SPN FIC - Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child
Because for some of us, this coming Sunday is the worst friggin' day in the world. And when that's true, it helps to seek out the other members of the club.
(Dedicated to my mom. I miss you, every day of my life.)
CHARACTERS: Jody Mills and Dean (with background Sam, Kevin, and Charlie)
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 741 words
SOMETIMES I FEEL LIKE A MOTHERLESS CHILD
By Carol Davis
Jody tried working, the first time this day rolled around, figuring that doing her job would occupy her mind - and that was true enough, until she noticed the glances, and the whispering.
The second year, she decided to take in a movie - but the mall was full of signs and banners.
CELEBRATE YOUR MOM!
Sure.
Celebrate…
"Remember the good times," her friends and co-workers tell her. "Take comfort in your memories," and she does. There are pictures of a small, laughing boy with wild hair and grass-stained clothes in her living room, the upstairs hall, her bedroom. During quiet moments she can hear his voice, feel the weight of him in her arms, or her lap, and that's its own particular kind of joy.
She attends baby showers and little-kid birthday parties when she's invited. Sometimes, they manage not to be torture.
But this day?
The day that no longer brings with it crumpled bouquets plucked from the flower beds in the yard, crayoned greetings on construction paper decorated with multicolored glitter, wet kisses and fervent hugs, a merrily chirped, "Mommy! I love you, Mom!"
This particular day, this particular Sunday that comes every spring, is a loss from beginning to end, so she's taken to spending it alone. If it's raining, she devotes herself to paperwork spread out on the dining room table. If the sun's out and the day is mild, she works outdoors, out back, where she isn't visible to the neighbors or to anyone driving by.
She's kept up the flower beds - gives them a portion of the loving attention that used to be distributed elsewhere - and every year she plucks enough blooms to fill a small, fluorescent purple vase from All-4-A-Dollar: the one that will always have pride of place at the center of the big oak table where, these days, she eats her dinner alone.
The vase, as advertised, cost a dollar. At least she assumes it did; she wasn't the one who bought it.
She's weeded and mulched two thirds of the way down the tulip bed when she hears the familiar, throaty rumble of an old black Impala.
Good, she thinks. A case.
That guess is verified a minute later, when she rises to her feet to find Dean Winchester standing at the edge of her yard, wearing what he always describes as his Fed Suit. With luck, she thinks, whatever's gone wrong isn't happening nearby; after what's happened in this town over the past few years, the people of Sioux Falls deserve a break.
Smiling, Jody wipes her dirty hands on the hips of her jeans.
"If this is a bad idea," Dean says, rapid-fire. "Hell. It's probably a bad idea."
He looks embarrassed. Sheepish.
Sad.
Some distance behind him, out at the curb, Sam is standing alongside the Impala with two people Jody doesn't recognize: a tiny red-haired woman in a black-and-yellow mini dress, and an Asian boy who, like Sam and Dean, is wearing a suit.
"We," Dean says.
"Is everything all right?" Jody asks.
He drops his gaze. Spends a good long time studying the toes of his dress shoes.
"Dean," she presses.
He looks past her, at the house, the flower beds, the neighbors' houses, the sky. "Worst friggin' day in the world," he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
She remembers then: Dean lost his mother.
When he was about the same age as… as…
"You got any interest in going out to dinner?" he asks. "We thought - look. If it's a dumb idea, then that's okay. And, you know, we didn't -" Abruptly, he shakes off everything he was feeling. Straightens his shoulders inside the jacket of his off-the-rack Penney's suit. "That's Kevin," he says, nodding toward the car. "And Charlie."
His eyes explain: They've got no mom, either.
"We could all go get shitfaced," he says. "If that works better. I'm game. Either one."
He tries so hard, Jody thinks.
This man who'll feel all the cuts of his loss every day of his life.
Just as she will.
Smiling - because it's that, or stand in the middle of her yard and sob, alongside a row of brilliant yellow tulips - she lifts a hand to wave to Sam, and to the other two lost children who came here in an old black car.
