Better late crack than no crack at all, say I.
It was a bitch of a week. And next week's gonna be bitchier. And I could grumble about some stuff, both fiction-related and RL-related, but I will refrain. You can thank me later. *deep sigh* I distracted myself with Little!Dean, who, as it happens, was almost Jossed K'ed, but not quite. Whew. I'd like to finish this here soon, so expect more of this one presently and the angst-o-rama...as soon as I can. *kicks complicated plot* So. As always, hope you enjoy.
Under a Haystack
by Emily Brunson
(c)2006
7. The queen was in the parlor eating bread and honey
In the morning, bleary-eyed and exiled to the yard while Missouri talks with a client, Sam sips coffee and watches Dean engaged in trying to teach Duchess how to play dead on command - complete with many laughing demonstrations, flinging himself on the ground over and over again. Duchess isn’t going to learn it, Sam can see that much, but dog and boy are both having so much fun he keeps it to himself. There’s been little fun in Dean’s life so far.
He knows, now, that he came here to leave Dean, safe in capable and hopefully willing hands. Shuck this burden, console himself with the knowledge that alone, he could travel faster, get more done. Figure it all out without having to deal with a little boy’s presence.
But something’s changed, something so deeply buried that to seek it out is to reach into his own soul, and he could no more abandon this Dean now than he could rip out his own beating heart. So he laughs at the sound of Dean’s gleeful giggles, and finishes his cup of coffee and sets it on the step and calls, “Hey, Dean. Since Missouri’s got company, wanna go to the park?”
“Yeah!” Dean leaps up, revealing grass-stained elbows and knees.
It’s just a respite, but it’s welcome, strolling down the street with Dean perched on his shoulders, the dog dancing and barking as she gazes up at the boy Sam carries. They have to hit the road, probably later today, but Sam has always loved the little flashes of normal in his life, the things that feel so odd because they’re what everyone else takes for granted, and he indulges himself and Dean, too, sets him on the thick grass at the park and watches him tear away, heading for the enticement of swings and jungle gyms.
After a moment of watching, he sits on a bench and smiles at the woman at the other end. “Nice day,” Sam says.
She nods and smiles back. “I wish I could bottle up that energy,” she remarks, shading her eyes to look at the playground where Dean and a handful of other children are hurtling around. “Better than coffee.”
“Way better.” Sam laughs. “That would be awesome.”
“Which one’s yours?”
Sam says, “The one on the slide. That’s Dean.”
“My daughter’s on the swing set. In purple.”
He looks at the pretty little girl, nods.
“I haven’t seen you and your son here before, have I?”
Sam feels his smile slipping. “He’s not my son. My brother.”
“Oh.” She nods sagely.
“We’re just visiting.”
“How do you like Lawrence?” she asks, bright with neighborly interest, and Sam feels it like a shadow over the sun.
“It’s a nice town,” Sam says carefully, turning to watch Dean in inaudible lively conversation with another boy near the slide.
The little girl trots over, and her mother stands, hands on the girl’s shoulders. “Enjoy your day,” she says warmly, as if she really means it, and Sam nods jerkily and replies, “You, too.”
Dean has his hands on his hips, and Sam sees the other boy reach out and push him, and there is no sun, only clouds while Sam stands up and thinks he’d better go check. He’s not close enough to stop it, just near enough to see Dean’s hot, angry expression, lips thinning dangerously, and Sam draws breath and yells Dean’s name at the same time Dean makes a fist and punches the other child right in the nose.
“Oh, shit,” Sam groans, and breaks into a run.
Then it’s a flurry of separating the two struggling boys, the other kid bigger than Dean but in no way equipped to take on a child who started hand-to-hand combat training before he started kindergarten. The other boy’s nose is gushing blood, much like Sam’s first introduction to Dean himself. Dean is a spitting struggling demon in Sam’s arms, cursing a blue streak, and Sam faces the other boy’s dad and feels his heart sinking even further.
“What kind of kid are you raising?” the red-faced man thunders, scooping up his own now-wailing child. “He’s a goddamn wild animal!”
