SPN FIC - Hungry
At auntmo9's request: Continuing the Farm!Verse -- an AU verse, post closing-of-the-Hellgates, where Dean and Sam use their inheritance from Bobby to buy a small farm outside a tiny town in Iowa. This chapter follows Hoop, in which a retired judge gives Dean the chance to put his mad cooking skillz to work by giving him a job in the town's only diner -- and what better job could you ask for? It doesn't involve being bitten, or clawed, or thrown across a room. And, dude. There's PIE.
And baskets of fries, for a boy who doesn't know where else to go.
CHARACTERS: Dean, OMCs (Hoop and Jeremy)
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1400 words
HUNGRY
By Carol Davis
"Every day," Hoop says softly. "Just like clockwork."
And he nods, inclining that giant balding head of his toward what he likes to call the dining room, the part of the diner that contains the counter and the booths. Way down at the end of the counter, alongside the glass case that holds muffins and Danish, or cookies and slices of pie and cake, depending on the time of day, a redheaded kid sits slumped over a red plastic basket of fries, guarding them like a desperate, starving dog.
He's a little on the scrawny side, this kid, pale and freckled in a way that says he burns like a five-alarm fire after five or ten minutes in the sun. The hair and the freckles make him look like frigging Howdy Doody.
"He got a problem?" Dean asks, not much above a whisper.
Because he knows this kind of kid.
Knows the slouch that's really a cower, an attempt to hide, to make himself as small as possible, as close to invisibility as he can manage.
The clothes don't help: the off-brand sneakers, the stiff Walmart jeans, the ugly jacket, the t-shirt that's a little too tight and is faded from too many washings in a way that will never be cool, not on this planet or any other.
He might as well be wearing a sign that says Go ahead. Kick the shit out of me. It's not like that's never happened before.
"No," Hoop says.
The old man's hands work quickly, putting together a double order of meatloaf-and-mashed for Trudy Bennett to take home. Trudy's capable of making her own meatloaf, of course (Christ, Dean thinks; Sam can make a meatloaf), but these past few weeks, with her better half laid up until his hip mends, it's a treat for her to swing by the diner after work and bring home some supper that she didn't have to bother assembling and cooking.
Hoop's expression shifts, expands, contracts, practically playing a symphony as he fills a couple of clamshell foam boxes with food, taking care to add extra gravy to Billy Bennett's meal.
"After school," he murmurs. "About five minutes after the bus stops down by the bank. He stays until seven. Then he runs home like Lucifer himself is chasing him."
Dean's cheek twitches.
"And he's eating a basket of fries every day?" he asks, passing Hoop a handful of tiny ketchup packets.
Hoop shrugs, then turns to layer the clamshells in a plastic bag.
This isn't a place where people typically do very well: this town, the county, the whole damn state. Hell, most of the damn country. Around here, that little crease that forms between your eyebrows when you frown's pretty much the state flower. People do what they can, but that has a habit of falling short of the mark. They're Walmart shoppers. They worry about the price of gas and heating oil, whether they can make the mortgage.
And worry turns to some ugly shit.
Shouting. Throwing things. Hitting.
Bullying.
The kid doesn't make eye contact with anybody. He must have spoken to Hoop when he came in, at least long enough to order the fries - unless at this point it's a standing order and Hoop just hands them over.
That's possible, Dean supposes.
"You know who he is?" he asks when Hoop returns from handing Trudy Bennett her sackful of dinner.
"Name's Jeremy. That's all I got out of him."
The next question lingers unspoken for a minute as Dean watches the boy lift pairs of fries into his mouth. He's slouched so low over the basket that the lift is barely more than the width of his hand.
"He pay for those?" Dean asks, with Hoop in his peripheral vision.
Hoop doesn't answer him. Doesn't need to, really.
As he shreds lettuce for salads, Dean thinks about Truman High. About Sam pummeling the crap out of a big, mean kid named Dirk, elevating himself to the position of class hero and making a fool of the older kid. They found out later that Dirk had devotedly nursed his mother until she died. That he'd never been a bad kid before that.
That afterwards, he took up drinking, and drugs, and was dead before he hit eighteen.
There's a row of impressive, nearly-black bruises on Dean's back, running from his left shoulder down to his right hip; right below the left wing of his shoulder there's a trio of deep troughs that are just beginning to heal. Claw marks, and they burn like a mother when he showers. The demons might all be safely locked up Downstairs, but that doesn't mean there's nothing left up here that's ready and willing to take a bite out of a Winchester. It's been a tough week, with little sleep, much of it seized in the front seat of the Impala.
You'd think "normal" would be better than that.
But it's not.
A couple of furtive phone calls provide the answers Hoop didn't bother to scratch around for. The kid lost his folks when he was ten. Now lives with his mom's brother, a guy who puts in fourteen-hour days and never figured on becoming a dad. Doesn't figure he's any good at it, because the kid's obviously unhappy.
