SPN FIC - Little Women
Missing scene from 8.20 -- back at the Batcave, after the big bads have been defeated and our heroes have a chance to rest. Or not.
CHARACTERS: Dean and Charlie
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: 8.20
LENGTH: 1560 words
LITTLE WOMEN
By Carol Davis
Caterpillar, he thinks.
That's what she looks like, with the covers pulled up past her neck, knees tucked tight to her chest: one of those fuzzy black-and-brown caterpillars that contract into a tight little ball when you touch them. He remembers Sam studying them, once upon a time - prodding them with a tiny forefinger to see if pestering them would eventually make them unclench.
Dean's always had sympathy for the poor little sons of bitches, whose only defense mechanism is to make themselves smaller than they already are.
He's always made a point of setting them out of danger, in a sheltered spot in the grass.
"Don't go," Charlie murmurs.
He gave her soup and crackers. Sent her into the Letters' awesome shower room with a stack of towels and a warm robe so she could get cleaned up. Then, because Sam had already retreated to his own bed (and seriously, even if Sam feels like death warmed over, how much can he possibly sleep??) and the other bedrooms aren't made up, Dean walked her into his own room and pulled down the covers on his bed. She's been there ever since, hidden beneath the covers, burrowed down deep into the memory foam, as far down as it will allow her to go.
For her to get any further down, Freddy Krueger would have to reach up and grab her, leaving behind only a novelty t-shirt and a pair of rainbow socks.
Damn, she's tiny.
And you set her up against a djinn, you monumental asshat.
Shaking his head, he perches on the edge of the bed and rests a hand on her back.
She's trembling under the covers, beneath his touch, a redheaded leaf in the wind.
"You did good, kiddo," he assures her. "You rocked the friggin' house."
"I don't -"
She doesn't finish the statement for a while. Before she does, she hauls in a couple of deep breaths and, visibly, forces herself to stop quaking. "I don't know how you do this all the time," she says finally. "It's… God."
"It ain't easy," he concedes.
"Thank you. For coming in there to get me. I should've known -"
"You want me to tell you how many times I've gotten myself into a pile of crap when 'I should've known'?"
"I sort of know," she says. "The books?"
Oh yeah. The friggin' books. Thank you, Chuck Shurley, for the friggin' gift that keeps on giving. "Tell me you were making that up. About them being online."
"I -" she says. "Well."
He sighs, thinking of Becky Rosen. Thinking of an entire world full of Becky Rosens. "We told him to stop," he says after a minute. "A long time ago. Threatened to track him down and blow his ass to Kingdom Come. How far'd he get?"
"Sam going to hell. That's the last one."
That gives Dean pause. Three years ago?
Maybe there is a God. Or maybe Chuck found AA.
"I'd sort of like," Charlie says. "You know. If he didn't write about me. That's - some huge invasion of privacy, you know?"
"Tell me about it."
"It's like you and Sam are your own reality show. Not to mention all the people who've been involved with you. That's some serious lawsuit country."
"Not when you're dealing with a prophet of the Lord, apparently."
As if she's proving Sam right - the Sam of all those years ago - Charlie slowly unfolds herself, moving onto her back beneath the covers. She's fair-skinned to begin with, but even in the light of the single lamp Dean turned on when he brought her in here, she's gone nearly as white as his 600-count Egyptian cotton sheets.
She's not a kid, he reminds himself. She's an adult.
And he thinks of Jo, who was so frigging determined to fling herself into this life. The opposite of Charlie, who's pretty much been drafted into it, sucked up into it just like Dorothy got sucked into that twister.
Minus the little dog, of course.
What is it with these little women, he wonders.
"It was in the first book," Charlie says softly. "What happened to your mom. I'm so sorry. And your dad?"
"Thanks."
She sits up abruptly. To his surprise, she's fully dressed. Is still wearing all her layers. From somewhere hidden by the spill of covers she produces a handful of tissues that she uses to blow her nose, loudly and wetly.