“It was my turn, asshole!” Dean cries, twisting in Sam’s arms to shoot a lethal glare at the man and boy both. “Fuck you!”
“DEAN!” Sam turns away from the blustering father and shakes Dean a little in his arms. “You can’t just hit people because they piss you off! No hitting, understand?”
“He’s a DICK, and -“
“I’m really sorry,” Sam says over Dean’s head, looking over at the other guy. “He’s - going through some stress, and -“
“I don’t give a shit about his fucking stress,” the father says. “I think he broke Zeke’s nose!”
“Serves him right!” Dean spits, and grins triumphantly.
“Okay, ENOUGH.” Sam stares right into Dean’s sparking eyes. “Enough, Dean, not another damn WORD. Stop it.”
Dean opens his mouth and Sam gives a single shake of his head. “I mean it.”
“You’re gonna pay for his doctor’s bill!” the father shouts. His face is so red he looks like a guy on the threshold of a heart attack, and Sam thinks maybe it’s way past time to hit the road again. The other child has already stopped crying, and Sam can see the nose isn’t broken, just bloodied.
Sam steps a few feet away, and looks at Dean.
“Didn’t do nothing wrong,” Dean says sullenly.
“Yes, you did, Dean.”
“Did not! He pushed me! Dad says -“
“Yeah, I’ve heard that speech, too.” Sam nods grimly. “Somebody pushes you, you give them back plus. But Dean, fighting isn’t always the answer. Sometimes you have to give a little ground. Did he really cut in front of you?”
“He was gonna.”
“But did he?”
Dean’s silent, and Sam nods again. “So he just made you mad, and you hit him.”
“Dickwad.”
“And that’s another thing.” Sam waits until Dean reluctantly meets his eyes. “You need to stop cussing so much. It’s rude, Dean, and I know you learned it from Dad, but even Dad would agree with me here. You cuss like that in front of him?”
Dean’s lower lip sticks out, stubborn. “You’re not him.”
“You don’t, do you? Because you know what would happen. He’s whale the tar out of you. Wouldn’t he?”
Dean looks away.
“Okay. We’re gonna go back over there, and you’re gonna apologize to that kid.”
“No WAY! He’s -“
“It’s what normal people DO, Dean!” and Dean gapes at him like Sam’s just screamed it in Icelandic. “Okay? Just DO it, and let’s get the hell out of here.”
It works out better than it might have. Dean apologizes, although Sam and everyone else with eyes and ears knows he means it about as sincerely as a diehard Dodgers fan saying he doesn’t mind losing the pennant, and the other kid is already pulling at his dad’s arms and saying he wants to go swing, and Red-Faced Dad reluctantly nods and mutters, “Boys do shit like that, don’t worry about it.”
Sam walks away with Dean stalking silently at his side, and thinks, What do I do now? Punish him? Try to reason with him? The guy’s right, Dean isn’t like other little kids, not even close, and do I try to make him like those kids? Or just say, This is Dean?
He’s nowhere near an answer when they get back to Missouri’s house, and Dean disappears into his room without a word. Sam sighs and wishes for a magic wand.
~~~~~~~~~~
He packs and thanks Missouri for her hospitality, smiles dutifully when she pats his cheek.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” she asks. There’s only placid calm in her expression, no censure, but Sam fidgets anyway.
“It’s not -“ he starts, and pauses. “More like I can’t believe you,” he says. “Can’t afford to.”
Missouri nods. “That’s all right.”
“Dean -- We’re going back to Texas. I have to know, you know? See for myself.”
She nods again, doesn’t say anything, and he wonders what’s hidden behind her dark gentle eyes. But he doesn’t ask. Just kisses her cheek awkwardly and goes to find Dean.
Dean is listlessly flipping through a book, relic of the long-ago daughter who called this room home, and Sam makes a face thinking about the books he’s bought and not even taken out of the sack yet. There are brightly colored pictures in this one, and Sam wonders if Dean gets the gist of the story from those, or if he misses too much not having the words.
“Ready?” he asks, but Dean doesn’t look up. His mouth is a straight line, lips pressed resolutely together.
“We could stay here.”
