I wonder as I wander (genfic, 1555 words, pg)
yuletide = finished! And now I am back to writing as much SPN as humanly possible. But first, it seems appropriate that we begin with the only Christmas fic I've written in this fandom. It was originally written for spnflashfic but it's about time I brought it over here because I kind of like it, Kripke'd as it is.
I wonder as I wander
(genfic, 1555 words, pg, implied rentboy!Dean)
Title from the carol and this was so not what I intended to write.
The compass is a small, smooth silver thing. It has a pleasing weight in John's palm.
Distractedly, he crumples the flimsy, garish Christmas paper he's torn from it in one hand, eyes still fixed on the compass. It glistens, the metal appearing almost wet in the hazy glow of the fairy lights that his boys have roped haphazardly over the potted palm that serves as a Christmas tree.
Finally, he looks up at Sam and Dean. They're both breathless with nervous anticipation of his response. Dean's biting down on his lip and Sam's dark eyes are so big they're in danger of swallowing up his chubby little face.
His face cracks into a smile and he sweeps both boys up against his chest, Dean's bony elbows digging into him and Sam squeaking with surprise. They both cling onto him though, all discomfort set aside in favour of clinging onto their father.
"Boys! This is…"
His voice is a whisper, lost in the dark curls of Sammy's hair. He thinks he feels Dean's fingers flex against him as he knots his hand a little tighter in John's shirt. John just breathes the warm, sweet smell of his sons in. The Christmas ornaments on the palm spin lazily in the flickering light and in the background, there's a Christmas special playing out on television.
:::
John looks at the compass the next morning. It looks colder, sharper somehow, in the clear light of day. It glints wickedly and John turns it over and over in his hand. It doesn't grow any warmer.
Through the doorway into the lounge, John can see Sam sprawled out on the sofa, making the most of not having to share the cushions, and watching cartoons. He looks up as John comes into the room and beams at him, cherubic with joy. His eyes are red-rimmed and John wonders if he bothered going to bed last night.
"Dean's still out jogging. He says he'll make pancakes when he gets home. Christmas ones."
John quirks an eyebrow at that but knows not to question his boys' ingenuity, especially not Dean's when it comes to food. If he says they'll be Christmas pancakes, then that's what they'll be.
He sits on the sofa beside Sam and is instantly rewarded with a lapful of warm eleven-year old. Sam's a little old for this kind of clinginess but Dean's always letting it pass and it is Christmas so John just wraps an arm about him, hauls him closer and makes the most of it.
They watch cartoons for a while, Sammy changing channel whenever he gets bored - which is pretty often - and John tries to figure out a line of questioning.
"That's one hell of a compass you boys got me," he says at last.
Sam looks up at him with a huge grin and John feels like an ass for working his son like this.
"You like it? I picked it."
"You've got fine taste, Sammy. I hope it wasn't expensive though, don't wanna take it out on hunts if I'm gonna break it."
A frown settles on Sam's face, like this hadn't occurred to him. Then he brightens up again and shrugs. He goes back to watching his cartoons.
"I dunno. Dean paid for it."
John's stomach tightens in response to some vague warning siren only he can hear in his youngest's words. He looks about the room and sees things that weren't there before his last hunt. The Christmas decorations on the palm aren't the cracked baubles they had last year. There's a fleece jacket hanging over the back of one of the chairs that John doesn't remember buying for Sam.
It's not just subtlety that makes John leave it a while before he pushes for more information. His heart's all clenched up. He doesn't know what he's scared of, only that he's floundering here.
"So, Dean must have got himself a part-time job to pay for that. He's not skipping his studying, is he, Sammy?"
A look of careful thought crosses Sam's face. John can see it in the sudden stillness of his profile. His boys aren't stupid, either of them. Sam thinks it through before answering.
"He's been doing dishes at that Italian place, near the garage. He made me promise not to tell you. But he's still doing his homework, Dad! Every night when he gets home! He said it wasn't right to expect you to pay for everything now he was old enough to help. Don't be mad at him!"
John ruffles Sam's hair and gives him a smile when Sam cranes his neck round to see how John's taken it. His face relaxes a bit when John doesn't seem inclined to get angry about it.
"I'm not mad," says John. And he's not. He's still just full of that strange sense of dread. Call it the sixth sense all loving parents possess but he's still scared.
:::
While Dean makes Christmas pancakes, John sits in the kitchen and takes the chance to study him. At this age, going on a hunt for even a few weeks makes a difference. He comes back and his boys are changed yet again. Blink and you'll miss it.
Dean's growing up faster than John expected. It's as much about the way he holds himself as it is the golden stubble that dusts his jaw or the definition of muscles out of supple youth. Dean looks up from pouring syrup over Sam's pancake and grins at him. John takes in the soft, dark eyes and the fair complexion, the dark blond hair and the high arch of lips, and thinks of Mary.