"You really oughta get some sleep," he says.
"And what about you?"
"Gonna crash in one of the other rooms. There's a bunch of 'em."
Charlie lifts a hand to her mouth and gnaws on the tip of her thumb. She's breathing easier now, seems a little more relaxed. Maybe the nightmare's lost its hold on her, a little bit, just for now. Maybe she feels safer.
For now.
"It keeps finding me, doesn't it?" she asks. "I mean - up until the whole Dick thing, I went through my whole life dealing with just everyday crap. Idiot landlords, bad relationships, road rage. I had a car totally crap out on me once, out in the middle of nowhere. But ever since I got mixed up with you guys - I mean, you'd think I could just fade back into the crowd."
"You?" Dean says. "Never."
They both grin at that, but it's not funny. Not really.
"Can I do it this time? Find my life again?"
"I don't know, Charlie. I really don't know. If I could make it happen for you, I would."
"But you can't make it happen for yourself. Or Sam."
"That's different. We're -"
Again, he sighs. You can lead a horse to a promise, he thinks, but you can't make the friggin' world let him drink in peace.
"We can leave you be," he offers. "Not call you."
"I called you, remember? And - what kind of a friend would I be if I didn't help you when I can?"
These little women, he thinks, and he remembers Jo's ferocity, her stubbornness.
The determination with which she faced her death.
"You can't do it all on your own, Dean," Charlie says softly, and it's easy enough for her to say that, tucked safely inside this place that's warded and protected up to its eyeballs, this place that's dim and quiet, its silence broken only by their voices and by the whisper of some weird, tinkly music coming out of the headphones of Charlie's iPod, lying discarded alongside the pillow.
It's sucked her in, he thinks, like Dorothy's twister.
"If I could keep you safe -" he says, and he has to look away.
This time it's Charlie who extends a hand: a small, soft, pale hand that she curls around his forearm.
"I know," she says.
The lump that's rising in his throat isn't going to do crap for his image. Yeah, she's read the books, but they stopped - please, God, let them have stopped for real this time - three years ago. She doesn't know anything about Sam being without a soul, or having Lucifer in his head. About Bobby's death. About Amy and Emma, Amelia and Benny. About Dean's year in Purgatory.
About Cas.
And Kevin. The tablets. Crowley. Naomi.
Henry and Dad and the music box.
She won't know any of that.
Unless, of course, he and Sam choose to tell her.
"That online stuff," he says. "You kick ass at that. Only met one other guy who was kinda at your level, but he was - he kinda had a different approach. Raging paranoia, mostly, only" - a soft huff of breath escapes - "it's not paranoia if they're really out to get you. Not sure where he is right now. So you're our resident geek. You good with that?"
"Dude. I own the Internet."
She'll never not be afraid, he figures. And maybe that's a good thing.
It'll hold her back. Keep her out of the line of fire.
It was the demons who brought Jo down, he tells himself. If Charlie can just stay out of Crowley's sights, she'll be golden.
Fool's gold, maybe, but you take what you can get.
"Something my dad taught me," he says, frowning at the hiss of that goofy, tinkly music. "You gotta know your limitations. Which ain't to say he never went barging in when anybody with half an ounce of sense wouldn't have. Or that me and Sam haven't done the same thing. But you gotta at least be aware of 'em. And listen to 'em when you can. You good with that?"
"Dude," she says firmly. "I gotta be around for the Mid-Year Celebration. I'm the queen." Grinning, she taps herself on the chest with her fingertips. "Owe it to my loyal subjects to protect their sovereign, you know?"
Dean chuckles at that. "May you rule in Moondor without incident for many millennia, Your Highness."
Feeling no more secure than he did a minute ago, he moves to his feet and steps away from the bed.
"Get some sleep," he murmurs.
Her only reply is a nearly inaudible Mmmm and the smile she offers him as he reaches for the light switch.
Alone to stand watch through the rest of the night, he walks down the dark and empty hallway toward the war room, hands in his pockets, listening to the fading sound of Charlie's music.
