that concise.
"How 'bout," John murmurs into his son's mop of soft sandy hair, "we go get your brother?"
"We see Dee?"
"Yeah. That sound good?"
Sam cranks his head back, grinning.
There are times, John thinks, when the light of the whole world is in his children's faces.
"DEE!" Sam shrills, and flings both arms skyward, fists clenched, like he's just won the World Heavyweight Championship. "An'… CHEESE!"
That takes John completely by surprise. "Cheese?" he sputters. "What's -"
Again, Sam peers into John's face. Studying. Pondering. When he was smaller, John dreaded that look; more often than not, Sam would abruptly jerk his head back, then ram it into John's nose, or chin, for no reason John could ever fathom. These days, Sam just looks. Thank God for that - for an end to the bruises and scratches and the bloody noses.
Kid's got a head like a cement block.
Today, Sam leans forward and kisses his father moistly on the cheek. "Cheese," he says, as somberly as a Supreme Court justice.
"Pizza," John guesses. "You mean pizza?"
"Uh-huh."
"You figure Dean will want to get pizza?"
Again, Sam's head pulls back, brow furrowed, and he gives John a look that says John is likely the dumbest individual ever to walk the earth. He's got a point: Dean has never in his life turned down an offer of pizza, save for those first few months after the fire, and in fact, it was pizza that helped lure him out of that long, silent funk.
"Deeeeeeee," Sam says by way of persuasion.
A peek through the window over the sink reveals that the doe has come again to the edge of the woods and is watching the trailer for further signs of danger; she probably won't give the all-clear to her babies until things have been quiet for a while, if she gives it at all.
The world's full of danger, John has come to understand over this past couple of years.
And it's the most demanding of jobs, protecting the small and curious.
"Day?" Sam prods.
Smiling - though there's no humor behind it - John returns Sam's kiss on the cheek.
"Yeah," he tells his son softly. "Let's go find Dee."
* * * * *
"What's him, Day? What's him?"
CHARACTERS: John and wee!Sammy (age 2 1/2)
GENRE: Gen
RATING: G
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1200 words
LILIES
By Carol Davis
"What's him, Day? What's him?"
It's a trill John's grown used to hearing, these past few weeks: Sammy's demand to know more about every living thing he encounters. If Dean is closer at hand (which is normally the case), the song is, "What's him, Dee?" For John, it's "What's him, Day?" because his youngest tends to simplify multi-syllable words; doesn't bother with Daddy.
What's him?
Pigeons.
The tiny fish in the tanks in the pet aisle at Walmart.
Ants and crickets, grasshoppers and beetles. Squirrels. Mice. Silverfish.
Cats.
Dogs.
Jack Jacoby's pet ferret.
On one thrilling occasion, a three-foot rat snake taking a nap underneath the car. On another, the skunk that was sniffing around the garbage cans. On yet another, a neighbor's badly disgruntled Chihuahua.
Yes, he should be grateful that Sam is so curious, so eager to learn. But John has realized these past few weeks just how many living things there are on this earth, all of which seem to be easily accessible - or at least visible - to a two-year-old boy. The question's been asked so many times, he's beginning to hear it in his sleep.
This time, Dean's not available to run interference; he's at school. Might as well be on the moon, John observes ruefully.
"Where, son?" he asks, crouching down alongside Sam, whose small hands are pressed to the glass of the storm door.
"Him, Day."
There, at the edge of the woods that run along behind the trailer park: a wary doe and two fawns, picking at the fallen apples from the cluster of ratty, mostly-forgotten trees. She doesn't startle, but she's aware they're being watched; her sense of alert is plain.
"That's a she," John murmurs. "That's a momma, and her babies."
Sam goes on watching for a minute, hands and nose pressed to the glass. Then he withdraws a little and turns to look at John. "'Em's a she?"
"Yep."
"'Em's nice. I wanna see."
"You need to see from right here, son. So she won't be scared."
"Not gonna hurt 'em."