Sam shakes his head. “This isn’t our home, Dean. We’re guests, and we can’t impose any longer. Besides, we have stuff to do.”
Still staring at the picture - some kind of pink too-fluffy animal, Sam can’t tell which - Dean says, “Does this mean we’re not on vacation any more?”
“Vacation?”
“Because I don’t have to practice.” Dean regards him soberly. “Dad keeps saying we’re gonna go on vacation, but we never do. But then you said I didn’t got to practice, and so that’s what this is.”
“I guess you’re sorta right.” Sam smiles tiredly, touches Dean’s hair. “We kinda needed to take a break, didn’t we?”
“Am I ever gonna see Daddy again?”
Sam’s throat clamps down tight, and he looks away. “Dean -“
“I’m not, am I?” Dean’s mouth tightens even more, and he flings the book away. “You lied all the time. Liar.”
Sam reaches down to pick up the book, smoothing its ruffled pages absently. “Dad’s older now, just like you were,” he says slowly. “He doesn’t know what happened to you. We have to take it slow, Dean, see if we can fix it first. Okay?”
Dean doesn’t nod, but he doesn’t resist when Sam raises his eyebrows and says, “Come on, let’s say goodbye to Miss Missouri.”
Dean gives Missouri a dutiful hug in the living room, and casts a sad look at the back screen door, where Duchess is making high whining noises. “You come see us anytime,” Missouri tells Dean, hunkering down so she can look him in the eye. “Me and Duchess’ll be waiting.”
Dean nods.
~~~~~~~~~
Dean is quiet while they drive. Sam’s attempts at conversation are met with monosyllables when Dean bothers to reply at all, and after a while he thinks maybe he should stop trying. Give Dean some space. There’s a funny look in Dean’s eye now: Sam can’t say what it is, but it makes him feel helplessly uneasy all over again, and he wonders just exactly when he’ll get the hang of the parent thing. Because this morning was a disaster, and last week was a nightmare, and he’s pretty damn sure he’s not making this kid’s life any better than the first kid’s was, and maybe worse.
They stop at a gas station just off the interstate at about seven, and Sam watches the glorious red-and-orange sunset while he pumps gas, thinks about how if he and Dean are going to drive all over creation much longer they really should buy a hybrid vehicle, ditch this gas-guzzling relic. Can’t afford it, and hybrids ease Sam’s environmental conscience a little. Only the idea of Dean behind the wheel of a Prius or something is like picturing him in a tutu: it just doesn’t fit, jars him like crazy, and he grins and shakes his head and screws the gas cap back on when he’s done.
When he comes back out after paying the attendant, Dean isn’t in the car.
“Dean?” Sam shades his eyes, squinting at the brilliant glow off the western horizon. “Hey!”
There isn’t a reply. Checks the restrooms, but aside from bits of toilet paper and a ton of disgusting grime, there’s no one there.
The attendant frowns at him when he goes back inside, asks if he’s seen a little boy wandering around. “Nope, no kids, ‘cept that one.” He points to a bigger boy visible through the window, hands in his pockets while a man who has to be his dad fuels a Suburban. That kid is thirteen or fourteen, easy. If the black glossy hair wasn’t an instant message all its own.
Sam looks back at the attendant. “He’s wearing a red tee-shirt,” he says hoarsely. “Seven years old. Jeans, and sneakers.”
The man shakes his head and scratches his nose with one grimy fingers. “Didn’t see him when you come in, either.”
“Damn it,” Sam whispers. “He was right there!”
“Sorry.”
This time he makes a closer circuit, goes around back, and scans the interiors of the three other vehicles at the station on his way back. Luggage, unfolded maps, discarded convenience-food wrappers, and another kid - this one about three, and fast asleep - but no blond boy, no red shirt, no nothing, and Sam’s breathing too fast now, his heart thumping in his chest. He stops by the Impala, places his hand on the hot hood and sees his fingers shaking like palsy.
Two possibilities. Someone took him. Someone grabbed him out of the car while Sam was inside, leaving him alone.
Or no one took him, and Dean split.