Mary would know what to do now. Or, more likely, there'd be nothing to do if Mary were here. John can settle spirits and exorcise demons but he's lost when it comes to raising his boys.
:::
A few days after Christmas, Dean slips out again. He tells John he's going off to meet some friends but when John gently pries at Sam, Sam can't name even one friend of Dean's. So there's nothing to do but follow him.
He waits in the Impala, beneath the shadows. He leans forward in his seat, doesn't know what he expects to see, only that it's making his palms sweat and slip on the steering wheel. The compass is an uncomfortable shape in his pocket.
Dean's been waiting outside the bar across the street for a few minutes now. He doesn't check his watch or fidget, but he's leant up against the wall and his arms are wrapped about himself. Stupid kid only has a light jacket on and there are flakes of snow in the air. If he catches a chill, John'll make him work out all the way through it to make sure he never forgets to dress according to the weather.
He's just beginning to think that whichever friend Dean's waiting for is a jerk for keeping him waiting in the cold and that the best thing to do would be to go over there and haul Dean's ass back home when a car pulls up alongside the bar and Dean crosses over to it.
He leans up against the window for a second in a way that makes John's stomach give another of those uneasy jumps then climbs into the car. As the car rolls past, John catches sight of the driver. The man's middle-aged and his face is shining with sweat and before John even knows it, he's got the Impala started up and is roaring down the road behind them.
:::
A red haze is a poetic turn of phrase for some and a bloody reality for others. John's crazy enough for it to be oh-so-literal for him.
Afterwards, when they're back at the house and John's listening to Dean trying to muffle his sobs in his pillow, he doesn't remember much of it.
He remembers shaking with rage. He remembers the squeal of brakes as he ran the other car off the road. He remembers Dean scrambling out - his hands raised in soothing submission but the button on the fly of his jeans still popped open. He thinks he remembers the man, some desk-jockey with a beer gut, stuttering out apologies, holding a handful of bills towards him.
Now there's blood on his hands from knuckles scraped raw. The potted palm is lying on its side, the soil mingling with the scattered Christmas ornaments that sparkle under the flickering light from the string of fairy lights. John watches the red flash on and off and thinks of ambulances and bloodied flesh.
Lying amongst the ornaments at his feet is the compass. There's a wet red streak across its cracked glass face.
There's a second when he almost remembers Dean's expression as John crushed the compass underfoot. The open hurt on his face had made John want to take him by the shoulders and shake him, to explain that nothing, no compass, no Christmas present is worth that. But he'd spent too long replacing grief with anger and the words were gone.
John reaches down and the sprinkled glass crunches as he fumbles for the compass. He holds it in his palm and watches the arrow spin about. He's never felt more lost in all his life.
~end
I wonder as I wander
(genfic, 1555 words, pg, implied rentboy!Dean)
Title from the carol and this was so not what I intended to write.
The compass is a small, smooth silver thing. It has a pleasing weight in John's palm.
Distractedly, he crumples the flimsy, garish Christmas paper he's torn from it in one hand, eyes still fixed on the compass. It glistens, the metal appearing almost wet in the hazy glow of the fairy lights that his boys have roped haphazardly over the potted palm that serves as a Christmas tree.
Finally, he looks up at Sam and Dean. They're both breathless with nervous anticipation of his response. Dean's biting down on his lip and Sam's dark eyes are so big they're in danger of swallowing up his chubby little face.
His face cracks into a smile and he sweeps both boys up against his chest, Dean's bony elbows digging into him and Sam squeaking with surprise. They both cling onto him though, all discomfort set aside in favour of clinging onto their father.
"Boys! This is…"
His voice is a whisper, lost in the dark curls of Sammy's hair. He thinks he feels Dean's fingers flex against him as he knots his hand a little tighter in John's shirt. John just breathes the warm, sweet smell of his sons in. The Christmas ornaments on the palm spin lazily in the flickering light and in the background, there's a Christmas special playing out on television.
:::
John looks at the compass the next morning. It looks colder, sharper somehow, in the clear light of day. It glints wickedly and John turns it over and over in his hand. It doesn't grow any warmer.
Through the doorway into the lounge, John can see Sam sprawled out on the sofa, making the most of not having to share the cushions, and watching cartoons. He looks up as John comes into the room and beams at him, cherubic with joy. His eyes are red-rimmed and John wonders if he bothered going to bed last night.
"Dean's still out jogging. He says he'll make pancakes when he gets home. Christmas ones."
John quirks an eyebrow at that but knows not to question his boys' ingenuity, especially not Dean's when it comes to food. If he says they'll be Christmas pancakes, then that's what they'll be.
He sits on the sofa beside Sam and is instantly rewarded with a lapful of warm eleven-year old. Sam's a little old for this kind of clinginess but Dean's always letting it pass and it is Christmas so John just wraps an arm about him, hauls him closer and makes the most of it.
They watch cartoons for a while, Sammy changing channel whenever he gets bored - which is pretty often - and John tries to figure out a line of questioning.