To Sam, the world is one big petting zoo. That an animal is bigger than he is, or possesses an impressive set of teeth, matters to him not at all. In that sense he's just like his brother, who began to jam into his mouth everything he could reach from the moment he emerged from his mother's womb. Even at six, Dean is still gleefully fond of tasting, touching, sniffing, as if the world were one big All You Can Eat buffet.
"Day?" Sam inquires, peering at John from beneath his too-long bangs.
"Yes, son."
"Want one of 'em. Them lilies. Him can sleep in my bed."
"Lilies" is Sam's version of "little ones." Where that originated, John has never been sure. Baby talk, he imagines, possibly something Dean prompted - or maybe it's more than that. Sometimes, everything Sam says, or thinks, or does, seems to be more than that.
To John's unending gratitude, the doe and her offspring slip off into the woods, invisible from the trailer's kitchen door. For a moment he's sure Sam will pitch a fit over the loss of his chosen playmate; instead, Sam stands pondering the abandoned trees and the scattering of half-rotten fruit.
After a minute he announces, "I see Dee now."
"Soon," John tells him.
"Two lilies. One for Dee and one for Sam. You go bring 'em."
"Can't," John says. "That would make their momma very upset."
"Her would cry?"
Sam's gaze, steady and patient, remains on John's face. He's only a little boy (a lily), John reminds himself, but there are times when an entire universe seems to exist behind those soft baby cheeks, behind those earnest child's eyes. Times when Sam seems like something colossal. It's damned overwhelming, particularly when John is alone with him, when it's just the two of them, and there are questions to be answered - like this one, when the simple words Her would cry fill John's mind with thoughts of Mary. Long-ago quarrels between the two of them. The loss of her parents. Exhaustion and frustration.
Yes, her cried.
For a moment, he imagines her crying now, over the loss of her lilies.
To Sam's brief dismay, John gathers his son into his arms and moves to his feet, taking comfort in the weight and substance of his child. He steps away from the storm door and closes the more solid inner door against it, blocking their view of the yard, then rocks Sam a bit, as he did during those first few months after the fire, when Sam fit neatly into the circle of his father's arms.
"You have that big one, Day," Sam says to John's chest, his voice muffled by the rumpled front of John's flannel shirt. "Her's nice. That's right? One for you an' one for Dee and one for Sam."
If only it were that simple.
If only the answers to any of this were that neat, that concise.
"How 'bout," John murmurs into his son's mop of soft sandy hair, "we go get your brother?"
"We see Dee?"
"Yeah. That sound good?"
Sam cranks his head back, grinning.
There are times, John thinks, when the light of the whole world is in his children's faces.
"DEE!" Sam shrills, and flings both arms skyward, fists clenched, like he's just won the World Heavyweight Championship. "An'… CHEESE!"
That takes John completely by surprise. "Cheese?" he sputters. "What's -"
Again, Sam peers into John's face. Studying. Pondering. When he was smaller, John dreaded that look; more often than not, Sam would abruptly jerk his head back, then ram it into John's nose, or chin, for no reason John could ever fathom. These days, Sam just looks. Thank God for that - for an end to the bruises and scratches and the bloody noses.
Kid's got a head like a cement block.
Today, Sam leans forward and kisses his father moistly on the cheek. "Cheese," he says, as somberly as a Supreme Court justice.
"Pizza," John guesses. "You mean pizza?"
"Uh-huh."
"You figure Dean will want to get pizza?"
Again, Sam's head pulls back, brow furrowed, and he gives John a look that says John is likely the dumbest individual ever to walk the earth. He's got a point: Dean has never in his life turned down an offer of pizza, save for those first few months after the fire, and in fact, it was pizza that helped lure him out of that long, silent funk.
"Deeeeeeee," Sam says by way of persuasion.
A peek through the window over the sink reveals that the doe has come again to the edge of the woods and is watching the trailer for further signs of danger; she probably won't give the all-clear to her babies until things have been quiet for a while, if she gives it at all.
The world's full of danger, John has come to understand over this past couple of years.
And it's the most demanding of jobs, protecting the small and curious.
"Day?" Sam prods.
Smiling - though there's no humor behind it - John returns Sam's kiss on the cheek.
"Yeah," he tells his son softly. "Let's go find Dee."
* * * * *