Doesn't know how in the hell to start changing that.
So the kid sits here in the diner every day, where it's warm and dry, and nobody harasses him. Times his departure so he'll arrive home when his uncle does, watches a little TV, then goes to bed. He's eleven now, though he looks older.
It's not a stretch to believe that someday he'll look for answers in all the wrong places.
That could be soon.
That could be way too freaking soon.
With a hundred anonymous schools and ten thousand anonymous kids very much in mind, Dean puts together one of his signature burgers and carries it down to the end of the counter. As he places it near the basket of fries - aware that he's got Jeremy's attention, though Jeremy hasn't lifted his head so much as an inch - he says quietly, "We got some chores here and there. Sweeping up. Those windows could stand a wash. Stuff like that. You game?"
"What for?" the boy mutters into what remains of his fries.
Dean didn't bother to secure Hoop's permission before he approached the boy to offer him work. Nominally, Hoop is his boss, the guy who hired him. He's just a grunt, an employee.
Lately, though, there's a lot of unspoken agreement between them.
When he glances back toward the kitchen, where Hoop is slicing tomatoes and onions, the old man smiles fleetingly, though he doesn't meet Dean's gaze. As far as anyone else is concerned, he's amused by his tomatoes.
Okay, then.
There is no "normal," Dean figures as he watches their dozen-odd customers cut into strip steak and chicken cutlets and hot turkey sandwiches, sip their coffee and Cokes and gaze out the diner's big, well-smudged windows at the setting sun. There is no "apple pie life." It's a myth, that placid, by-the-numbers existence that filled all the black-and-white TV sitcoms fifty years ago - even if you happen to live in a house with a genuine white picket fence. Even if you know how to make a meatloaf, and you've got a kitchen to make it in.
There's kindness, though.
And comfort.
There's an old man who stands three inches taller than Sam. A job that doesn't involve being bitten, or clawed, or thrown into a wall. The fragrant steam of fried chicken and baking pies, the amiable voices of the people who come in every day because the food's good, and the conversation's - possibly - even better.
Smiling distractedly, Dean glances again at Hoop, who used to be a judge. Hoop was good at that stuff, Dean figures - but he's better at this.
Feeding people.
Taking in strays.
Making it plain that this is a safe place, a place you'd want to be, if you can't figure out exactly where you belong in the world.
Hell, even if you can.
Rather than answer Jeremy's question, Dean slides the burger closer to the boy's right elbow, knowing Jeremy won't refuse it. Maybe, won't even consider refusing it. "Eat up," he says, and gives the boy a pat on the shoulder before he walks away.
* * * * *
And baskets of fries, for a boy who doesn't know where else to go.
CHARACTERS: Dean, OMCs (Hoop and Jeremy)
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1400 words
HUNGRY
By Carol Davis
"Every day," Hoop says softly. "Just like clockwork."
And he nods, inclining that giant balding head of his toward what he likes to call the dining room, the part of the diner that contains the counter and the booths. Way down at the end of the counter, alongside the glass case that holds muffins and Danish, or cookies and slices of pie and cake, depending on the time of day, a redheaded kid sits slumped over a red plastic basket of fries, guarding them like a desperate, starving dog.
He's a little on the scrawny side, this kid, pale and freckled in a way that says he burns like a five-alarm fire after five or ten minutes in the sun. The hair and the freckles make him look like frigging Howdy Doody.
"He got a problem?" Dean asks, not much above a whisper.
Because he knows this kind of kid.
Knows the slouch that's really a cower, an attempt to hide, to make himself as small as possible, as close to invisibility as he can manage.
The clothes don't help: the off-brand sneakers, the stiff Walmart jeans, the ugly jacket, the t-shirt that's a little too tight and is faded from too many washings in a way that will never be cool, not on this planet or any other.
He might as well be wearing a sign that says Go ahead. Kick the shit out of me. It's not like that's never happened before.
"No," Hoop says.
The old man's hands work quickly, putting together a double order of meatloaf-and-mashed for Trudy Bennett to take home. Trudy's capable of making her own meatloaf, of course (Christ, Dean thinks; Sam can make a meatloaf), but these past few weeks, with her better half laid up until his hip mends, it's a treat for her to swing by the diner after work and bring home some supper that she didn't have to bother assembling and cooking.
Hoop's expression shifts, expands, contracts, practically playing a symphony as he fills a couple of clamshell foam boxes with food, taking care to add extra gravy to Billy Bennett's meal.
"After school," he murmurs. "About five minutes after the bus stops down by the bank. He stays until seven. Then he runs home like Lucifer himself is chasing him."
Dean's cheek twitches.
"And he's eating a basket of fries every day?" he asks, passing Hoop a handful of tiny ketchup packets.