"That's one hell of a compass you boys got me," he says at last.
Sam looks up at him with a huge grin and John feels like an ass for working his son like this.
"You like it? I picked it."
"You've got fine taste, Sammy. I hope it wasn't expensive though, don't wanna take it out on hunts if I'm gonna break it."
A frown settles on Sam's face, like this hadn't occurred to him. Then he brightens up again and shrugs. He goes back to watching his cartoons.
"I dunno. Dean paid for it."
John's stomach tightens in response to some vague warning siren only he can hear in his youngest's words. He looks about the room and sees things that weren't there before his last hunt. The Christmas decorations on the palm aren't the cracked baubles they had last year. There's a fleece jacket hanging over the back of one of the chairs that John doesn't remember buying for Sam.
It's not just subtlety that makes John leave it a while before he pushes for more information. His heart's all clenched up. He doesn't know what he's scared of, only that he's floundering here.
"So, Dean must have got himself a part-time job to pay for that. He's not skipping his studying, is he, Sammy?"
A look of careful thought crosses Sam's face. John can see it in the sudden stillness of his profile. His boys aren't stupid, either of them. Sam thinks it through before answering.
"He's been doing dishes at that Italian place, near the garage. He made me promise not to tell you. But he's still doing his homework, Dad! Every night when he gets home! He said it wasn't right to expect you to pay for everything now he was old enough to help. Don't be mad at him!"
John ruffles Sam's hair and gives him a smile when Sam cranes his neck round to see how John's taken it. His face relaxes a bit when John doesn't seem inclined to get angry about it.
"I'm not mad," says John. And he's not. He's still just full of that strange sense of dread. Call it the sixth sense all loving parents possess but he's still scared.
:::
While Dean makes Christmas pancakes, John sits in the kitchen and takes the chance to study him. At this age, going on a hunt for even a few weeks makes a difference. He comes back and his boys are changed yet again. Blink and you'll miss it.
Dean's growing up faster than John expected. It's as much about the way he holds himself as it is the golden stubble that dusts his jaw or the definition of muscles out of supple youth. Dean looks up from pouring syrup over Sam's pancake and grins at him. John takes in the soft, dark eyes and the fair complexion, the dark blond hair and the high arch of lips, and thinks of Mary.
Mary would know what to do now. Or, more likely, there'd be nothing to do if Mary were here. John can settle spirits and exorcise demons but he's lost when it comes to raising his boys.
:::
A few days after Christmas, Dean slips out again. He tells John he's going off to meet some friends but when John gently pries at Sam, Sam can't name even one friend of Dean's. So there's nothing to do but follow him.
He waits in the Impala, beneath the shadows. He leans forward in his seat, doesn't know what he expects to see, only that it's making his palms sweat and slip on the steering wheel. The compass is an uncomfortable shape in his pocket.
Dean's been waiting outside the bar across the street for a few minutes now. He doesn't check his watch or fidget, but he's leant up against the wall and his arms are wrapped about himself. Stupid kid only has a light jacket on and there are flakes of snow in the air. If he catches a chill, John'll make him work out all the way through it to make sure he never forgets to dress according to the weather.
He's just beginning to think that whichever friend Dean's waiting for is a jerk for keeping him waiting in the cold and that the best thing to do would be to go over there and haul Dean's ass back home when a car pulls up alongside the bar and Dean crosses over to it.
He leans up against the window for a second in a way that makes John's stomach give another of those uneasy jumps then climbs into the car. As the car rolls past, John catches sight of the driver. The man's middle-aged and his face is shining with sweat and before John even knows it, he's got the Impala started up and is roaring down the road behind them.
:::
A red haze is a poetic turn of phrase for some and a bloody reality for others. John's crazy enough for it to be oh-so-literal for him.
Afterwards, when they're back at the house and John's listening to Dean trying to muffle his sobs in his pillow, he doesn't remember much of it.
He remembers shaking with rage. He remembers the squeal of brakes as he ran the other car off the road. He remembers Dean scrambling out - his hands raised in soothing submission but the button on the fly of his jeans still popped open. He thinks he remembers the man, some desk-jockey with a beer gut, stuttering out apologies, holding a handful of bills towards him.
Now there's blood on his hands from knuckles scraped raw. The potted palm is lying on its side, the soil mingling with the scattered Christmas ornaments that sparkle under the flickering light from the string of fairy lights. John watches the red flash on and off and thinks of ambulances and bloodied flesh.
Lying amongst the ornaments at his feet is the compass. There's a wet red streak across its cracked glass face.
There's a second when he almost remembers Dean's expression as John crushed the compass underfoot. The open hurt on his face had made John want to take him by the shoulders and shake him, to explain that nothing, no compass, no Christmas present is worth that. But he'd spent too long replacing grief with anger and the words were gone.
John reaches down and the sprinkled glass crunches as he fumbles for the compass. He holds it in his palm and watches the arrow spin about. He's never felt more lost in all his life.
~end