"Of course," she says to Dean. "I'd love to go to dinner. Just give me a few minutes to change."
* * * * *
(Dedicated to my mom. I miss you, every day of my life.)
CHARACTERS: Jody Mills and Dean (with background Sam, Kevin, and Charlie)
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 741 words
SOMETIMES I FEEL LIKE A MOTHERLESS CHILD
By Carol Davis
Jody tried working, the first time this day rolled around, figuring that doing her job would occupy her mind - and that was true enough, until she noticed the glances, and the whispering.
The second year, she decided to take in a movie - but the mall was full of signs and banners.
CELEBRATE YOUR MOM!
Sure.
Celebrate…
"Remember the good times," her friends and co-workers tell her. "Take comfort in your memories," and she does. There are pictures of a small, laughing boy with wild hair and grass-stained clothes in her living room, the upstairs hall, her bedroom. During quiet moments she can hear his voice, feel the weight of him in her arms, or her lap, and that's its own particular kind of joy.
She attends baby showers and little-kid birthday parties when she's invited. Sometimes, they manage not to be torture.
But this day?
The day that no longer brings with it crumpled bouquets plucked from the flower beds in the yard, crayoned greetings on construction paper decorated with multicolored glitter, wet kisses and fervent hugs, a merrily chirped, "Mommy! I love you, Mom!"
This particular day, this particular Sunday that comes every spring, is a loss from beginning to end, so she's taken to spending it alone. If it's raining, she devotes herself to paperwork spread out on the dining room table. If the sun's out and the day is mild, she works outdoors, out back, where she isn't visible to the neighbors or to anyone driving by.
She's kept up the flower beds - gives them a portion of the loving attention that used to be distributed elsewhere - and every year she plucks enough blooms to fill a small, fluorescent purple vase from All-4-A-Dollar: the one that will always have pride of place at the center of the big oak table where, these days, she eats her dinner alone.
The vase, as advertised, cost a dollar. At least she assumes it did; she wasn't the one who bought it.
She's weeded and mulched two thirds of the way down the tulip bed when she hears the familiar, throaty rumble of an old black Impala.
Good, she thinks. A case.
That guess is verified a minute later, when she rises to her feet to find Dean Winchester standing at the edge of her yard, wearing what he always describes as his Fed Suit. With luck, she thinks, whatever's gone wrong isn't happening nearby; after what's happened in this town over the past few years, the people of Sioux Falls deserve a break.
Smiling, Jody wipes her dirty hands on the hips of her jeans.
"If this is a bad idea," Dean says, rapid-fire. "Hell. It's probably a bad idea."
He looks embarrassed. Sheepish.
Sad.
Some distance behind him, out at the curb, Sam is standing alongside the Impala with two people Jody doesn't recognize: a tiny red-haired woman in a black-and-yellow mini dress, and an Asian boy who, like Sam and Dean, is wearing a suit.
"We," Dean says.
"Is everything all right?" Jody asks.
He drops his gaze. Spends a good long time studying the toes of his dress shoes.
"Dean," she presses.
He looks past her, at the house, the flower beds, the neighbors' houses, the sky. "Worst friggin' day in the world," he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
She remembers then: Dean lost his mother.
When he was about the same age as… as…
"You got any interest in going out to dinner?" he asks. "We thought - look. If it's a dumb idea, then that's okay. And, you know, we didn't -" Abruptly, he shakes off everything he was feeling. Straightens his shoulders inside the jacket of his off-the-rack Penney's suit. "That's Kevin," he says, nodding toward the car. "And Charlie."
His eyes explain: They've got no mom, either.
"We could all go get shitfaced," he says. "If that works better. I'm game. Either one."
He tries so hard, Jody thinks.
This man who'll feel all the cuts of his loss every day of his life.
Just as she will.
Smiling - because it's that, or stand in the middle of her yard and sob, alongside a row of brilliant yellow tulips - she lifts a hand to wave to Sam, and to the other two lost children who came here in an old black car.
"Of course," she says to Dean. "I'd love to go to dinner. Just give me a few minutes to change."
* * * * *