Sam tries to swallow, but there’s nothing but his stone-dry tongue, mouth making little smacking noises when he pries his lips apart. “Dean?” he calls, and the sound of his own terrified voice makes his guts feel as if they’ve come loose, shivering inside his body. “Dean!”
A couple walking back to their big shiny Expedition give him curious looks, a little concerned, but that’s all.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Under a Haystack
by Emily Brunson
(c)2006
7. The queen was in the parlor eating bread and honey
In the morning, bleary-eyed and exiled to the yard while Missouri talks with a client, Sam sips coffee and watches Dean engaged in trying to teach Duchess how to play dead on command - complete with many laughing demonstrations, flinging himself on the ground over and over again. Duchess isn’t going to learn it, Sam can see that much, but dog and boy are both having so much fun he keeps it to himself. There’s been little fun in Dean’s life so far.
He knows, now, that he came here to leave Dean, safe in capable and hopefully willing hands. Shuck this burden, console himself with the knowledge that alone, he could travel faster, get more done. Figure it all out without having to deal with a little boy’s presence.
But something’s changed, something so deeply buried that to seek it out is to reach into his own soul, and he could no more abandon this Dean now than he could rip out his own beating heart. So he laughs at the sound of Dean’s gleeful giggles, and finishes his cup of coffee and sets it on the step and calls, “Hey, Dean. Since Missouri’s got company, wanna go to the park?”
“Yeah!” Dean leaps up, revealing grass-stained elbows and knees.
It’s just a respite, but it’s welcome, strolling down the street with Dean perched on his shoulders, the dog dancing and barking as she gazes up at the boy Sam carries. They have to hit the road, probably later today, but Sam has always loved the little flashes of normal in his life, the things that feel so odd because they’re what everyone else takes for granted, and he indulges himself and Dean, too, sets him on the thick grass at the park and watches him tear away, heading for the enticement of swings and jungle gyms.
After a moment of watching, he sits on a bench and smiles at the woman at the other end. “Nice day,” Sam says.
She nods and smiles back. “I wish I could bottle up that energy,” she remarks, shading her eyes to look at the playground where Dean and a handful of other children are hurtling around. “Better than coffee.”
“Way better.” Sam laughs. “That would be awesome.”
“Which one’s yours?”
Sam says, “The one on the slide. That’s Dean.”
“My daughter’s on the swing set. In purple.”
He looks at the pretty little girl, nods.
“I haven’t seen you and your son here before, have I?”
Sam feels his smile slipping. “He’s not my son. My brother.”
“Oh.” She nods sagely.
“We’re just visiting.”
“How do you like Lawrence?” she asks, bright with neighborly interest, and Sam feels it like a shadow over the sun.
“It’s a nice town,” Sam says carefully, turning to watch Dean in inaudible lively conversation with another boy near the slide.
The little girl trots over, and her mother stands, hands on the girl’s shoulders. “Enjoy your day,” she says warmly, as if she really means it, and Sam nods jerkily and replies, “You, too.”
Dean has his hands on his hips, and Sam sees the other boy reach out and push him, and there is no sun, only clouds while Sam stands up and thinks he’d better go check. He’s not close enough to stop it, just near enough to see Dean’s hot, angry expression, lips thinning dangerously, and Sam draws breath and yells Dean’s name at the same time Dean makes a fist and punches the other child right in the nose.
“Oh, shit,” Sam groans, and breaks into a run.
Then it’s a flurry of separating the two struggling boys, the other kid bigger than Dean but in no way equipped to take on a child who started hand-to-hand combat training before he started kindergarten. The other boy’s nose is gushing blood, much like Sam’s first introduction to Dean himself. Dean is a spitting struggling demon in Sam’s arms, cursing a blue streak, and Sam faces the other boy’s dad and feels his heart sinking even further.
“What kind of kid are you raising?” the red-faced man thunders, scooping up his own now-wailing child. “He’s a goddamn wild animal!”
“It was my turn, asshole!” Dean cries, twisting in Sam’s arms to shoot a lethal glare at the man and boy both. “Fuck you!”
“DEAN!” Sam turns away from the blustering father and shakes Dean a little in his arms. “You can’t just hit people because they piss you off! No hitting, understand?”