* * * * *
CHARACTERS: Dean and Charlie
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: 8.20
LENGTH: 1560 words
LITTLE WOMEN
By Carol Davis
Caterpillar, he thinks.
That's what she looks like, with the covers pulled up past her neck, knees tucked tight to her chest: one of those fuzzy black-and-brown caterpillars that contract into a tight little ball when you touch them. He remembers Sam studying them, once upon a time - prodding them with a tiny forefinger to see if pestering them would eventually make them unclench.
Dean's always had sympathy for the poor little sons of bitches, whose only defense mechanism is to make themselves smaller than they already are.
He's always made a point of setting them out of danger, in a sheltered spot in the grass.
"Don't go," Charlie murmurs.
He gave her soup and crackers. Sent her into the Letters' awesome shower room with a stack of towels and a warm robe so she could get cleaned up. Then, because Sam had already retreated to his own bed (and seriously, even if Sam feels like death warmed over, how much can he possibly sleep??) and the other bedrooms aren't made up, Dean walked her into his own room and pulled down the covers on his bed. She's been there ever since, hidden beneath the covers, burrowed down deep into the memory foam, as far down as it will allow her to go.
For her to get any further down, Freddy Krueger would have to reach up and grab her, leaving behind only a novelty t-shirt and a pair of rainbow socks.
Damn, she's tiny.
And you set her up against a djinn, you monumental asshat.
Shaking his head, he perches on the edge of the bed and rests a hand on her back.
She's trembling under the covers, beneath his touch, a redheaded leaf in the wind.
"You did good, kiddo," he assures her. "You rocked the friggin' house."
"I don't -"
She doesn't finish the statement for a while. Before she does, she hauls in a couple of deep breaths and, visibly, forces herself to stop quaking. "I don't know how you do this all the time," she says finally. "It's… God."
"It ain't easy," he concedes.
"Thank you. For coming in there to get me. I should've known -"
"You want me to tell you how many times I've gotten myself into a pile of crap when 'I should've known'?"
"I sort of know," she says. "The books?"
Oh yeah. The friggin' books. Thank you, Chuck Shurley, for the friggin' gift that keeps on giving. "Tell me you were making that up. About them being online."
"I -" she says. "Well."
He sighs, thinking of Becky Rosen. Thinking of an entire world full of Becky Rosens. "We told him to stop," he says after a minute. "A long time ago. Threatened to track him down and blow his ass to Kingdom Come. How far'd he get?"
"Sam going to hell. That's the last one."
That gives Dean pause. Three years ago?
Maybe there is a God. Or maybe Chuck found AA.
"I'd sort of like," Charlie says. "You know. If he didn't write about me. That's - some huge invasion of privacy, you know?"
"Tell me about it."
"It's like you and Sam are your own reality show. Not to mention all the people who've been involved with you. That's some serious lawsuit country."
"Not when you're dealing with a prophet of the Lord, apparently."
As if she's proving Sam right - the Sam of all those years ago - Charlie slowly unfolds herself, moving onto her back beneath the covers. She's fair-skinned to begin with, but even in the light of the single lamp Dean turned on when he brought her in here, she's gone nearly as white as his 600-count Egyptian cotton sheets.
She's not a kid, he reminds himself. She's an adult.
And he thinks of Jo, who was so frigging determined to fling herself into this life. The opposite of Charlie, who's pretty much been drafted into it, sucked up into it just like Dorothy got sucked into that twister.
Minus the little dog, of course.
What is it with these little women, he wonders.
"It was in the first book," Charlie says softly. "What happened to your mom. I'm so sorry. And your dad?"
"Thanks."
She sits up abruptly. To his surprise, she's fully dressed. Is still wearing all her layers. From somewhere hidden by the spill of covers she produces a handful of tissues that she uses to blow her nose, loudly and wetly.
"You really oughta get some sleep," he says.
"And what about you?"