Hoop shrugs, then turns to layer the clamshells in a plastic bag.
This isn't a place where people typically do very well: this town, the county, the whole damn state. Hell, most of the damn country. Around here, that little crease that forms between your eyebrows when you frown's pretty much the state flower. People do what they can, but that has a habit of falling short of the mark. They're Walmart shoppers. They worry about the price of gas and heating oil, whether they can make the mortgage.
And worry turns to some ugly shit.
Shouting. Throwing things. Hitting.
Bullying.
The kid doesn't make eye contact with anybody. He must have spoken to Hoop when he came in, at least long enough to order the fries - unless at this point it's a standing order and Hoop just hands them over.
That's possible, Dean supposes.
"You know who he is?" he asks when Hoop returns from handing Trudy Bennett her sackful of dinner.
"Name's Jeremy. That's all I got out of him."
The next question lingers unspoken for a minute as Dean watches the boy lift pairs of fries into his mouth. He's slouched so low over the basket that the lift is barely more than the width of his hand.
"He pay for those?" Dean asks, with Hoop in his peripheral vision.
Hoop doesn't answer him. Doesn't need to, really.
As he shreds lettuce for salads, Dean thinks about Truman High. About Sam pummeling the crap out of a big, mean kid named Dirk, elevating himself to the position of class hero and making a fool of the older kid. They found out later that Dirk had devotedly nursed his mother until she died. That he'd never been a bad kid before that.
That afterwards, he took up drinking, and drugs, and was dead before he hit eighteen.
There's a row of impressive, nearly-black bruises on Dean's back, running from his left shoulder down to his right hip; right below the left wing of his shoulder there's a trio of deep troughs that are just beginning to heal. Claw marks, and they burn like a mother when he showers. The demons might all be safely locked up Downstairs, but that doesn't mean there's nothing left up here that's ready and willing to take a bite out of a Winchester. It's been a tough week, with little sleep, much of it seized in the front seat of the Impala.
You'd think "normal" would be better than that.
But it's not.
A couple of furtive phone calls provide the answers Hoop didn't bother to scratch around for. The kid lost his folks when he was ten. Now lives with his mom's brother, a guy who puts in fourteen-hour days and never figured on becoming a dad. Doesn't figure he's any good at it, because the kid's obviously unhappy.
Doesn't know how in the hell to start changing that.
So the kid sits here in the diner every day, where it's warm and dry, and nobody harasses him. Times his departure so he'll arrive home when his uncle does, watches a little TV, then goes to bed. He's eleven now, though he looks older.
It's not a stretch to believe that someday he'll look for answers in all the wrong places.
That could be soon.
That could be way too freaking soon.
With a hundred anonymous schools and ten thousand anonymous kids very much in mind, Dean puts together one of his signature burgers and carries it down to the end of the counter. As he places it near the basket of fries - aware that he's got Jeremy's attention, though Jeremy hasn't lifted his head so much as an inch - he says quietly, "We got some chores here and there. Sweeping up. Those windows could stand a wash. Stuff like that. You game?"
"What for?" the boy mutters into what remains of his fries.
Dean didn't bother to secure Hoop's permission before he approached the boy to offer him work. Nominally, Hoop is his boss, the guy who hired him. He's just a grunt, an employee.
Lately, though, there's a lot of unspoken agreement between them.
When he glances back toward the kitchen, where Hoop is slicing tomatoes and onions, the old man smiles fleetingly, though he doesn't meet Dean's gaze. As far as anyone else is concerned, he's amused by his tomatoes.
Okay, then.
There is no "normal," Dean figures as he watches their dozen-odd customers cut into strip steak and chicken cutlets and hot turkey sandwiches, sip their coffee and Cokes and gaze out the diner's big, well-smudged windows at the setting sun. There is no "apple pie life." It's a myth, that placid, by-the-numbers existence that filled all the black-and-white TV sitcoms fifty years ago - even if you happen to live in a house with a genuine white picket fence. Even if you know how to make a meatloaf, and you've got a kitchen to make it in.
There's kindness, though.
And comfort.
There's an old man who stands three inches taller than Sam. A job that doesn't involve being bitten, or clawed, or thrown into a wall. The fragrant steam of fried chicken and baking pies, the amiable voices of the people who come in every day because the food's good, and the conversation's - possibly - even better.
Smiling distractedly, Dean glances again at Hoop, who used to be a judge. Hoop was good at that stuff, Dean figures - but he's better at this.
Feeding people.
Taking in strays.
Making it plain that this is a safe place, a place you'd want to be, if you can't figure out exactly where you belong in the world.
Hell, even if you can.
Rather than answer Jeremy's question, Dean slides the burger closer to the boy's right elbow, knowing Jeremy won't refuse it. Maybe, won't even consider refusing it. "Eat up," he says, and gives the boy a pat on the shoulder before he walks away.
* * * * *