“He’s a DICK, and -“
“I’m really sorry,” Sam says over Dean’s head, looking over at the other guy. “He’s - going through some stress, and -“
“I don’t give a shit about his fucking stress,” the father says. “I think he broke Zeke’s nose!”
“Serves him right!” Dean spits, and grins triumphantly.
“Okay, ENOUGH.” Sam stares right into Dean’s sparking eyes. “Enough, Dean, not another damn WORD. Stop it.”
Dean opens his mouth and Sam gives a single shake of his head. “I mean it.”
“You’re gonna pay for his doctor’s bill!” the father shouts. His face is so red he looks like a guy on the threshold of a heart attack, and Sam thinks maybe it’s way past time to hit the road again. The other child has already stopped crying, and Sam can see the nose isn’t broken, just bloodied.
Sam steps a few feet away, and looks at Dean.
“Didn’t do nothing wrong,” Dean says sullenly.
“Yes, you did, Dean.”
“Did not! He pushed me! Dad says -“
“Yeah, I’ve heard that speech, too.” Sam nods grimly. “Somebody pushes you, you give them back plus. But Dean, fighting isn’t always the answer. Sometimes you have to give a little ground. Did he really cut in front of you?”
“He was gonna.”
“But did he?”
Dean’s silent, and Sam nods again. “So he just made you mad, and you hit him.”
“Dickwad.”
“And that’s another thing.” Sam waits until Dean reluctantly meets his eyes. “You need to stop cussing so much. It’s rude, Dean, and I know you learned it from Dad, but even Dad would agree with me here. You cuss like that in front of him?”
Dean’s lower lip sticks out, stubborn. “You’re not him.”
“You don’t, do you? Because you know what would happen. He’s whale the tar out of you. Wouldn’t he?”
Dean looks away.
“Okay. We’re gonna go back over there, and you’re gonna apologize to that kid.”
“No WAY! He’s -“
“It’s what normal people DO, Dean!” and Dean gapes at him like Sam’s just screamed it in Icelandic. “Okay? Just DO it, and let’s get the hell out of here.”
It works out better than it might have. Dean apologizes, although Sam and everyone else with eyes and ears knows he means it about as sincerely as a diehard Dodgers fan saying he doesn’t mind losing the pennant, and the other kid is already pulling at his dad’s arms and saying he wants to go swing, and Red-Faced Dad reluctantly nods and mutters, “Boys do shit like that, don’t worry about it.”
Sam walks away with Dean stalking silently at his side, and thinks, What do I do now? Punish him? Try to reason with him? The guy’s right, Dean isn’t like other little kids, not even close, and do I try to make him like those kids? Or just say, This is Dean?
He’s nowhere near an answer when they get back to Missouri’s house, and Dean disappears into his room without a word. Sam sighs and wishes for a magic wand.
~~~~~~~~~~
He packs and thanks Missouri for her hospitality, smiles dutifully when she pats his cheek.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” she asks. There’s only placid calm in her expression, no censure, but Sam fidgets anyway.
“It’s not -“ he starts, and pauses. “More like I can’t believe you,” he says. “Can’t afford to.”
Missouri nods. “That’s all right.”
“Dean -- We’re going back to Texas. I have to know, you know? See for myself.”
She nods again, doesn’t say anything, and he wonders what’s hidden behind her dark gentle eyes. But he doesn’t ask. Just kisses her cheek awkwardly and goes to find Dean.
Dean is listlessly flipping through a book, relic of the long-ago daughter who called this room home, and Sam makes a face thinking about the books he’s bought and not even taken out of the sack yet. There are brightly colored pictures in this one, and Sam wonders if Dean gets the gist of the story from those, or if he misses too much not having the words.
“Ready?” he asks, but Dean doesn’t look up. His mouth is a straight line, lips pressed resolutely together.
“We could stay here.”
Sam shakes his head. “This isn’t our home, Dean. We’re guests, and we can’t impose any longer. Besides, we have stuff to do.”
Still staring at the picture - some kind of pink too-fluffy animal, Sam can’t tell which - Dean says, “Does this mean we’re not on vacation any more?”
“Vacation?”