"Gonna crash in one of the other rooms. There's a bunch of 'em."
Charlie lifts a hand to her mouth and gnaws on the tip of her thumb. She's breathing easier now, seems a little more relaxed. Maybe the nightmare's lost its hold on her, a little bit, just for now. Maybe she feels safer.
For now.
"It keeps finding me, doesn't it?" she asks. "I mean - up until the whole Dick thing, I went through my whole life dealing with just everyday crap. Idiot landlords, bad relationships, road rage. I had a car totally crap out on me once, out in the middle of nowhere. But ever since I got mixed up with you guys - I mean, you'd think I could just fade back into the crowd."
"You?" Dean says. "Never."
They both grin at that, but it's not funny. Not really.
"Can I do it this time? Find my life again?"
"I don't know, Charlie. I really don't know. If I could make it happen for you, I would."
"But you can't make it happen for yourself. Or Sam."
"That's different. We're -"
Again, he sighs. You can lead a horse to a promise, he thinks, but you can't make the friggin' world let him drink in peace.
"We can leave you be," he offers. "Not call you."
"I called you, remember? And - what kind of a friend would I be if I didn't help you when I can?"
These little women, he thinks, and he remembers Jo's ferocity, her stubbornness.
The determination with which she faced her death.
"You can't do it all on your own, Dean," Charlie says softly, and it's easy enough for her to say that, tucked safely inside this place that's warded and protected up to its eyeballs, this place that's dim and quiet, its silence broken only by their voices and by the whisper of some weird, tinkly music coming out of the headphones of Charlie's iPod, lying discarded alongside the pillow.
It's sucked her in, he thinks, like Dorothy's twister.
"If I could keep you safe -" he says, and he has to look away.
This time it's Charlie who extends a hand: a small, soft, pale hand that she curls around his forearm.
"I know," she says.
The lump that's rising in his throat isn't going to do crap for his image. Yeah, she's read the books, but they stopped - please, God, let them have stopped for real this time - three years ago. She doesn't know anything about Sam being without a soul, or having Lucifer in his head. About Bobby's death. About Amy and Emma, Amelia and Benny. About Dean's year in Purgatory.
About Cas.
And Kevin. The tablets. Crowley. Naomi.
Henry and Dad and the music box.
She won't know any of that.
Unless, of course, he and Sam choose to tell her.
"That online stuff," he says. "You kick ass at that. Only met one other guy who was kinda at your level, but he was - he kinda had a different approach. Raging paranoia, mostly, only" - a soft huff of breath escapes - "it's not paranoia if they're really out to get you. Not sure where he is right now. So you're our resident geek. You good with that?"
"Dude. I own the Internet."
She'll never not be afraid, he figures. And maybe that's a good thing.
It'll hold her back. Keep her out of the line of fire.
It was the demons who brought Jo down, he tells himself. If Charlie can just stay out of Crowley's sights, she'll be golden.
Fool's gold, maybe, but you take what you can get.
"Something my dad taught me," he says, frowning at the hiss of that goofy, tinkly music. "You gotta know your limitations. Which ain't to say he never went barging in when anybody with half an ounce of sense wouldn't have. Or that me and Sam haven't done the same thing. But you gotta at least be aware of 'em. And listen to 'em when you can. You good with that?"
"Dude," she says firmly. "I gotta be around for the Mid-Year Celebration. I'm the queen." Grinning, she taps herself on the chest with her fingertips. "Owe it to my loyal subjects to protect their sovereign, you know?"
Dean chuckles at that. "May you rule in Moondor without incident for many millennia, Your Highness."
Feeling no more secure than he did a minute ago, he moves to his feet and steps away from the bed.
"Get some sleep," he murmurs.
Her only reply is a nearly inaudible Mmmm and the smile she offers him as he reaches for the light switch.
Alone to stand watch through the rest of the night, he walks down the dark and empty hallway toward the war room, hands in his pockets, listening to the fading sound of Charlie's music.
* * * * *