“Because I don’t have to practice.” Dean regards him soberly. “Dad keeps saying we’re gonna go on vacation, but we never do. But then you said I didn’t got to practice, and so that’s what this is.”
“I guess you’re sorta right.” Sam smiles tiredly, touches Dean’s hair. “We kinda needed to take a break, didn’t we?”
“Am I ever gonna see Daddy again?”
Sam’s throat clamps down tight, and he looks away. “Dean -“
“I’m not, am I?” Dean’s mouth tightens even more, and he flings the book away. “You lied all the time. Liar.”
Sam reaches down to pick up the book, smoothing its ruffled pages absently. “Dad’s older now, just like you were,” he says slowly. “He doesn’t know what happened to you. We have to take it slow, Dean, see if we can fix it first. Okay?”
Dean doesn’t nod, but he doesn’t resist when Sam raises his eyebrows and says, “Come on, let’s say goodbye to Miss Missouri.”
Dean gives Missouri a dutiful hug in the living room, and casts a sad look at the back screen door, where Duchess is making high whining noises. “You come see us anytime,” Missouri tells Dean, hunkering down so she can look him in the eye. “Me and Duchess’ll be waiting.”
Dean nods.
~~~~~~~~~
Dean is quiet while they drive. Sam’s attempts at conversation are met with monosyllables when Dean bothers to reply at all, and after a while he thinks maybe he should stop trying. Give Dean some space. There’s a funny look in Dean’s eye now: Sam can’t say what it is, but it makes him feel helplessly uneasy all over again, and he wonders just exactly when he’ll get the hang of the parent thing. Because this morning was a disaster, and last week was a nightmare, and he’s pretty damn sure he’s not making this kid’s life any better than the first kid’s was, and maybe worse.
They stop at a gas station just off the interstate at about seven, and Sam watches the glorious red-and-orange sunset while he pumps gas, thinks about how if he and Dean are going to drive all over creation much longer they really should buy a hybrid vehicle, ditch this gas-guzzling relic. Can’t afford it, and hybrids ease Sam’s environmental conscience a little. Only the idea of Dean behind the wheel of a Prius or something is like picturing him in a tutu: it just doesn’t fit, jars him like crazy, and he grins and shakes his head and screws the gas cap back on when he’s done.
When he comes back out after paying the attendant, Dean isn’t in the car.
“Dean?” Sam shades his eyes, squinting at the brilliant glow off the western horizon. “Hey!”
There isn’t a reply. Checks the restrooms, but aside from bits of toilet paper and a ton of disgusting grime, there’s no one there.
The attendant frowns at him when he goes back inside, asks if he’s seen a little boy wandering around. “Nope, no kids, ‘cept that one.” He points to a bigger boy visible through the window, hands in his pockets while a man who has to be his dad fuels a Suburban. That kid is thirteen or fourteen, easy. If the black glossy hair wasn’t an instant message all its own.
Sam looks back at the attendant. “He’s wearing a red tee-shirt,” he says hoarsely. “Seven years old. Jeans, and sneakers.”
The man shakes his head and scratches his nose with one grimy fingers. “Didn’t see him when you come in, either.”
“Damn it,” Sam whispers. “He was right there!”
“Sorry.”
This time he makes a closer circuit, goes around back, and scans the interiors of the three other vehicles at the station on his way back. Luggage, unfolded maps, discarded convenience-food wrappers, and another kid - this one about three, and fast asleep - but no blond boy, no red shirt, no nothing, and Sam’s breathing too fast now, his heart thumping in his chest. He stops by the Impala, places his hand on the hot hood and sees his fingers shaking like palsy.
Two possibilities. Someone took him. Someone grabbed him out of the car while Sam was inside, leaving him alone.
Or no one took him, and Dean split.
Sam tries to swallow, but there’s nothing but his stone-dry tongue, mouth making little smacking noises when he pries his lips apart. “Dean?” he calls, and the sound of his own terrified voice makes his guts feel as if they’ve come loose, shivering inside his body. “Dean!”
A couple walking back to their big shiny Expedition give him curious looks, a little concerned, but that’s all.
~~~~~~~~~~~